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THE 

POETS   AND   POETEY 


OF 


SCOTLAND, 


m  mfi^LYER   SC©' 


■=p' 


THE 

POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  SCOTLAND 

FROM  THE  EARLIEST  TO  THE  PRESENT  TIME 

COMPRISING  CHARACTERISTIC   SELECTIONS  FROM  THE  WORKS  OF  THE  MORE 

NOTEWORTHY  SCOTTISH  POETS 

WITH    BIOGRAPHICAL    AXD    CRITICAL    NOTICES 
By    JAMES    GRANT    WILSON 

ILLUSTRATED    WITU  PORTRAITS    ENGRAVED    ON   STEEL 

VOL.  11. 

From  THOMAS  CAMPBELL  to  MARQUIS  OF  LORXE. 

BOKN   A.D.  1777  BOE.V   A.D.  1845 


NEW    YORK 

HARPER  &  BROTHERS,  PUBLISHERS 

FRANKLIN      SQUARE 

1876 


^  ,      )      i     i       >       *  i        ' 


Copyright,  1S75,  by  IlAiirEn  &  BKOTnEEG. 


<  t    <      c    < 


rn 


CON  TENTS. 


Portrait — Thomas  CAjrPBELL— From  the  picture  by  Lonsdale, .froiitis. 

John  Wilson  ('  Christopher  Xorth  ')— From  the  picture  by  Lauder, to  face 

D.  M.  MoiR  ('  Delta ') — From  a  Pliotograph, „ 

HoRATics  BoNAR — From  a  Photograph, » 

Robert  Buchanan — From  a  Photograph, » 


1 

72 
1G6 
308 
491 


List  of  Acthors, xv 

Campbell,  Thomas  (1777-I844), 1 

The  Pleasures  of  Hope, ^> 

Death  of  Gertrude  (extract),      ....  17 

Hallowed  Ground, 19 

Lord  Ullin's  Daughter, 20 

Ye  IMariners  of  England, 20 

Lochiel's  "Warning, 21 

The  Last  Man, 22 

■  Battle  of  the  Baltic, 22 

Hohenlinden, 23 

Glenara, -3 

The  E.Yile  of  Erin, 24 

Cora  Linn, 24 

Lines  written  in  Argyleshire,     ....  25 

Ode  to  Memory  of  Burns, 25 

■  Lines  on  Re\nsiting  Cathcart,     ....  26 

The  Soldier's  Dream, 26 

To  the  Evening  Star, 27 

The  Dirge  of  Wallace, 27 

Brown,  Thomas  (1778-1820"), 28 

The  Faithless  Mourner, 28 

The  Non-Descript, "...  29 

Consolation  of  Altered  Fortunes,   ...  29 

The  Lute, 29 

Teain,  Joseph  (1779-1852), 30 

Blooming  Jessie 31 

Wi'  Drums  and  Pipes, 31 

Garryhorn, 31 

My  Doggie, 32 

Old  Scotia, 32 

Watson,  W^altee  (i7so-i854), 33 

Maggie  an'  Me, 33 

The  Braes  o'  Bedlay, 34 

Sae  will  we  Yet, 34 

My  Jockie's  far  awa", 35 

Laidlaw,  William  (1780-I845), 35 

Her  bonnie  black  E'e, 36 

Lucy's  Flittin' 36 

Alake  for  the  Lassie! 37 


Jamieson,  Egbert  (1780-1844), 37 

Sir  Oluf  and  the  Elf -king's  Daughter,     .  38 

Annie  o'  Tharaw, 38 

The  Quern  Lilt, 39 

My  sweet  wee  Laddie, 39 

Balade, 40 

Go  to  him,  then, 40 

My  Wife's  a  winsome  wee  Thing,  ...  40 

Gray,  Charles  (i782-i85i), 41 

The  Lass  of  Pittenweem, 41 

When  Autumn, 41 

Sequel  to  Maggie  Lauder, 42 

Louisa's  but  a  Lassie  yet, 42 

The  Minstrel, 42 

Nicholson,  William  (1 782-1849) 43 

The  Brownie  of  Blednoch, 44 

The  Braes  of  Galloway, 45 

My  ain  bonnie  May, 45 

Finlay,  John  (i7R2-isio), 46 

Archy  o'  Kilspindie, 47 

I  heard  the  evening  Linnet's  voice,     .     .  48 

0 !  come  wdth  me, 48 

Tennant,  William  (i7S4-is48), 48 

Anster  Fair  (canto  i.), 50 

Tammy  Little, 55 

Ode  to  Peace, 56 

To  my  Mother's  Spiiming-wheel,    ...  57 

Rodger,  Alexander  {i784-i846), 57 

Shon  M'Nab, 58 

Behave  yoursel'  before  Folk,      ....  59 

Sweet  Bet  of  Aberdeen, 60 

Robin  Tamson, 61 

Cunningham,  Allan  (i7S4-1842), 61 

The  Mermaid  of  Galloway, 64 

The  Poet's  Bridal-day  Song,       ....  66 

The  Downfall  of  Dalzell, 67 

She's  gane  to  dwall  in  Heaven,       ...  67 

De  Bruce!  De  Bruce! 68 

A  Wet  Sheet  and  a  Flowing  Sea,    ...  68 


M  r^€r^ir\ci> 


VI 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE 

The  Lovely  Lass  of  Preston-mill,    ...  69 

It's  Hame,  and  it's  Hame, 69 

My  Nanie,  0, 70 

Saturday's  Sun,  .........  70 

Awake,  my  Love, 70 

The  Thistle's  grown  aboon  the  Rose,  .     .  71 

The  Sun  rises  bright  in  France,      ...  71 

Bonnie  Lady  Ann, 71 

WiLsox,  John  (ir8o-i8ri4), 72 

A  Lay  of  Fairy-land, 74 

My  Cottage, 77 

Lines  written  in  a  Highland  Burial-ground,  79 

Address  to  a  Wild  Deer  (extracts),     .     .  SO 

To  a  Sleeping  Child  (extracts),  ....  SI 

Mary  Gray's  Song, SI 

The  Three  Seasons  of  Love, S2 

The  Past, 83 

The  Evening  Cloud, 83 

Loughrig  Tarn, S3 

Gr.\xt,  Robert  (1785-1838), S5 

Litany, Sf/ 

"Whom  have  I  in  Heaven  but  Thee?"   .  83 
"Blessed  is  the  Man  whom  Thou  Chas- 

tcnest," 86 

Comfort  under  Affliction, 86 

The  Brooklet, 87 

Beattie,  George  (i786-i823), 87 

.John  o'  Aniha'  (extract), 88 

The  Dream, 90 

Carrick,  John  Donald  (irsr-iss:), 91 

The  Muirian'  Cottars, 91 

The  Song  of  the  Slave, 92 

The  Harp  and  the  Haggis, 92 

Laing,  Alexander  (irsr-iso-), 93 

Archie  Allan, 94 

Tlie  Brownie  of  Feamden, 9li 

The  Trysting-tree, 97 

The  flappy  Mother 97 

Adam  (Jlen, 97 

Auld  Eppie, 98 

The  Young  Inipiirer  and  Aged  Christian,  98 

Carmle,  Alexander  (iTss-iSflo), 98 

Wha's  at  the  Window  ? 99 

The  Vale  of  Killean, 99 

The  Corbie  and  Craw, 99 

.My  BroUiers  are  the  Stately  Trees,     .     .  100 

PniNGLE,  Thomas  (i-sn-iiinO 100 

Afar  in  the  Desert, ID] 

Tlie  Lion  and  (lirafTc, I(i2 

Come  awa',  come  awa', 103 

Farewell  to  Tcviotdale In:! 

Maid  of  my  Heart, lo;; 

BuRTT,  John  (i7«o-i8(i«), 104 

On  the  Divine  Mercy, !().'> 

Tlie  Farewell,      .     ." Ki.", 

O'er  the  ^list-shronded  Cliffs,    ....  Klf) 


PAGE 

0!  Lassie  I  lo'e  dearest, 106 

Sweet  the  Bard, lOo 

Knox,  William  (i789-i825), 106 

The  Wooer's  Visit, 107 

Mortality,       108 

HarpofZion, 109 

The  Dear  Land  of  Cakes, 109 

To-morrow, 110 

The  Season  of  Youth, 110 

Glen,  William  (i789-i82e), 110 

The  Battle-song, Ill 

Wae's  me  for  Prince  Cliai-He,     .     .     .     .112 

How  Eerily,  how  Drearily, 113 

The  Battle  of  Vittoria, 113 

The  Maid  of  Oronsey, 114 

Mary  Gray, 114 

MacDiarmid,  John  (i7no-iSo2), 114 

Evening, 115 

My  Faithful  Somebody, 116 

Nithside, 116 

On  the  Death  of  a  Child,  ......  117 

Vedder,  David  (1790-1854), 117 

Sir  Alan  Mortimer, 118 

The  Temple  of  Nature, 120 

Gideon's  War-song, 120 

Jeanie's  Welcome  Hame, 121 

The  Sun  had  slipped,   . 121 

Nevat,  John  (1792-1870), 122 

The  Fall  of  the  Leaf, 122 

A  Summer  Love-letter, 123 

The  Dreaming  Lover, 124 

AiNSLiE,  Hew  (b  1792), 12,5 

"  Stands  Scotland  where  it  did?"  .     .     .126 

The  Rover  o'  Lochryan, 126 

The  Sweetest  o'  them  a', 127 

On  wi'  the  Tartan 127 

The  Last  Look  of  Home, 127 

The  Ingle  Side, 128 

A  Hamewartl  Sang, 128 

Sighings  for  the  Sea-side, 128 

Lyle,  Thomas  (i792-is.to), 129 

Kelvin  Grove, 12'.t 

I  ance  knew  Content, 130 

Dark  Dunoon, 130 

FiNLAV,  William  (1792-IS47), 131 

The  Mighty  Munro, 131 

The  Dream  of  Life's  Young  Day,   .     .     .  132 

The  Widow's  Excuse 132 

Beattie,  William  (1793-1875), 133 

Monody  on  llcath  of  Thomas  Campbell,     134 

Lines  on  a  Portrait, L">6 

Evening  Hymn  of  the  Alpine  Shepherds,  136 

Lyte,  Henry  Francis  (179.3-1847), 137 

Evening, 138 

On  a  Naval  Officer  buricl  in  the  Atlantic,  138 


CONTENTS. 


vn 


PAGE 

Grace  Darling's  Death-bed, 139 

"Lo,  we  have  left  all," 140 

Abide  with  Me, 140 

LocKHART,  John  Gibson  (ir94-i8o4), 141 

Captain  Paton's  Lament, 143 

Broadsvvords  of  Scotland, 144 

The  Lamentation  for  Celin, 144 

Bernardo  and  Alphouso, 145 

Zara's  Ear-rings, 146 

Beyond, 147 

Lines  written  on  Tweedside,      .     .     .     .147 
The  Bridal  of  Andalla, 148 

Hamilton,  Janet  (1795-1873), 149 

The  Skylark— Caged  and  Free,       .     .     .150 
Gran'faither  at  Cam'slang, 150 

Carlyle,  Thomas  (b.  1795), 151 

Tragedy  of  the  Night-moth,       ....  152 

The  Sower's  Song, 153 

Adieu, 153 

Cui  Bono? 154 

Psalm  xlvi., 154 

Mason-lodge, ....  154 

The  Frog  and  the  Steer, 155 

Wetr,  Daniel  (i796-is3i), 155 

The  Midnight  Wind, 156 

On  the  Death  of  a  Child 157 

'Neath  the  "Wave, 157 

Raven's  Stream, 157 

Motherwell,  William  (1797-1S35), 157 

The  Master  of  Weemys, 159 

The  Wooing  Song, 160 

The  Merry  Summer  Months,      ....  161 

Jeanie  Morrison, 162 

My  Heid  is  like  to  rend,  Willie,     .     .     .163 

The  Mermaiden, 164 

Wearie's  Well, 164 

The  Midnight  Wind, 165 

The  Dying'Poet, 165 

The  Cavalier's  Song, 166 

MoiK,  David  Macbeth  (179s -isoi), 166 

Casa  Wappy, 167 

The  Winter  Wild, 168 

Heigh-ho! 169 

To  my  Infant  Daughter, 170 

MaryDhu, 170 

The  Sabbath, 171 

Moonlight  Churchj^ard, 171 

Rural  Scenery, 171 

The  School  Bank, 171 

Smart,  Alexander  (i798-i8G;), 172 

Spring-time, 172 

Madie's  Schule, 173 

Oh,  leave  me  not, 173 

Picken,  Joanna  B.  (i798-i85fl), 174 

An  anld  Friend  wi'  a  new  Face,      .     .     .  174 
The  Death-watch, 175 


PAGE 

CONOLLY,  ErSKINE  (1798-1842), 175 

The  Greetin'  Bairn, 176 

Mary  Macneil, 176 

To  my  first  Gray  Hair, 177 

Gilfillan,  Robert  (uas-isv ), 177 

The  Autumn  Winds  are  blawing,  .     .     .  178 

0!  what  is  this  Worid  i 178 

Manor  Braes, 178 

Janet  an'  Me, 179 

The  Happy  Days  o'  Youth, 179 

The  Exile's  Song, 180 

Fare  thee  well, 180 

The  Bonnie  Braes  o'  Scotland 180 

In  the  Days  o'  Langsyne, 181 

Hyslop,  James  (1798-1827), 181 

The  Scottish  Sacramental  Sabbath,     .     .  182 

The  Camcronian's  Dream, 184 

The  Camcronian's  Vision, 185 

A  Love  Song, 188 

Song — To  You 188 

Let  Italy  boast, 189 

Fragment  of  a  Dream, 189 

PiiDDELL,  Henry  Scott  (i79s-iS7c), 190 

The  Crook  and  Plaid, 192 

Our  Mary, 193 

Would  that  I  were  where  wild  woods  wave,  194 

Scotland  Yet, 194 

The  wild  Glen  sae  Green, 194 

The  Minstrel's  Grave, 195 

The  Emigrant's  Wish, 195 

PoLLOK,  Robert  (1798-1827), 196 

The  Course  of  Time  (book  i.),    .     .     .     .197 
Helen's  Tomb, 202 

Thom,  William  (1799-1848) 202 

The  Blind  Boy's  Pranks  (No.  1),     .     .     .204 

Dreamings  of  the  Bereaved 204 

Jeanie's  Grave, 205 

The  Mitherless  Bairn, 205 

The  Drunkard's  Dream, 205 

Hervey,  Thomas  Kibble  (i709-isj.), 206 

The  Convict  Ship, 206 

The  Dead  Trumpeter, 207 

The  Gondola  GUdes, 207 

Lawson,  James  (b.  1799), 208 

The  Approach  of  Age, 209 

ToaLintie, 209 

Wlien  Spring  arrayed  in  Flowers,       .     .  210 
Campsie  Glen, 210 

Imlah,  John  (i799-is4c), 211 

Where  Gadie  rins, 211 

Auld  Scotia's  Sangs, 211 

Thou'rt  sair  Alter'd, 212 

The  Gathering 212 

There  lives  a  Young  Lassie, 213 


via 


CONTEXTS. 


PAGE 

Kennedy,  William  (1799-1549), 213 

The  Arrow  and  the  Rose  (extract),     .     .  214 
The  Dirge  of  the  Last  Conqueror,      .     .  215 

The  Pii-ate's  Serenade, 216 

I  love  the  Land, 216 

The  Grave  of  William  Motherwell,      .     .217 

Telfer,  James  (isoo-isc2), 217 

The  Gloanij-ne  Buchte, 218 

Saint  UlUn's  Pilgi-im, 220 

Oh!  wiUyeWalk? 222 

Pexxev,  WiLLi.vjr,  Lord  Kinloch  (1S01-1S72),  222 

Gift«toGod, 222 

A  Lost  Day, 223 

Djing  in  Darkness, 223 

Desire  of  Death, 223 

The  Star  in  the  East, 223 

Litany, 224 

Bread  on  the  Waters, 224 

Wilson,  William  (isoi-isoo), 224 

To  my  Children, 226 

Sweet  Lammas  Moon, 227 

Auld  Johnny  Graham, 227 

A  Welcome  to  Christopher  North,      .     .  227 

Jean  Linn, 228 

Richard  Coeur  de  Lion, 228 

Britannia, 228 

Jennie  Graham, 229 

Sabbath  Morning  in  the  Woods,     .     .     ,229 

Work  is  Prayer, 230 

Waning  Life  and  Weary, 230 

Atkinson,  Thomas  (isoi-1833) 230 

To  the  Aurora  Borealis, 231 

The  Proud  Heart's  Pain, 231 

Alas!  I  cannot  Love! 232 

Mary  Shearer, 232 

The  Hour  is  Come, 233 

Wilson,  Robert  (b.isoi), 233 

America 233 

Humbie  Wood,  Aberdour, 234 

The  Old  Churchyard  of  Abordour,      ,     .  235 

Macnish,  Robert  (1S02-1837), 236 

To  the  Rhine, 237 

The  Lover's  Secret, 237 

To  a  Child 238 

Chambers,  Robert  (i802-i871), 238 

The  Peerless  One 240 

Scotland 241 

The  Prisoner  of  Spcdhns 242 

Young  Randal, 242 

Lament  for  the  old  Highland  Warriors,     243 
The  Ladyc  that  I  Love, 243 

AiRD,  Thomas  (i802-i87g), 243 

The  Captive  of  Fez  (extract),     ....  244 

Tlie  River, 245 

The  Swallow 246 


FACE 

The  Holy  Cottage, 246 

My  Jlother's  Grave, 247 

Bennet,  William  (b.1802), 248 

Blest  be  the  Hour  of  Night,       ....  249 

I'll  think  on  thee.  Love, 249 

The  Rose  of  Beauty, 250 

Ode  to  Craigdarroch  Water,      ....  250 

Miller,  Hugh  (i802-is5g), 250 

Oh !  softly  sighs  the  Westlin'  Breeze,  .  252 
On  Seeing  a  Sun-dial  in  a  Churchyard,  .  253 
Sister  Jeanie,  haste,  we'll  go,  ....  253 
Ode  to  my  Mither  Tongue, 254 

Picken,  Andrew  Belfrage  (isc2-is4c), 254 

The  Bedouins  (extract), 255 

The  Home  Fever, 256 

Mexico, 256 

White,  Robert  (b.  1802), 257 

Lady  Jean, 257 

My  Native  Land, 258 

Morning, 259 

The  Caged  Bird, 260 

Ramsay,  John  (b.]8C2), 260 

On  seeing  a  Redbreast  shot,  ....  261 
Farewell  to  Craufurdland, 261 

Hetherington,  Wm.  Maxwell  (i8C3-i866),  261 

The  Heart's  Dij-ge, 262 

The  Torwood  Oak, 263 

The  Hawthorn  Tree, 263 

The  Graves  of  Bessie  Bell  and  ]\Iary  Gray,  264 
The  Voice  of  Streams, 264 

Bethune,  Alexander  (1804-1843), 265 

Musings  of  Convalescence, 266 

A  Mother's  Love, 266 

On  his  Brother's  Death, 267 

Moore,  Dugald  (1805-1841), 267 

The  Voice  of  the  Spirit, 268 

To  the  Clyde, 268 

Hannibal  on  Drinking  the  Poison,       .     .  269 

Anderson,  William  (1805-I866), 269 

To  a  Wild  Flower, 270 

At  E'ening  whan  the  Kye, 270 

I'm  Naebody  noo, 271 

Dryburgh  Abbey, 271 

Through  the  Wood, 271 

Bell,  Henry  Glassford  (1805-1S74), 272 

Mary  Queen  of  Scots, 273 

The  King's  Daughter, 275 

Blossoms, 276 

I  loved  Thee, 277 

My  Vis-d-Vis, 277 

The  End, 278 

Why  is  my  Spirit  sad  ? 278 

Allan,  George  (isoc-isss), 279 

Is  your  War-pipe  asleep  ?      .     .     .     .        279 


CONTENTS. 


IX 


PAGE 

Old  Scotland, 280 

Young  Donald 280 

I  will  think  of  thee  yet, 280 

Sterling,  John  (i8oe-i844), 281 

To  a  Child, 282 

The  Rose  and  the  Gauntlet,       ....  282 

The  Spice-tree, 283 

Shakspere, 283 

The  Husbandman, 284 

The  Two  Oceans, 284 

Louis  XV., 284 

Mirabeau, 285 

Brydson,  Thomas  (isog-isso), 286 

The  Fallen  Rock, 286 

All  Lovely  and  Bright, 287 

Dunolly  Castle, 287 

Po'kdiead  Wood, 287 

I  kenna  what's  come  ower  Him,     .     .     .  288 

The  Earthquake, 288 

The  Gipsies, 288 

Falling  Leaves, 288 

Retrospection, 288 

A  Remembered  Spot, 289 

A  Thought, 289 

Park,  Andrew  (isor-ises), 289 

Silent  Love  (extract), 290 

Sandyford  Ha', 290 

Hurrafor  the  Highlands! 291 

The  Auld  Folks, 291 

Flowers  of  Summer, 291 

The  Banks  of  Clyde, 291 

There  is  a  bonnie  Flower, 292 

Macdonald,  James  (i8or-]84s), 292 

The  Wilderness  Well  (extract),       .     .     .  293 

The  Three  Ages, 293 

Hymn — Oh,  God  above, 295 

The  Thistle, 296 

O,  Leeze  me  on  the  Glen, 297 

The  Pride  o' the  Glen, 297 

Ballantine,  James  (b.  isos), 298 

Harvest-home, 299 

The  Snawy  Kirkyard, 300 

Falling  Leaves, 301 

The  Feeding  Shower, 301 

Lay  up  Treasures  in  Heaven,     ....  301 

Wifie,  come  Hame, 302 

Naebody's  Baim, 302 

A  Stieve  Heart  and  a  Sturdy  Step,     .     .  302 
Ilka  Blade  o'  Grass, 303 

MacColl,  Evan  (b.  isos), 303 

Glory  to  the  Brave, 304 

A  Visit  to  Staffa, 304 

My  Rowan-tree, 305 

A  May  Morning  in  Glenshu'a,    ....  306 

To  the  FaUing  Snow, 307 

The  Child  of  Promise, 307 

Evening  Address  to  Loch  Lomond,     .     .  308 

* 


PAGE 

BoNAE,  HoRATIUS  (b.  18US), 308 

A  Little  While, 309 

Newly  Fallen  Asleep, 310 

Heaven, 311 

The  Martyrs  of  Scotland, 311 

Lucy, 311 

No  more  Sea, 312 

All  Well, 312 

The  Meeting-place,      . 313 

Hume,  Alexander  (isod-isji), 313 

MenleHay, 314 

My  Bessie, 314 

Sandy  Allan,       315 

I've  Wandered  on  the  Sunny  HJU,      .     .  315 
Oh !  Years  hae  coma,    .......  315 

Blackie,  John  Stuart  (b.  isao), 316 

The  Death  of  Columba,     ......  317 

The  Laj'  of  the  Brave  Cameron,     .     .     .  319 

Benedicite, 320 

The  Two  Meek  Margarets,, 320 

The  Emigrant  Lassie,  .......  321 

October, 321 

A  Song  of  the  Country, 322 

The  Highland  Manse, 322 

Beautiful  World! 322 

Smibert,  Thomas  (i8io-iS5i), 323 

The  Widow's  Lament, 324 

The  Hero  of  St.  John  d'Acre,    ....  324 

My  ain  dear  Land, 325 

The  Voice  of  Woe, 325 

Stoddart,  Thomas  Tod  (b.  is:o), 326 

Loch  Skene, 326 

The  Angler's  Tiysting-tree, 327 

The  British  Oak, 328 

Let  ither  Anglers, 328 

Musings  on  the  Banks  of  the  Teviot,  .     .  328 
Flower-life, 329 

Bethune,  John  (1810-1839), 330 

Hymn  of  the  Churchyard, 332 

A  Spring  Song, 332 

Sacramental  Hj'mn, 333 

Withered  Flowers, 333 

Miller,  William  (i8io-i872), 334 

Willie  Winkle,    .     .     .    ' 3-35 

Cockie-leerie-la, 335 

The  Wonderfu'  Wean, 336 

Gree,  Bairnies,  gree, 337 

Spring, 337 

Lady  Summer, 337 

Hairst,       337 

November, 338 

John  Frost, 338 

Our  ain  Fire-end, 339 

When  Jamie  comes  Hame, 339 

The  Blue  Bell, 339 

The  Haw  Blossom, 340 

Sonnet  to  a  Lady,   .     .     .     .     ...     -.    •  340 


CONTENTS. 


Maclagax,  Alexander  (b.  I'^n), 340 

A  Sister's  Lavo 341 

The  Outcast,       342 

Love's  Evening  Song, 343 

The  Auld  Meal  Mill, 343 

Curling  Song, 344 

Aye  keep  your  Head  aboon  the  Water,  .  345 

"  Dinna  ye  hear  it  ? " 34o 

"We'll  ha'e  nane  but  Highland  Bonnets,"  346 
Success  to  Campbell's  Highlandmen,  .  .  346 
To  a  Wounded  Sea-bird, 346 

Scott,  William  Bell  (b.  isu), 347 

Sonnet— My  Mother, 348 

Woodstock  Maze, 348 

Parted  Love, 350 

Saint  Margaret,       350 

Simpson,  Mrs.  Jane  Cross  (b.  isu), 351 

The  Longings  of  Genius, 351 

Good  Angels, 352 

Going  to  the  Country, 353 

Tedium  Vita;, 354 

I  know  not, 354 

To  a  Friend, 354 

Prayer, 355 

Sinclair,  William  (isu-isro), 355 

The  Royal  Breadalbane  Oak 356 

Is  not  the  Earth 356 

Bennoch,  Francis  (b.  1S12), 357 

May-<lay  Fancies, 357 

The  Lime  Tree, 358 

Our  Ship, 359 

London, 359 

Florence  Nightingale, 360 

Over  the  Hills, 360 

Under  the  Linden,       360 

Verses  addressed  to  Hawthorne,    .     .     .  361 

MACLEOD,  Norman  (1812-187'-'), 361 

Dance,  my  Children, 363 

Trust  in  God, 363 

Curler's  Song, 363 

We  arc  not  there,  Beloved! 364 

The  Anxious  Mother, 364 

Ternpora  Mutantur, 365 

Sunday  in  the  Highlands, 365 

A  Mother's  Funeral, 365 

Gl'thrie,  James  Cargill  (b,  isr.>) 366 

The  Unseen 367 

The  Links  o"  Barry, 367 

The  Minstrel's  Lay, 368 

Forget  her! 368 

Wills'  Bonnie  Braes, 368 

The  Bonnie  Braes  o'  Airlie, 369 

The  Howcr  of  Strathmore, 369 

NicoLL,  Robert  (isu-issr), 370 

Life's  Pilgrimage, 371 


TAGE 

The  Morning  Star, 372 

A  Maiden's  Meditati .  n, 373 

The  Ha'  Bible, 373 

Orde  Braes, 374 

We  are  Brethren  a', 374 

The  Herd  Lassie, 375 

Be  still,  thou  beating  Heart,      ....  375 

The  Place  that  I  love  best, 375 

The  Puir  Folk, 376 

Milton — A  Sonnet, 377 

Death, 377 

Hedderwick,  James  (b.  ish), 378 

First  Grief, 378 

The  Emigrants,        379 

Sorrow  and  Song, 380 

The  Land  for  Me, 380 

Middle  Age, 380 

Waiting  for  the  Ship, 381 

Mackat,  Charles  (b.  isu), 381 

The  Child  and  the  Mourners,     ....  383 

The  Good  Time  Coming, 383 

Remembrances  of  Nature, 384 

0  ye  Tears, 384 

Under  the  Holly  Bough, 385 

What  might  be  Done, 385 

A  Candid  Wooing, 385 

Little  and  Great, 386 

A  Lover's  Dreams, 386    -f- 

To  the  West, 387 

Apologue  from  "  Egeria," 387 

Lament  of  Cona, 387 

AiRD,  Marion  Paul  (b.  isis), 389 

Hope, 389 

The  Fa'  o'  the  Leaf, 390 

Far,  far  away, 390 

The  Auld  Kirkyard, 391 

The  Ministry  of  Angels, 391 

The  Herd  Laddie, 391 

A  Memory  Dear, 392 

Martin,  Theodore  (b.  isir,), 392 

The  Interment  of  Thomas  Campbell,  .     .  393 

The  Dying  Girl's  Song, 394 

Mark  Bozzari, 394 

Napoleon's  Midnight  Review,    ....  395 
The  Serenade, 396 

Crawford,  Jdhn  (isio-is;:!), 396 

My  Auld  Wife  Jean, 397 

The  Land  o'  the  Bonnet  and  Plaid,     .     .  397 

Ann  o'  Coniylee, 398 

The  Wacs  o'  Eild, 398 

Macdonali),  Hcgh  (i8i7-i8ot), 398 

Wee  Annie  o'  Auchineden, 399 

The  Birds  of  Scotland, 400 

To  the  Clyde, 401 

The  Bonnie  Wee  Well, 402 

To  October,    . 402 


CONTENTS. 


XI 


PAGE 

M'Lachlan,  Alexander  (b.  isis), 403 

I  winna  gae  Hame, 403 

Old  Hannah, 404 

The  Halls  of  Holy  rood,     ......  404 

May, 405 

Lord  Lindsay's  Return, 4(l5 

Scotland  Revisited, 406 

Maxwell,  William  Stirling  (b.  isisf, 407 

Ruth, .  407 

The  Abdication  of  Charles  v.,  .     .     .     .408 
Shallum, 410 

Latto,  Thomas  C.  (b.  isis), 410 

The  Grave  of  Sir  Walter  Scott,       .     ,     .  411 

The  School  Examination, 413 

When  we  were  at  the  Scliule,     .     .     .     .414 

The  Kiss  ahint  the  Door, 415 

Tell  me,  Dear, 416 

The  BHnd  Lassie, 416 

Sly  Widow  Skinner, 416 

Macduff,  John  R.  (b.isis), 417 

In  Menioriam, 417 

David  Livingstone 418 

Farewell  to  Palestine,  .,,....   420 

Nature's  Hymn, 421 

"  The  City  of  the  Crystal  Sea,"      .     .     .422 

Shairp,  John  Campbell  (b.  isis), 424 

The  Sacramental  Sabbath, 424 

The  Clearance  Song, 426 

The  Moor  of  Rannoch, 427 

The  Bush  aboon  Trai|uair, 428 

Paton,  Joseph  Noel  (b  i82i), 428 

The  Tomb  in  the  C^hancel 429 

Song, 429 

Sir  Launcelot, 430 

Ulysses  in  Ogygia, 430 

Love  and  Friendship, 431 

The  Chieftain's  Coronach, 431 

LiiaHTON,  Robert  (b.  1822), 432 

The  Bapteesement  o'  the  Bairn,     .     .     .  433 

Scotch  Words, 436 

Incense  of  Flowers, 437 

Burns,  James  D.  (i823-18B4), 437 

Porto  Santo, 438 

Discovery  of  the  North-west  Passage,      .  439 

The  Wanderer, 440 

Rise.  Little  Star, 440 

Friends  I  Love, 440 

Chastening, 441 

The  Death  of  a  Believer, 441 

Murdoch,  "William  (b.1823), 441 

The  Bagpipes, 442 

Address  to  my  Auld  Blue  Bonnet,       .     .  443 

The  Highlander's  Wife 444 

Smith,  James  (b.  1824), 445 

Wee  Cockielorum 445 


PAGK 

Wee  Joukydaidles, 446 

Burd  Ailie, 447 

Doun  Fair  Dalmeny's  Rosy  Dells,  .     .     .  447 

The  Lintwhite, 447 

Lilly  Lorn, 448 

Clap,  clap  Haudies, 448 

The  Harebell  blossomed  rarely,      .     .     .  448 

MacDonald,  George  (b.  1824),  449 

The  Sheep  and  the  Goat, 450 

An  old  SeiTnon  with  a  new  Text,    .     .     .  450 

What  makes  Summer  ? 451 

Baby, ,     .  452 

O  Lassie  ayont  the  Hill! 453 

The  Waesome  Carl, 453 

Time  and  Tide, 454 

Annie  .she's  dowie, 455 

A  Parable:  Tell  me, 455 

Symington,  Andrew  J.  (b.  1S25), 456 

On  hearing  Jessica  play  sweet  Music,      .  456 

The  Dream  Harp, 457 

Summer  Evening, 458 

Bertram's  Last  Picture, 458 

How  much  ow'st  thou  ? 459 

"Wingate,  David  (b.  i828), 459 

The  Streamlet, 460 

October, 461 

The  Deein'  Fisher, 462 

A  Day  amang  the  Haws, 463 

John  Frost, 464 

Veitch,  John  (b.  1829), 465 

Cademuir  (extract), 465 

The  Cloud-berry, 466 

The  Hart  of  Mosfennan, 466 

Among  the  Hills!     Away! 467 

Smith,  Alexander  (isso-isor), 467 

Squire  Maurice, 469 

The  Night  before  the  Wedding,     .     .     .  474 
Glasgow, 475 

Knox,  Isa  Craig  (b.  issi), 477 

Ode  on  the  Centenary  of  Burns,     .     .     .  477 

The  Way  in  the  Wood, 479 

A  Song  of  Summer, 480 

Going  out  and  Coming  in, 481 

My  Mary  an'  Me, 481 

"Our  Father," 481 

Macfarlan,  James  (is32-is6i;), 482 

The  Lords  of  Labour, 483 

Bookworld, 483 

The  Midnight  Train, 483 

The  Widow's  Wake, 484 

The  Ruined  City, 484 

Shadows  on  the  Wall, 485 

Gray,  David  (isss-isei), 485 

The  Yellow-hammer, 486 

The  Harebell, 487 


xn 


CONTENTS. 


The  Golden  Wedding, 487 

An  October  Musing, 488 

Sonnet, 488 

Leighton,  William  (i841-i86ii), 488 

The  Leaf  of  Woodruff, 489 

Summers  Long  Ago, 489 

The  Cloud 490 

Baby  Died  To-day, 490 

Buchanan,  Robert  (b.  i84i), 491 

Willie  Baird, 491 

The  Dead  Mother, 495 

The  Ballad  of  Judas  Iscariot,     ....  496 

The  Battle  of  Drumliemoor, 499 

The  Starling, .500 

Anderson,  Alexander  (b.  1845), 501 

Blood  on  the  Wheel, 502 

Agnes  Died  (extract), 503 

The  Lost  Eden  found  again,       ....  504 

A'  his  Lane, 504 

Keats  and  David  Gray, 505 

Lorne,  Marquis  of  (b.  1845), 505 

Guide  and  Lita  (extract), 506 


APPENDIX. 

Alexander,  Williaji  Lindsay  (b.  isos),...  511 


Tlie  Last  Wish, 


511 


ANDER.SON,  John, 511 

The  Fountain  of  Life, 511 

Binning,  Lord,  Chas.  Hamilton  (1090-1732),  512 
Ungrateful  Nannie, 512 

Blackie,  Walter  Graham  (b.  isio), 512 

My  Mammy, .512 

BuRNE,  NrcoL, 513 

Leader  Haughs  and  Yarrow,      ....  513 

Cameron,  William  (b.isni),. 514 

Sweet  .Jessie  o'  the  Dell, 514 

Campbell,  Mhh.  Elizabeth  (b.  iso4), 514 

Willie  Mill's  Burn 514 

Douglas,  William, 515 

Annie  Laurie, 515 

Dunbar,  William  (i78o-i8ci), 515 

The  Maid  of  Islay, 515 

DuNLOP,  John  (ir5.vi82o), 516 

Oil!  dinna  ask  me, 516 

Erskine,  Hon.  Andrew  (d.  1793), 5I6 

How  sweet  this  Lone  Vale, 516 

EwEN,  John  (1741-1S21),  516 

0  weel  may  the  Boatie  row 516 


Galloway,  Egbert, 

The  Twa  Lairds  of  Lesmahagow, 

Glover,  Jean  (1758-I801), 

O'er  the  Muir, 


51 


Gordon,  Duke  of  (1743-1827), 

Cauld  Kail  in  Aberdeen, 

Graham,»Dougald  (1724-1779), 

Turnimspike, 

Graham,  Janet  (1724-1805),  

The  Wayward  Wife, 

Graham,  Kobert  (1750-1797), 

0  tell  me  how  to  woo  thee, 

Grant,  Mrs.,  of  Carron  (1745-1S14), 

Roy's  Wife  of  Aldivalloch, 

Grieve,  John  (i78i-i83o), 

'Twas  Summer  Tide, 

Halket,  George  (d.  1750), 

Logic  o'  Buchan, 

Hall,  G.  Buchanan, 

Muckle-mou'd  Meg, 

Hamilton,  Mrs.  Elizabeth  (i7r)8-i8i6), 

My  ain  Fireside, 

Hastings,  Lady  Flora  (18O6-1839), 

Faith  and  Hope, 

Hogg,  Robert  (1799-1834), 

When  Autumn  Comes, 

Jeffrey,  Erancis,  Lord  (1773-1850), 

Perish  the  Love, 

While  yet  my  Breast, 

Johnston,  Ellen  {d.  1873), 

Lines  to  the  Memory  of  a  Beloved  Wife, 

Lewis,  Stuart  (i7r)0-i8i8), 

Annan's  Winding  Stream, 

Lyon,  Mrs.  Agnes  (1702-1840), 

Neil  Gow's  Farewell  to  Whisky,     .     .     . 

M'Cheyne,  Robert  Murray  (1813-1843), ... 
The  Sea  of  tialilee, 

Macduff,  Alexander  (1817-1800), 

Isabelle:  a  Legend  of  Provence,     .     .     . 

MacPhail,  Hugh  Buchanan  (b.  1S17), 

On  the  Death  of  Wollington,      .     .     .     . 

Malcolm,  Lieut.  John  (1795-1835), 

A  Christmas  Reverie, 

Mayne,  James  (d.  1842), 

Maggy  Maclanc, 

Mercer,  Andrew  (i77.")-i842), 

The  Cottar's  Sang, 


518 

5LS 

518 
519 


519 
519 

520 
520 

520 
520 


520 
520 

521 
521 

521 
521 

521 
521 

522 

522 

522 
522 

523 
523 

523 
523 

524 

525 
525 

526 
526 


526 

526 

527 
527 

527 

527 

529 

529 


530 
530 


530 
530 


.531 


Moffat,  James  C.  (b.  1811), 

Alwyn:  a  Romance  of  Study  (extracts), , 


532 

532 


CONTENTS. 


Xlll 


PAGE 

Murdoch,  Alexander  G.  (b.  isis), 532 

The  Flittin'  o'  aukl  Aunty  Gartley,    .     .  532 

NidOLL,  William, 533 

The  Poet's  Grave, 533 

OuTRAii,  George  (isoo-issc), 533 

The  Annuity, 533 

Pattison,  Thomas, 535 

Dear  Islay, 535 

EiCHARDSoN,  Mrs.  C.  E.  S.  (irrr-isss), 536 

The  Fairy  Dance, 536 

EoBERTSox,  John  (i-cr-isio), 536 

The  Toom  Meal  Pock, 536 

Small,  James  G.  (b.  isir), 537 

Voices  from  Heaven, 537 

Spottiswoode,  Lady  John  Scott 537 

When  thou  art  near  me, 537 

Tait,  John  (ms-isn) 537 

The  Banks  of  Dee, 537 


Tytler,  James  (ir47-i806), 538 

I  ha'e  laid  a  Herring  in  Saut,    ....  538 

Wake,  Charlotte,  Lady  (b.  isoi), 538 

Grizell  Coclu-ane;  or,  the  Daughter  Dear,  538 

Wanless,  Andrew  (b.  1824), 539 

Our  Mither  Tongue, 539 

Watson,  Thomas  (isor-isrs), ...  540 

The  Log, 549 

Webster,  David  (irsr-issr), 540 

Tak'  it,  man,  tak'  it, .  540 

Wright,  John  (iso5-i853) 541 

Kiss  the  Goblet, 541 

Yester,  Lord  (i645-m3), 542 

Tweedside, 542 

Young,  Andrew, 542 

The  Happy  Land, 542 

Lndex, 543 

Glossary, 549 


LIST    OF    THE    AUTHORS, 


SELECTIONS  FROM  WHOSE  WRITINGS  ARE  GIVEN   IN  THIS  VOLUME. 


Ainslie,  Hew,  .  .  . 
Aird,  Marion  Paul,  . 
Aird,  Thomas,  .  . 
Alexander,  WiUiam  Lind 
Allan,  George,  .  . 
Anderson,  Alexander, 
Anderson,  John,  .  . 
Anderson,  William,  . 
Atkinson,  Thomas,   . 

Ballantine,  James,    . 
Beattie,  George,  .     . 
Beattie,  AVilliam, 
Bell,  Henry  Glassford 
Bennet,  William, 
Bennoch,  Francis,     . 
Bethune,  Alexander, 
Bethune,  John,     .     . 
Binning,  Lord,      .     . 
Blackie,  John  Stuart, 
Blackie,  Walter  Graham 
Bonar,  Horatius,  .     . 
Brown,  Thomas,  .     . 
Brydson,  Thomas,     . 
Buchanan,  Robert,    . 
Burne,  Nicol,  .     .     . 
Burns,  James  D., 
Burtt,  John,    .     .     . 


Cameron,  William,  . 
Campbell,  j\Irs.  Elizabeth, 
Campbell,  Thomas,  . 
Carlile,  Alexander,    . 
Carlyle,  Thomas, .     . 
Carrick,  John  Donald, 
Chambers,  Robert,    . 
Conolly,  Erskine, 
Crawford,  John,  .     . 
Cunningham,  Allan, 

Douglas,  William, 
Dunbar,  William, 
Dunlop,  John, 


.  125 
.  389 
.  243 
ay,511 
.  279 
.  501 
.  511 
.  269 
.  230 

.  298 
.  87 
.  133 
.  272 
.  248 
.  357 
.  265 
.  330 
.  512 
.  316 
,  .  512 
.  308 
.  28 
.  286 
.  491 
.  513 
.  437 
.  104 


514 

514 

1 

98 
151 

91 
238 
175 
396 

61 

515 
515 
516 


PAGE 

Finlay,  John, 46 

Finlay,  WiUiam,  ....  131 

Galloway,  Robert,  .  .  .517 
GilfiUan,  Robert, ....  177 
Glen,  WiUiam,      ....   110 

Glover,  Jean 518 

Gordon,  Duke  of,  ...  518 
Graham,  Dougald,  .  .  .519 
Graham,  Janet,  ....  520 
Graham,  Robert, ....  520 
Grant,  Mrs.,  of  Carron,  .  520 
Grant,  Sir  Robert,  ...  85 
Gray,  Charles,      ....     41 

Gray,  David, 485 

Grieve,  John, 521 

Guthrie,  James  Cargill,      .  366 


Erskine,  Hon.  Andrew,      .  516 
Ewen,  John, 516 


Halket,  George,  .  .  .  .521 
Hall,  G.  Buchanan,  .  .  .  521 
Hamilton,  Mrs.  Elizabeth,  522 
Hamilton,  Janet,  .  .  .149 
Hastings,  Lady  Flora,  .  .  522 
Hedderwick,  James,  .  .  378 
Hervey,  Thomas  Kibble,  .  206 
Hetherington,Wm.MaxwcU,261 
Hogg,  Robert,  ....  523 
Hume,  Alexander,  .  .  .313 
Hyslop,  James,     ....  181 

Imlah,  John, 211 

Jamieson,  Robert,  ...  37 
Jeffrey,  Francis,  Lord, .  .  523 
Johnston,  EUen,  .'    .     .     .  525 

Kennedy,  WiUiam,  .  .  ,  213 
Kinloch,  Lord,  ....  222 
Knox,  Isa  Craig,  ....  477 
Knox,  WiUiam,    ....  106 

Laidlaw,  William,  ...  35 
Laing,  Alexander,  ...  93 
Latto,  Thomas  C,  .  .  .410 
Lawson,  James,    ....  208 


PAGE 

Leighton,  Robert,     .     .     .  432 

Leighton,  William,   .     .     .  488 

Lewis,  Stuart,       ....  526 

Lockhart,  John  Gibson,      .  141 

Lome,  Marquis  of ,    .     .     .  505 

Lyle,  Thomas,       ....  129 

Lyon,  Mrs.  Agnes,    .     .     .  526 

Lyte,  Henry  Francis,     .     .  137 


M'Cheyne,  Robert  Muri-ay, 

MacCoU,  Evan 

MacDiamiid,  John,  .  .  . 
MacDonald,  George,  .  . 
Macdonald,  Hugh,  .  .  . 
Macdonald,  James,  .  .  . 
Macduff,  Alexander,  .  . 
Macduff,  John  R.,  .  .  . 
Macfarlan,  James,  .  .  . 
Mackay,  Charles,  .  .  . 
M'Lachlan,  Alexander, 
Maclagan,  Alexander,  .  . 
Macleod,  Norman,  .  .  . 
Macnish,  Robert,  .  .  . 
MacPhail,  Hugh  Buchanan, 
Malcolm,  Lieut.  John,  .  . 
Martin,  Theodore,  .  .  . 
]\IaxweU,  Sir  AVm.  Stirling, 
Mayne,  James,  .... 
Mercer,  Andrew,  .... 

MiUer,  Hugh, 

Miller,  William,  .  .  .  . 
Moffat,  James  C,  .  .  . 
Moir,  David  Macbeth,  .  . 
Moore,  Dugald,  .  .  .  . 
I\Iotherwell,  William,  .  . 
Murdoch,  Alexander  G. ,  . 
Murdoch,  WiUiam,   .     .     • 


Nevay,  John,  .  .  . 
Nicholson,  WiUiam, . 
NicoU,  Robert,  .  . 
NicoU,  WiUiam,   .     . 

Outran! ,  George, .     . 


527 

303 

114 

449 

398 

292 

527 

417 

482 

381 

403 

340 

361 

236 

529 

530 

392 

407 

530 

531 

250 

334 

532 

166 

267 

157 

532 

441 

122 
43 

370 
533 

533 


XVI 


LIST  OF  AUTHORS. 


Park,  Andrew,  .  .  . 
Paton,  Sir  Joseph  Noel, 
P.ittison,  Thomas,  .  . 
Penney,  William,  .  . 
Picken,  Andrew  Belfrage 
Picken,  Joanna  Belfrage 
Pollok,  Robert,  .  .  . 
Pringle,  Thomas,       .     . 


PAGE 

.  2S9 
.  428 
.  535 
222 
,'.  254 
.  174 
.  196 
.  100 


Ramsav,  John,  ....  260 
Richardson,  Mrs.  C.  E.  Scott,  536 
Riddell,  Henry  Scott,  .  .  190 
Robertson,  John,  .  .  .  536 
Rodger,  Alexander,  ...     57 

Scott,  William  Bell, .  .  .347 
Shairp,  John  Campbell,     .  424 


PAGE 

Simpson,  Mrs.  Jane  Cross,  351 
Sinclair,  William,  .  .  .  355 
Small,  James  G.,  .  .  .  .537 
Smart,  Alexander,  .  .  .  172 
Smibert,  Thomas,  .  .  .  323 
Smith,  Alexander,  .  .  .  467 
Smith,  James,  ....  445 
Spottiswoode,  Lady  John  S. ,  537 
Sterling,  John,  ....  281 
Stoddart,  Thomas  Tod,  .  326 
Symington,  Andrew  J.,      .  456 

Tait,  John, 537 

Telfer,  James,  .  .  .  .217 
Tennant,  William,  ...  48 
Thom,  William,  ....  202 
Ti-ain,  Joseph,  ....  30 
Tytler,  James,      ....  538 


Vedder,  David,     .     . 

.     .  117 

Veitch,  John,  .     .     . 

.     .  465 

Wake,  Charlotte,  Lady,     .  538 

Wanless,  Andrew,     . 

.     .  539 

Watson,  Thomas, 

.     .  540 

Watson,  Walter,  .     . 

.     .     33 

Webster,  David,  .     . 

.     .  540 

Weir,  Daniel,  .     .     . 

.     .  155 

White,  Robert,     .     . 

.     .  257 

Wilson,  John,  .     .     . 

.     .     72 

Wilson,  Robert,    . 

.     .  233 

Wilson,  William,  . 

.     .  224 

Wingate,  David,  . 

.     .  459 

Wright,  John, 

.     .  541 

Yester,  Lord,  .     . 

.     .  542 

Young,  Andrew,  .     . 

.     .  542 

THE 


POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  SCOTLAND. 


PERIOD  1777  TO  1876. 


THOMAS    CAMPBELL 


Born  1777  — Died  1844. 


THOMAS  CAMPBELL,  so  justly  and 
poetically  called  the  "Bard  of  Hope,"  was 
bom  in  High  Street,  Glasgow,  July  27,  1777, 
and  was  the  youngest  of  a  family  of  eleven 
children.  His  father  was  connected  with  good 
families  in  Argyleshire,  and  had  carried  on  a 
prosperous  trade  as  a  Virginian  merchant,  but 
met  with  heavy  losses  at  the  outbreak  of  the 
American  war.  The  poet  was  particularly 
fortunate  in  the.  intellectual  character  of  his 
parents,  his  father  being  the  intimate  friend  of 
the  celebrated  Dr.  Thomas  Reid,  author  of  the 
Inquiry  into  the.  Human  Mind,  after  whom  he 
received  his  Christian  name,  while  his  mother 
was  distinguished  by  her  love  of  general  litera- 
ture, combined  with  sound  understanding  and 
a  refined  taste.  Campbell  afforded  early  indi- 
cations of  genius;  as  a  child  he  was  fond  of 
ballad  poetry,  and  at  the  age  of  ten  composed 
verses  exhibiting  the  delicate  appreciation  of 
the  graceful  flow  and  music  of  language  for 
which  his  poetry  was  afterwards  so  highly  dis- 
tinguished. At  the  age  of  thirteen  he  entered 
the  university  of  his  native  city,  and  though 
noted  for  his  love  of  fun  and  bovish  mischief, 
he  made  great  progress,  especially  in  his  clas- 
sical studies.  The  example  of  Professor  Young, 
a  most  enthusiastic  and  accomplished  Greek 
scholar,  was  not  lost  upon  the  congenial  mind 
of  his  pupil,  whose  poetical  translations  at  this 
period  showed  not  only  his  mastery  over  the 
Greek  language,  but  the  power  he  already 
possessed  over  his  own.  At  a  later  period  of 
life,  when  travelling  in  German v,  he  availed 

Vol.  II.— x\ 


himself  of  the  instructions  of  the  celebrated 
Heyne,  and  attained  such  proficiency  in  Greek 
and  the  classics  generally  that  he  was  re- 
garded as  one  of  the  best  classical  scholars  of 
his  day.  In  speaking  of  his  college  career, 
which  was  extended  to  five  sessions,  it  is 
worthy  of  notice  that  Professor  Young,  in 
awarding  to  Campbell  a  prize  for  the  best 
translation  of  the  Clouds  of  Aristophanes,  pro- 
nounced it  to  be  the  best  exercise  which  had 
ever  been  given  in  by  any  student  belonging 
to  the  university.  In  original  poetry  he 
was  also  distinguished  above  all  his  class- 
mates, so  that  in  1793  his  "Poem  on  Descrip- 
tion" obtained  the  prize  in  the  logic  class. 
Amongst  his  college  companions  Campbell 
soon  became  known  as  a  poet  and  wit;  and  on 
one  occasion,  the  students  having  in  vain  made 
repeated  application  for  a  holiday'  in  commem- 
oration of  some  public  event,  he  sent  in  a  peti- 
tion in  verse,  with  which  the  professor  was  so 
pleased  that  the  holiday  was  granted  in  com- 
pliment to  his  production.  This  incident  was 
often  referred  to  in  after  years  by  his  affectionate 
mother,  as  the  first-fruits  of  his  poetical  genius. 
For  some  years  our  author  pursued  his  studies 
with  the  avowed  object  of  entering  the  ministry, 
but  circumstances  of  which  we  have  no  authentic 
account  induced  him  to  change  his  plan.  He 
applied  himself  for  a  short  time  to  business, 
but  .soon  gave  it  up,  to  proceed  to  the  Highlands 
as  a  private  tutor.  Tiiere  he  found  a  happy 
home,  and  beautiful  and  romantic  scenery  to 
delight  his  poetic  fancy,  and  there  we  can  trace 


THOMAS   CAMPBELL. 


the  germs  of  Iiis  first  great  poem.  In  writing 
to  his  friend  Hamilton  Paul,  Campbell  had 
bemoaned  his  solitary  lot  in  being  so  far  re- 
moved from  all  his  family  and  friends,  and 
begged  him  to  send  him  some  lines  calculated 
to  cheer  him.  Paul  sent  him  a  piece  consisting 
of  twelve  stanzas,  entitled  the  "Pleasures  of 
Solitude,"  accompanied  by  a  letter,  in  which 
he  says:  "As  you  have  almost  brought  your- 
self to  the  persuasion  that  you  are  an  an- 
chorite, I  send  you  a  few  lines  adapted  to  the 
condition  of  a  recluse.  It  is  the  sentiment  of 
Dr.  Moore,  that  the  best  method  of  making  a 
man  respectable  in  the  eyes  of  others  is  to  re- 
.spect  himself  Take  the  lines,  such  as  they  are, 
and  be  candid,  but  not  too  flattering.  We 
have  now  three  pleasures,  by  first-rate  men  of 
genius:  the  'Pleasures  of  Imagination,'  the 
'Pleasures  of  Memory,'  and  the  'Pleasures  of 
Solitude,'  let  us  cherish  the  'Pleasures  of 
Hope'  that  we  may  soon  meet  again  in  old 
Alma  Mater."  Trivial  as  was  the  hint  con- 
tained in  the  foregoing,  the  circumstances 
under  whicii  it  reached  Campbell  caused 
it  to  produce  a  powerful  eflfect  on  his  future 
career.  Placed  among  the  grandest  scenery 
of  Scotland,  and  without  suflicient  means  of 
mental  occupation,  he  spent  much  of  his  time 
in  visiting  the  romantic  localities  of  the  neigh- 
bourhood, while  the  words  "  Pleasures  of  Hope" 
tilled  his  mind,  and  at  length  ripened  into  the 
full  fruition  of  his  splendid  poem. 

Campbell  had  also  tried  the  study  of  law, 
but  after  a  brief  experience  of  its  drudgery  he 
abandoneil  the  idea  of  the  legal  profession; 
and  in  \'W  we  find  him  in  Edinburgh,  along 
with  his  parents,  in  the  hope  of  obtaining 
literary  employment,  and  gaining  a  livelihood 
meanwhile  liy  private  teaching.  "  And  now," 
he  says  of  himself,  "  I  lived  in  the  Scottish 
metropolis  by  instructing  pupils  in  Greek  and 
Latin.  In  this  vocation  I  made  a  comfortable 
livelihood  as  long  as  I  was  industrious.  Hut  | 
tiie  '  Pleasures  of  Hope '  came  over  me.  I  took 
long  walks  about  .Vrthur's  Seat,  conning  over 
my  own  (as  I  thought  them)  magnificent 
lines,  and  as  my  '  Pleasures  of  Hope '  got 
on  my  pupils  fell  off."  At  length  his  poem 
was  completed  and  sold  to  a  publisher  for 
£60.  On  its  appearance  it  was  received 
Avith  a  universal  outburst  of  admiration,  and 
edition  after  edition  was  rapidly  sold.     The 


young  poet  of  twenty-one  was  at  once  accorded 
an  honourable  position  in  the  front  rank  of  the 
poets  of  Great  Britain. 

Though  his  reward  was  rather  in  cele- 
brity than  in  pecuniary  profit,  Campbell  was 
enabled  by  the  publication  of  the  "Plea- 
sures of  Hope,"  for  each  succeeding  edition 
of  which  he  received  the  sum  of  £50,  to  gra- 
tify his  desire  to  see  foreign  lands.  His 
choice  settled  upon  Germany,  already  become 
famous  in  Scotland  by  its  rising  literature  and 
the  works  of  AVieland,  Klopstock,  Schiller,  and 
Goethe.  He  crossed  over  to  Hamburg  and 
proceeded  inland  as  far  as  Eatisl)on,  where  he 
saw  the  conflict  that  gave  to  the  French  posses- 
sion of  that  town,  and  which  he  describes  in  a 
letter  to  his  brother.  Amidst  the  uncertainties 
produced  by  the  war  the  poet's  rambles  were 
brief  and  irregular.  He  returned  to  Hamburg, 
where  he  made  the  acquaintance  of  Anthony 
M'Cann,  an  Irish  refugee  who  was  accused  of 
being  a  leader  in  the  rebellion  of  1798.  Of  this 
gentleman  he  formed  a  favourable  impression, 
and  his  expatriation  from  his  native  land  sug- 
gested one  of  Campbell's  most  exquisite  poems. 
Our  author  finally  settled  for  the  winter  at 
Altona,  but  the  appearance  of  a  British  fleet  oflF 
the  Sound  gave  him  sudden  warning  to  provide 
for  his  safety.  He  therefore  embarked  in  a 
small  trading  vessel  for  Leith;  but,  in  conse- 
quence of  being  chased  by  a  Danish  privateer, 
the  vessel  put  into  Yarmouth  for  shelter.  A 
trip  to  London  naturally  followed,  where  he  was 
at  once  welcomed  by  the  best  society.  Eeturn- 
ing  to  Edinburgh  by  sea,  after  a  brief  sojourn 
in  the  capital,  he  Avrites  in  his  memoranda  of 
1801:  "A  lady  passenger  by  the  same  ship, 
who  has  read  my  poems,  but  was  personally 
unacquainted  with  me,  told  me,  to  my  utter 
astonislimont,  that  I  had  been  arrested  in 
London  for  high-treason,  was  confined  to  the 
Tower,  and  expected  to  be  executed!  I  was 
equally  unconscious  of  having  either  deserved 
or  incurred  such  a  sentence."  He  found,  how- 
ever, on  reaching  Edinburgh,  that  this  ridicu- 
lous report  was  circulating  in  the  streets,  and 
had  reached  the  ears  of  his  anxious  mother. 
It  was  a  wild  period  of  rumour  and  suspicion, 
and  he  found  that  the  fact  of  his  having 
messed  with  the  French  officers  at  Itatisbon 
during  the  armistice,  having  been  introduced 
to  General  Moreau,  and  having  sailed  as  a 


THOMAS   CAMPBELL. 


3 


f.'Uow-passcnger  with  an  Irishman,  had  been 
amplified  into  a  plot  concocted  between  him- 
self, the  gallant  Moreau,  and  the  Irish  at 
Hamburg,  to  land  a  French  army  in  Ireland! 
He  at  once  called  upon  the  sherift'  of  Edin- 
burgh, and  found  to  his  astonishment  tiiat 
he  believed  in  his  guilt,  and  that  a  warrant 
was  issued  for  his  apprehension.  This  was 
intolerable,  and  the  poet  could  not  help  ex- 
claiming, "Do  I  live  to  hear  a  sensible  man 
like  you  talking  about  a  boy  like  me  conspiring 
against  the  British  Empire?"  He  submitted 
to  a  strict  examination,  and  a  box  of  letters 
and  papers  which  he  had  left  at  Yarmouth  to 
be  forwarded  to  Edinburgh,  but  which  had 
been  seized  at  Leith,  was  at  the  same  time 
opened  and  carefully  examined.  But  its  con- 
tents soon  put  all  suspicion  at  an  end,  for  it 
contained  nothing  more  treasonable  than  "Ye 
Mariners  of  England; "  and  the  matter  ended 
with  a  hearty  laugh  and  a  bottle  of  wine. 

In  1803  Campbell  espoused  his  cousin  Ma- 
tilda Sinclair,  and  the  same  year  settled  in 
London,  where  his  reputation  secured  him 
ample  literary  employment.  Besides  a  magnifi- 
cent quarto  edition  of  the  "Pleasures of  Hope," 
by  which  he  made  £600,  he  published  in  three 
volumes  a  work  entitled  Annals  of  Great 
Britain,  for  which  he  received  £300.  In  due 
course  Campbell  became  a  father;  and  we  must 
quote  the  poet's  own  account  of  his  feelings, 
which  he  describes  with  such  beauty  and  ten- 
derness. "Our  first  interview  was  when  he  lay 
in  his  little  crib,  in  the  midst  of  white  muslin 
and  dainty  lace,  prepared  by  Matilda's  hands 
long  before  the  stranger's  arrival.  I  verily 
believe,  in  spite  of  my  partiality,  that  lovelier 
babe  was  never  smiled  upon  by  the  light  of 
heaven.  He  was  breathing  sweetly  in  his  first 
sleep.  I  durst  not  waken  him,  but  ventured 
to  give  him  one  kiss.  He  gave  a  faint  murmur, 
and  opened  his  little  azure  lights.  .  .  .  Oh, 
that  I  were  sure  he  would  live  to  the  days 
when  I  could  take  him  on  my  knee,  and  feel 
the  strong  plumpness  of  childhood  waxing 
into  vigorous  youth!  My  poor  boy!  Shall  I 
have  the  ecstasy  of  teaching  him  tlioughts, 
and  knowledge,  and  reciprocity  of  love  to  me  ? 
It  is  bold  to  venture  into  futurity  so  far. 
At  present  his  lovely  little  face  is  a  comfort 
to  me;  his  lips  breathe  that  fragrance  which 
it  is  one  of  the  loveliest  kindnesses  of  nature 


that  she  has  given  to  infants — a  sweetness  of 
smell  more  delightful  than  all  the  treasures 
of  Arabia.  AVhat  adorable  beauties  of  God 
and  nature's  bounty  we  live  in  without  know- 
ing! How  few  have  ever  seemed  to  think  an 
infant  beautiful!  But  to  me  there  seems  to 
be  a  beauty  in  the  earliest  dawn  of  infancy, 
which  is  not  inferior  to  the  attractions  of 
childhood — especially  when  they  sleep.  Their 
looks  excite  a  more  tender  train  of  emotions. 
It  is  like  the  tremulous  anxiety  we  feel  for  a 
candle  new  lighted,  which  we  dread  going 
out."  Such  was  an  event,  which,  though  an 
important  era  in  the  life  of  every  man,  is 
especially  so  in  that  of  a  poet;  and  such  is 
the  description  which  none  but  a  poet,  and 
that  of  the  highest  order,  could  have  so  em- 
bodied. The  above  quotation  is  worthy  of  a 
place  by  the  side  of  Campbell's  best  poetical 
productions. 

In  1805  the  government  granted  him  a 
pension  of  £200  per  annum,  one-half  of  which 
the  poet  settled  on  his  widowed  mother  and 
unmarried  sisters.  Had  Goldsmith  met  with 
similar  good  fortune,  how  diflferent  might 
have  been  his  fate,  and  how  many  more  tlie 
world-famous  poems  that  would  have  borne 
his  name!  In  1809  "Gertrude  of  Wyoming," 
by  man  J'  considered  at  the  time  the  best  of 
all  Campbell's  poems,  was  published.  It  met 
with  unbounded  applau.se,  and  raised  its 
author  to  the  highest  pinnacle  of  his  fame. 
At  intervals  between  1805  and  1809  the 
"  Battle  of  the  Baltic,"  "  Hohenlinden,"  and 
"  O'Connor's  Child "  had  appeared  in  the 
periodicals  of  the  day,  and  were  greatly  ad- 
mired. A  portion  of  his  time  was  devoted  to 
writing  for  the  magazines ;  but  perhaps  the 
most  agreeable  and  profitable  of  his  labours  was 
the  delivery  of  a  course  of  lectures  on  poetry 
at  the  Eoyal  Institution,  and  which  he  after- 
wards re-delivered  in  some  of  the  large  cities 
throughout  the  kingdom. 

In  1814  Campbell  visited  Paris,  when  he  was 
introduced  to  Wellington,  Humboldt,  and  many 
other  magnates  assembled  there  at  that  time, 
and  met  his  old  friend  and  correspondent 
Madame  de  Stael.  On  his  return  from  the 
Continent  his  friend  Sir  Walter  Scott  endea- 
voured to  secure  him  a  chair  in  the  University 
of  Edinburgh,  but  his  eflPorts  were  not  attended 
with  success.    In  1819  he  published  in  London 


THOMAS   CAMPBELL. 


tlie  Specimens  of  Bi-'Msh  Poets,  and  the  year 
following  he  accepted  the  editorship  of  the 
New  Monthly  Magazine,  at  a  salary  of  £600 
per  annum.  To  the  columns  of  this  periodical 
he  contributed  many  short  pieces  of  great  merit, 
among  others  "The  Last  Man,"  one  of  the 
grandest  poems  in  the  English  language.  A 
second  visit  to  Germany,  which  he  accomplished 
immediately  after  the  commencement  of  his 
editorial  duties,  suggested  to  him  the  idea  of 
the  London  University  ;  and  this  scheme, 
aided  by  the  practical  minds  of  Brougham  and 
Hume,  was,  after  much  difficult}',  brought  to 
a  successful  termination  in  1825.  In  the  fol- 
lowing year  he  received  the  gratifying  intelli- 
gence that  his  own  alma  mater  had  bestowed 
on  him  her  highest  honour  by  electing  him 
Lord  Rector  of  the  University  of  Glasgow. 
This  honour  was  the  most  valued  of  his  life; 
it  was  afterwards  enhanced  by  his  re-election 
to  the  office  for  the  second  and  third  time — a 
rare  occurrence  in  the  history  of  the  college. 

Prior  to  this  time  an  event  happened  which 
tended  to  alleviate  the  necessity  for  continual 
toil,  and  brigiiten  the  prospects  of  his  future 
life.  This  was  a  legacy  bequeathed  to  him  by 
a  relative  amounting  to  about  £5000.  But 
amidst  all  this  distinction  and  good  fortune 
the  mind  of  the  poet  had  much  to  grieve  and 
try  him.  In  1S26  his  aflcctionate  wife,  in 
whom  he  had  found  so  congenial  a  partner, 
died,  and  he  found  himself  alone  in  the  world. 
Of  his  two  sons,  the  younger  died  in  childhood, 
while  his  first-born,  of  whom  he  wrote  so 
touchingly,  had  for  years  been  in  a  state  of 
lunacy,  and  was  obliged  to  be  kept  in  confine- 
ment. He  was  thus  even  worse  than  childless. 
The  New  Monthly  Mar/azine,  too,  that  had 
prospered  so  greatly  under  his  care,  and  been 
a  comfortable  source  of  emolument,  passed  from 
under  his  management  by  one  of  those  unlucky 
accidents  to  which  periodical  literature  is 
especially  exposed.  A  paper  was  inserted  by 
mistake  in  its  pages  without  having  been 
sul)jected  to  his  editorial  examination;  and  as 
the  article  in  question  was  offensive  in  the 
highest  degree,  Campbell  abandoned  the  maga- 
zine and  the  .salary  which  he  derived  from 
it.  Soon  after  this  an  event  of  a  public 
and  political  character  moved  him  still  more 
than  any  pecuniary  loss  could  have  done.  This 
was  the  sanguinary  capture  of  Warsaw  in  1831, 


and  the  national  miseries  with  which  Poland 
was  afterwards  visited.  He  had  embraced 
the  cause  of  that  most  injured  nation  with  a 
poet's  enthusiasm,  and  its  exiles  found  in 
him  their  warmest  and  most  disinterested 
friend.  He  spoke,  wrote,  declaimed  upon  the 
miseries  of  Poland;  pictured  them  in  poetry  and 
in  prose;  appealed  against  them  in  companies 
of  every  shade  of  political  belief;  exerted  him- 
self to  make  all  feel  that,  instead  of  being  a 
mere  party  question,  it  was  the  common  cause 
of  justice,  honour,  and  humanity;  and  to 
evince  his  sincerity,  bestowed  liberally,  not 
only  of  his  time  and  labour,  but  also  of  his 
monej',  in  behalf  of  the  Polish  sufferers,  at  a 
season  when  money  was  the  commodity  which 
he  least  could  spare.  And  his  labours  were  not 
in  vain.  He  awoke  a  deep  sympathy  in  behalf 
of  Poland  wherever  his  influence  extended,  and 
succeeded  in  establishing  a  committee  in  Lon- 
don for  relieving  the  wants  of  thousands  of 
Polish  exiles  in  England. 

In  1833  he  finished  the  life  of  his  friend 
Mrs.  Siddons ;  the  year  following  he  crossed 
over  to  France,  and  soon  after  surprised  his 
friends  at  home  by  embarking  for  Algiers, 
finding  there  abundant  store  of  new  and  gaj' 
subjects  for  his  pen,  which  he  put  in  the  form 
o^  Letters  from  Algiers,  and  which  were  after- 
Avards  published  in  two  volumes.  The  "Pil- 
grim of  Glencoe,"  the  last  of  his  considerable 
poems,  published  in  1842,  was  not  successful 
even  in  his  own  estimation.  For  some  time 
previous  he  had  felt  his  strength  drooping,  and 
apprehending  that  his  end  was  near  he  sold  off 
his  household  furniture,  and  in  July,  1843, 
repaired  with  a  favourite  niece  to  Boulogne, 
with  the  avowed  purpose  of  dying  there,  away 
from  the  din  and  bustle  of  busj-  London,  where 
there  were  so  many  objects  likely  to  intrude 
upon  his  thoughts  and  time.  His  faithful 
friend,  physician,  and  biographer.  Dr.  Beattie, 
hastened  to  him  when  he  was  informed  that 
the  end  was  at  hand,  and  arrived  with  other 
friends  in  time  to  cheer  his  last  hours  with 
their  affectionate  sympathy.  He  died  June  15, 
1844,  aged  sixty-seven.  No  posthumous  hon- 
ours were  wanting  to  Thomas  Campbell.  His 
body  was  removed  to  London,  and  placed  in 
the  Jerusalem  Chamber  in  Westminster  Abbey 
while  preparations  were  made  for  the  funeral. 
The  most  illustrious  literarv  men  and  nobles 


THOMAS   CAMPBELL. 


attended  his  funeral,  and  a  guard  of  Tolisli 
exiles  asked  and  obtained  permission  to  escort 
his  remains  to  the  Poets'  Corner.  His  friend 
Dean  ]\Iilman  read  the  service,  and  a  handful 
of  earth  from  the  tomb  of  Kosciusko  the 
Polish  hero,  that  had  been  treasured  for  the 
purpose,  was  thrown  into  the  grave  of  the 
noble  Scotchman  who  had  written  so  eloquently 
and  laboured  so  successfully  in  behalf  of 
Poland.  His  ashes  now  rest  by  the  side  of 
Sheridan's,  and  near  the  graves  of  Goldsmith 
and  Addison,  and  over  his  tomb  there  stands 
a  beautiful  marble  statue,  the  work  of  one  of 
England's  most  eminent  sculptors. 

"  There  are  but  two  noble  sorts  of  poetry," 


wrote  Lord  Jeffrey,  "the  pathetic  and  the 
sublime:  and  we  think  that  he  (Campbell)  has 
given  us  very  extraordinary  proofs  of  his 
talents  for  both."  Sir  Walter  Scott  said  to 
Washington  Irving,  "What  a  pity  it  is  that 
Campbell  does  not  write  oftener  and  give  full 
sweep  to  his  genius!  He  has  wings  that  would 
bear  him  to  the  skies,  and  he  does,  now  and 
then,  spread  them  grandly,  but  folds  them  up 
again  and  resumes  his  perch,  as  if  he  was  afraid 
to  launch  them.  The  fact  is,  Campbell  is  in 
a  manner  a  bugbear  to  liimself:  the  brightness 
of  his  early  success  is  a  detriment  to  all  his 
after  efforts.  He  is  afraid  of  the  shadow  that 
his  oivnfame  casts  before  him." 


THE    PLEASUEES   OF   HOPE. 


IN   TWO   PARTS. 


TAUT   I. 

Analysis.— The  poem  opens  with  a  comparison  be- 
tween tlie  beauty  of  remote  objects  in  a  landscape, 
and  those  ideal  scenes  of  felicity  wliich  the  imagina- 
tion delights  to  contemplate  — the  influence  of  anti- 
cipation upon  the  other  passions  is  next  delineated 
—an  allusion  is  made  to  tlie  well-known  fiction  in 
pagan  tradition,  that  when  all  *he  guardian  deities  of 
mankind  abandoned  the  world,  Hope  alone  was  left 
behind— the  consolations  of  this  passion  in  situations  of 
danger  and  distress— the  seaman  on  his  watcli — the 
soldier  marching  into  battle— allusion  to  the  interesting 
adventures  of  Byron. 

The  inspiration  of  Hops  as  it  actuates  the  efforts  of 
genius,  whether  in  the  department  of  science  or  of 
t.iste— domestic  felicity,  how  intimately  connected  with 
views  of  future  happiness— picture  of  a  mother  watch- 
ing her  infant  when  asleep — pictures  of  the  prisoner, 
the  maniac,  and  the  wanderer. 

From  the  consolations  of  individual  misery  a  transi- 
tion is  made  to  prospects  of  political  improvement  in 
the  future  state  of  society — the  w-;de  field  that  is  yet 
open  for  the  progi'ess  of  humanizing  arts  among  un- 
civilized nations — from  these  views  of  amelioration  of 
society,  and  the  extension  of  liberty  and  truth  over 
despotic  and  barbarous  countries,  by  a  melancholy 
contrast  of  ideas,  we  are  led  to  reflect  upon  the  hard 
fate  of  a  brave  people  recently  conspicuous  in  their 
struggles  for  independence — description  of  the  capture 
of  Warsaw,  of  the  last  contest  of  the  oppressors  and  the 
oppressed,  and  tlie  massacre  of  the  Polish  patriots  at 
the  bridge  of  Prague— apostrophe  to  the  self-interested 
enemies  of  human  improvement— the  wrongs  of  Africa 
— the  barbarous  policy  of  Europeans  in  India — pro- 

1  The  "  Pleasures  of  Hope  "  is  one  of  the  most  beauti- 
ful didactic  poems  in  our  language. — Lord  Byron. 


phecy  in  the  Hindoo  mythology  of  the  expected  de- 
scent of  the  Deity  to  redress  the  jniseries  of  their  race, 
and  to  take  vengeance  on  the  violators  of  justice  and 
mercy. 

At  summer  eve,  when  Heaven's  ethereal  bow 
Spans  with  bright  arch  the  glittering  hills  below, 
Why  to  yon  mountain  turns  the  musing  eye, 
Whose  sunbright  summit  mingles  with  the  sky  ? 
Wliy  do  tliose  cliffs  of  shadowy  tint  appear 
More  sweet  than  all  the  landscape  smiling  near  ? — 
'Tis  distance  lends  enchantment  to  the  view, 
And  robes  the  mountain  in  its  azure  hue. 
Thus,  with  delight,  we  linger  to  survey 
The  promised  joys  of  life's  unmeasured  way; 
Thus,  from  afar,  each  dim-discover'd  scene 
More  pleasing  seems  than  all  the  past  hath  been, 
And  every  form,  that  Fancy  can  repair 
From  dark  oblivion,  glows  divinely  there. 

What  potent  spirit  guides  the  raptured  eye 
To  pierce  the  shades  of  dim  futurity  ? 
Can  Wisdom  lend,  with  all  her  heavenly  power. 
The  pledge  of  Joy's  anticipated  hour  ? 
Ah,  no  !  she  darkly  sees  the  fate  of  man — 
Her  dim  horizon  bounded  to  a  span; 
Or,  if  she  hold  an  image  to  the  view, 
'Tis  Nature  pictured  too  severely  true. 
With  thee,   sweet  Hope!  resides  the  heavenly 

light, 
That  pours  remotest  rapture  on  the  sight: 
Thine  is  the  charm  of  life's  bewilder'd  way. 
That  calls  each  slumbering  passion  into  play. 
Waked  by  thy  touch,  I  see  the  sister-band, 
On  tiptoe  watching,  start  at  thy  command. 
And  fly  where'er  thy  mandate  bids  them  steer, 
To  Pleasure's  path,  or  Glory's  bright  career. 


6 


THOMAS   CAMPBELL. 


Primeval  Hope,  the  Aonian  Muses  say, 
When  Man  and  Nature  mourn'd  their  first  decay; 
When  every  form  of  death,  and  every  woe. 
Shot  from  mahgnant  stars  to  earth  below; 
When  Murder  bared  her  arm,  and  rampant  War 
Yoked  the  rod  dragons  of  her  iron  car; 
When  Peace  and  Mercy,  banish'd  from  the  plain. 
Sprung  on  the  viewless  winds  to  Heaven  again; 
All,  all  forsook  the  friendless,  guilty  mind, 
But  Hope,  the  charmer,  linger'd  still  behind. 

Thus,  while  Elijah's  burning  wheels  prepare 
From  Carmel's  heights  to  sweep  the  fields  of  air, 
The  prophet's  mantle,  ere  his  flight  began. 
Dropped  on  the  world— a  sacred  gift  to  man. 

Auspicious  Hope  !  in  thy  sweet  garden  grow 
Wreaths  for  each  toil,  a  charm  for  every  woe; 
Won  by  their  sweets,  in  Nature's  languid  hour, 
The  way-worn  pilgrim  seeks  thy  summer  bower; 
There,  as  the  wild  bee  murmurs  on  the  wing. 
What  peaceful  dreams  thy  handmaid  spirits  bring! 
What  viewless  forms  th'  iEolian  organ  play. 
And  sweep  the  furrow'd  Hues  of  anxious  thought 
away. 

Angel  of  life!  thy  glittering  wings  explore 
Earth's  loneliest   bounds,    and   Ocean's   wildest 

shore. 
Lo!  to  the  wintry  winds  the  pilot  yields 
His  bark  careering  o'er  unfathom'd  fields; 
Now  on  Atlantic  waves  he  rides  afar, 
Where  Andes,  giant  of  the  western  star, 
With  meteor-standard  to  the  winds  unfurl'd, 
Looks  from  his  throne  of  clouds  o'er  half  the 
world ! 

Now  far  he  sweeps,  where  scarce  a  summer 
smiles, 
On  Bchring's  rocks,  or  Greenland's  naked  isles: 
Cold  on  his  midnight  watch  the  breezes  blow, 
From  wastes  that  slumber  in  eternal  snow; 

'  The  following  picture  of  his  own  distress,  given  by 
Byron  m  liia  simple  ami  interesting  narrative,  justifies 
the  description  given  in  tlie  poem.  After  relating  the 
barbarity  of  the  Indian  caciciue  to  bis  child,  he  proceeds 
thus: — "A  day  or  two  after  we  put  to  sea  again,  and 
crossed  the  great  bay  I  mentioned  we  had  been  at  the 
bottom  of  when  we  first  hauleil  away  to  the  westward. 
The  land  liere  was  very  low  and  fandy,  and  soniething 
like  the  mouth  of  a  river  which  discharged  itself  into 
the  sea,  and  which  had  Vieen  taken  no  notice  of  by  us 
before,  as  it  was  so  shallow  that  tlie  Indians  were 
obliged  to  take  everything  out  of  their  canoes  and  carry 
them  over  land.  We  rowed  up  the  river  four  or  five 
leagues,  and  then  took  intoa  bninch  of  it  tliat  ran  firet 
to  the  eastward  and  then  to  the  northward:  liere  it 
became  much  narrower,  and  the  stream  excessively 
rapid,  so  that  we  gained  V)Ut  little  way,  thoiigh  we 
■wrought  veiy  hard.  At  night  we  landed  upon  its 
banks,  and  had  a  most  uncomfortable  lodging,  it  being 


And  waft,  across  the  waves'  tumultuous  roar. 
The  wolf's  long  howl  from  Oonalaska's  shore. 

Poor  child  of  danger,  nursling  of  the  storm, 
Sad  are  the  woes  that  wreck  thy  rnanly  form ! 
Rocks,  waves,    and   winds,    the   shatter'd   bark 

delay; 
Thy  heart  is  .sad,  thy  home  is  far  away. 

But  Hope  can  here  her  moonlight  vigils  keep, 
And  sing  to  charm  the  spirit  of  the  deep : 
Swift  as  yon  streamer  lights  the  stan-y  pole, 
Her  visions  warm  the  watchman's  pensive  soul; 
His  native  hills  that  rise  in  happier  climes. 
The  grot  that  heard  his  song  of  other  times. 
His  cottage  home,  his  bark  of  slender  sail. 
His  glassy  lake,  and  broomwood-blossom'd  vale, 
Rush  on  his  thought;  he  sweeps  before  the  wind. 
Treads  the  loved  shore  he  sigh'd  to  leave  behind ; 
Meets  at  each  step  a  friend's  familiar  face, 
And  flies  at  last  to  Helen's  long  embrace; 
Wipes  from  her  cheek  the  rapture-speaking  tear! 
And  clasps,  with  many  a  sigh,  his  children  dear ! 
While,  long  neglected,  but  at  length  caress'd. 
His  faithful  dog  salutes  the  smiling  guest, 
Points  to  the  master's  eyes  (where'er  they  roam) 
His  wistful  face,  and  whines  a  welcome  home. 

Friend  of  the  brave !  in  peril's  darkest  hour, 
Intrepid  Virtue  looks  to  thee  for  power; 
To  thee  the  heart  its  trembling  homage  yields. 
On  stormy  floods,  and  carnage-cover'd  fields, 
When  front  to  front  the  banner'd  hosts  combine, 
Halt  ere  they  close,  and  form  the  dreadful  line. 
When  all  is  still  on  Death's  devoted  soil, 
The  march-worn  soldier  mingles  for  the  toil! 
As  rings  his  ghttoring  tube,  he  hfts  on  high 
The  dauntless  brow,  and  spirit-speaking  eye. 
Hails  in  his  heart  the  triumph  yet  to  come. 
And  hears  thy  stormy  music  in  the  dnmi! 

And  such  thy  strength-inspiring  aid  that  boro 
The  hardy  Byron  to  his  native  shore^ — 

a  perfect  swamp,  and  we  had  notliing  to  cover  us. 
though  it  rained  excessively.  The  Indians  were  little 
better  off  than  we,  as  there  was  no  wood  here  to  make 
their  wigwams;  so  that  all  they  could  do  was  to  prop 
up  the  bark,  which  they  carry  in  the  bottom  of  their 
canoes,  and  shelter  themselves  as  well  as  they  could  to 
the  leeward  of  it.  Knowing  the  difficulties  they  had 
to  encounter  here,  they  had  provided  themselves  with 
some  seal;  but  we  had  not  a  morsel  to  eat,  after  the 
heavy  fatigues  of  the  day,  excepting  a  .sort  of  root  we 
saw  the  Indians  make  use  of,  which  was  very  disagree- 
able to  the  taste.  We  laboured  all  next  day  against 
the  stream,  and  fared  as  we  had  done  the  day  before. 
The  next  day  brought  us  to  the  caiTying  place.  Here 
was  plenty  of  wood,  but  nothing  to  be  got  for  susten- 
ance. We  passed  this  night,  as  we  liad  frequently  done, 
under  a  tree;  but  what  we  suffered  at  this  time  is  not 
easy  to  be  exi>re3sed.  I  had  been  three  days  at  tlie  oar 
without  any  kind  of  nourishment  except  the  wretched 


THOMAS   CAMPBELL. 


In  horrid  climes,  where  Chiloe's  tempests  sweep 
Tumultuous  murmurs  o'er  the  troubled  deep, 
'Twas  his  to  mourn  Misfortune's  rudest  shock, 
Scourged  by  the  winds,  and  cradled  on  the  rock. 
To  wake  each  joyless  morn  and  search  again 
The  famish'd  haunts  of  solitary  men; 
"Whose  race,  unyielding-  as  their  native  storm, 
Know  not  a  trace  of  Nature  but  the  form; 
Yet,  at  thy  call,  the  hardy  tar  pursued, 
Pale,  but  intrepid,  sad,  but  unsubdued, 
Pierced  the  deep  woods,  and  hailing  from  afar 
The  moon's  pale  planet  and  the  northern  star, 
Paused  at  each  dreary  cry  unheard  before, 
Hysenas  in  the  wild,  and  mermaids  on  the  shore; 
Till,  led  by  thee  o'er  many  a  cliff  sublime, 
He  found  a  warmer  worlil,  a  milder  clime, 
A  home  to  rest,  a  shelter  to  defend. 
Peace  and  repose,  a  Briton  and  a  friend !  ^ 

Congenial  Hope!  thy  passion-kindling  power, 
How  bright,  how  strong,  in  youth's  untroubled 

hour! 
On  yon  proud  height,  with  Genius  hand-in-hand, 
I  see  thee  light,  and  wave  thy  golden  wand. 

"Go,  child  of  Heaven!  (thy  winged  words  pro- 
claim) 
'Tis  thine  to  search  the  boundless  fields  of  fame! 
Lo!  Newton,  priest  of  Nature,  shines  afar, 
Scans  the  wide  world,  and  numbers  every  star! 
Wilt  thou,  with  him,  mysterious  rites  apply, 
And  watch  the  shrine  with  wonder-beaming  eye! 
Yes,  thou  shalt  mark,  with  magic  art  profound, 
The  speed  of  light,  the  circling  march  of  sound; 
With  Franklin  grasp  the  lightning's  fiery  wing, 
Or  yield  the  lyre  of  Heaven  another  string.  ^ 

"The  Swedish  sage' admires,  in  yonder  bowers. 
His  winged  insects,  and  his  rosy  flowers; 
Calls  from  their  woodland  haunts  the  savage  train, 
With  sounding  horn,  and  counts  them  on  the 

plain — • 
So  once,  at  Heaven's  command,  the  wanderers 

came 
To  Eden's  shade,  and  heard  their  various  name. 

"Far  from  the  world, in  yon  sequester'd  clime, 
Slow  pass  the  sons  of  Wisdom,  more  sublime; 

root  above  mentioned.  I  had  no  shirt,  for  it  had  rotted 
off  by  bits.  All  my  clothes  consisted  of  a  short  grieko 
(something  like  a  bear  skin),  a  piece  of  red  cloth  wliich 
had  once  been  a  waistcoat,  and  a  ragged  pair  of  trou- 
sere,  without  shoes  or  stockings." 

1  Don  Patricio  Gedd,  a  Scotch  physician  in  one  of  the 
Spanish  settlements,  hospitably  relieved  Byron  and  his 
wretched  associates,  of  which  the  commodore  speaks  io 
the  warmest  terms  of  gratitude. 

-  The  seven  strings  of  Apollo's  harp  were  the  symbo- 
lical representation  of  the  seven  planets.  Herscliel, 
by  discovering  an  eighth,  might  be  said  to  add,  another 
string  to  the  instrument. 

"*  Linnajus. 


Calm  as  the  fields  of  Heaven,  his  sapient  eye 
The  loved  Athenian  lifts  to  realms  on  high, 
Admiring  Plato,  on  his  spotless  page, 
Stamps  the  bright  dictates  of  the  Father  sage: 
'  Shall  Nature  bound  to  Earth's  diurnal  span 
The  fire  of  God,  th'  immortal  soul  of  man?' 

"Turn,  child  of  Heaven,  thy  rapture-lighten'd 
eye 
To  W'isdom's  walks,  the  sacred  Nine  are  nigh: 
Hark!  from  bright  spires  that  gild  the  Delphian 

height, 
From  streams  that  wander  in  eternal  light, 
Ranged  on  their  hill,  Harmonia's  daughters  swell 
The  mingling  tones  of  horn,  and  harp,  and  shell ; 
Deep  from  his  vaults  the  Loxiau  murmurs  flow,* 
And  Pythia's  awful  organ  peals  below. 

"Beloved  of  Heaven!  the  smiling  Muse  shall 
shed 
Her  moonlight  halo  on  thy  beauteous  head; 
Shall  swell  thy  heart  to  rapture  unconfined, 
And  breathe  a  holy  madness  o'er  thy  mind. 
I  see  thee  roam  her  guardian  power  beneath. 
And  talk  with  sjiirits  on  the  midnight  heath; 
Inquire  of  guilty  wanderers  whence  they  came. 
And  ask  each  blood-stain'd  form  his  earthly  name; 
Then  weave  in  rapid  verse  the  deeds  they  tell, 
And  read  the  trembling  world  the  tales  of  hell. 

"When  Venus,  throned  in  clouds  of  rosy  hue, 
Flings  from  her  golden  urn  the  vesper  dew, 
And  bids  fond  man  her  glimmering  noon  emploj-. 
Sacred  to  love,  and  walks  of  tender  joy; 
A  milder  mood  the  goddess  shall  recall, 
And  soft  as  dew  thy  tones  of  music  fall; 
While  Beauty's  deeply-pictured  smiles  impart 
A  pang  more  dear  than  pleasure  to  the  heart — • 
Warm  as  thy  .sighs  shall  flow  the  Lesbian  strain, 
And  plead  in  Beauty's  ear,  nor  plead  in  vain. 

"Or  wilt  thou  Orphean  hymns  more  sacred 
deem. 
And  steep  thy  song  in  Mercy's  mellow  stream; 
To  pensive  drops  the  radiiint  eye  beguile — 
For  Beauty's  tears  are  lovelier  than  her  smile; — 
On  Nature's  throbbing  anguish  pour  relief, 
And  teach  ipipassion'd,  souls  the  joy  of  grief.' 

"Yes;   to  thy  tongue  shall  seraph  words  be 
given, 
Afld  power  on  earth  to  plead  the  cause  of  Heaven ; 
The  proud,  the  cold  untroubled  heart  of  stone, 
That  nevei'  mused  on  sorrow  but  its  own. 
Unlocks  a  generous  store  at  thy  command, 
Like  Horeb's  rocks  beneath  the  prophet's  hand.^ 
The  living  lumber  of  his  kindred  earth, 
Charm'd  into  soul,  receives  a  second  birth, 

4  Loxias  is  the  name  frequently  given  to  Apollo  by 
Greek  writers;  it  is  met  with  more  than  once  in  the 
Choephoi-se  of  ..Eschylus. 

5  See  Ex.  xvii.  3,  5,  6. 


8 


THOMAS   CAMPBELL. 


Feels  thy  dread  power  another  heart  afford, 
Whose  passioii-touch'd  harmonious  strings  accord 
True  as  the  cirehng  spheres  to  Nature's  plan; 
And  man,  the  brother,  lives  the  friend  of  man. 

"Bright  as  the  pillarroseat  Heaven's  command, 
When  Israel  march'd  along  the  desert  land, 
Blazed  through  the  night  on  lonely  wilds  afar, 
And  told  the  path,— a  never-setting  star: 
So,  Heavenly  Genius,  in  thy  course  divine, 
Hope  is  thy  star,  her  light  is  ever  thine." 

Propitious  Power!  when  rankling  cares  annoy 
The  sacred  home  of  Hymenean  joy; 
When  doom'd  to  Poverty's  sequester'd  dell, 
The  wedded  pair  of  love  and  virtue  dwell, 
Unpitied  by  the  world,  unknown  to  fame, 
Their  woes,  their  wishes,  and  their  hearts  the 

same — 
Oh,  there,  prophetic  Hope!  thy  smile  bestow. 
And  chase  the  pangs  that  worth  should   never 

know — 
There,  as  the  parent  deals  his  scanty  store 
To  friendless  babes,  and  weeps  to  give  no  more, 
Tell,  that  his  manly  race  shall  yet  assuage 
Their  father's  wrongs,  and  shield  his  latter  age. 
What  though  for  him  no  Hybla  sweets  distil, 
Nor  bloomy  vines  wave  purple  on  the  hill; 
Tell,  that  when  silent  years  have  pass'd  away. 
That  when  his  eye  grows  dim,  his  tresses  gray. 
These  busy  hands  a  lovelier  cot  shall  build, 
And  deck  with  fairer  flowers  his  little  field. 
And  call  from  Heaven  propitious  dews  to  breathe 
Arcadian  beauty  on  the  barren  heath; 
Tell,  that  while  Love's  spontaneous  smile  endears 
The  days  of  peace,  the  sabbath  of  his  years, 
Health  shall  prolong  to  many  a  festive  hour 
The  social  pleasures  of  his  humble  bower. 

lio!  at  the  couch  where  infant  beauty  sleeps, 
Her  silent  watch  the  mournful  mother  keeps; 
She,  while  the  lovely  babe  unconscious  lies. 
Smiles  on  her  slumbering  child  with  pensive  eyes, 
And  weaves  a  song  of  melancholy  joy — 
"Sleep,  image  of  thy  father,  sleep,  my  boy; 
No  lingering  hour  of  sorrow  shall  be  thine; 
No  sigh  that  rends  thy  father's  heart  and  mine; 
Bright  as  his  manly  sire  the  son  shall  be 
In  form  and  soul;  but,  ah!  more  blest  than  he! 
Thy  fame,  thy  worth,  thy  filial  love  at  last, 
Shall  soothe  his  aching  heart  for  all  the  past^ 
With  many  a  smile  my  solitude  repay, 
And  chase  the  world's  ungenerous  scorn  away. 

"And  say,  when  summon'd  from  the  world  and 
thee, 
I  lay  my  head  beneath  the  willow  tree, 
Wilt  thoii,  sweet  mourner!  at  my  stone  appear, 
And  soothe  ray  parted  spirit  lingering  near? 
Oh,  wilt  thou  come  at  evening  hour  to  shed 
Tlie  tears  of  Memory  o'er  my  narrow  bed; 
With  aching  temples  on  thy  hand  reclined, 


Muse  on  the  last  farewell  I  leave  behind. 
Breathe  a  deep  sigh  to  winds  that  murmur  low. 
And  think  on  all  my  love,  and  all  my  woe  T' 

So  speaks  Affection,  ere  the  infant  eye 
Can  look  regard,  or  brighten  in  reply; 
But  when  the  cherub  lip  hath  learned  to  claim 
A  mother's  ear  by  that  endearing  name; 
Soon  as  the  playful  innocent  can  prove 
A  tear  of  pity,  or  a  smile  of  love, 
Or  cons  his  murmuring  task  beneath  her  care. 
Or  lisps  with  holy  look  his  evening  prayer. 
Or  gazing,  mutely  pensive  sits  to  hear 
The  moui'nful  ballad  warbled  in  his  ear; 
How  fondly  looks  admiring  Hope  the  while, 
At  every  artless  tear,  and  every  smile; 
How  glows  the  joyous  parent  to  descry 
A  guileless  bosom,  true  to  sympathy! 

Where  is  the  troubled  heart  consign'd  to  share 
Tumultuous  toils,  or  solitary  care, 
Unblest  by  visionary  thoughts  that  stray 
To  count  the  joys  of  Fortune's  better  day ! 
Lo!  nature,  life,  and  hberty  relume 
The  dim -eyed  tenant  of  the  dungeon  gloom, 
A  long-lost  friend,  or  hapless  child  restored, 
Smiles  at  his  blazing  hearth  and  social  board; 
Warm  from  his  heart  the  tears  of  rapture  flow, 
And  virtue  triumphs  o'er  remember'd  woe. 

Chide  not  his  peace,  proud  Reason!  nor  destroy 
The  shadowy  forms  of  uncreated  joy, 
That  urge  the  lingering  tide  of  life,  and  pour 
Spontaneous  slumber  on  his  midnight  hour. 
Hark!  the  wild  maniac  sings,  to  chide  the  gale 
That  wafts  so  slow  her  lover's  distant  sail; 
She,  sad  spectatress,  on  the  wintry  shore, 
Watch'd  the  rude  surge  his  shroudless  corse  that 

bore. 
Knew  the  pale  form,  and  shrieking,  in  amaze, 
Clasp'd  her  cold  hands,  and  fix'd  her  maddening 

gaze: 
Poor  widow'd  wretch;  'twas  there  she  wept  in 

vain. 
Till  Memory  fled  her  agonizing  brain;— 
But  Mercy  gave  to  charm  the  sense  of  woe, 
Ideal  peace,  that  truth  could  ne'er  bestow; 
Warm  on  her  heart  the  joys  of  Fancy  beam. 
And  aimless  Hope  delights  her  darkest  dream. 

Oft  when  yon  moon  has  climbVl  the  midnight 
sky. 
And  the  lone  sea-bird  wakes  its  wildest  cry. 
Piled  on  the  steep,  her  blazing  faggots  burn 
To  hail  the  bark  that  never  can  return ; 
And  still  she  waits,  but  scarce  forbears  to  weep 
That  constant  love  can  linger  on  the  deep. 

And,  mark  the  wretch,  whose  wanderings  never 
knew 
The  world's  regard,  that  soothes,  though  half 
untrue; 


THOMAS   CAMPBELL. 


Whose  erring  heart  the  lash  of  sorrow  bore, 
But  found  not  pity  when  it  en-'d  no  more. 
Yon  friendless  man,  at  whose  dejected  eye 
Th'  unfeelii'jg  proud  one  looks — and  passes  by, 
Condemn'd  on  Penury's  barren  path  to  roam, 
Scorn'd  by  the  world,  and  left  without  a  home — 
Even  he  at  evening,  should  he  chance  to  stray 
Down  by  the  hamlet's  hawthorn-scented  way. 
Where,  round  the  cot's  romantic  glade,  are  seen 
The  blossom'd  bean-field,  and  the  sloping  green. 
Leans  o'er  its  humble  gate,  and  thinks  the  while — • 
Oh!  that  for  me  some  home  like  this  would  smile, 
Some  hamlet  shade,  to  yield  my  sickly  form 
Health  in  the  breeze,  and  shelter  in  the  storm! 
There  should  my  hand  no  stinted  boon  assign 
To  wretched  hearts  with  sorrow  such  as  mine! — ■ 
That  generous  wish  can  soothe  unpitied  care. 
And   Hope  half  mingles  with  the   poor  man's 
prayer. 

Hope!  when  I  mourn,  with  sympathizing  mind. 
The  wrongs  of  fate,  the  woes  of  human  kind, 
Thy  blissful  omens  bid  my  spirit  see 
The  boundless  fields  of  rapture  yet  to  be; 
I  watch  the  wheels  of  Nature's  mazy  plan, 
And  learn  the  future  by  the  past  of  man. 

Come,  bright  Improvement !  on  the  car  of  Time, 
And  rule  the  spacious  world  from  clime  to  clime! 
Thy  handmaid  arts  shall  every  wild  explore, 
Trace  every  wave,  and  culture  every  shore. 
On  Erie's  banks,  where  tigers  steal  along. 
And  the  dread  Indian  chants  a  dismal  song. 
Where  human  fiends  on  midnight  errands  walk, 
And  bathe  in  brains  the  murderous  tomahawk, 
There  shall  the  flocks  on  thymy  pasture  stray. 
And  shepherds  dance  at  Summer's  opening  day; 
Each  wandering  genius  of  the  lovely  glen 
Shall  start  to  view  the  glittering  haunts  of  men. 
And  silent  watch,  on  woodland  heights  around. 
The  village  curfew  as  it  tolls  profound. 

In  Libyan  groves,  where  damned  rites  are  done, 
That  bathe  the  rocks  in  blood,  and  veil  the  sun. 
Truth  shall  arrest  the  murderous  arm  profane, 
Wild  Obi  flies' — the  veil  is  rent  in  twain. 

Where  barbarous  hordes  on  Scythian  mountains 
roam, 
Truth,  Mercy,  Freedom,  yet  shall  find  a  home; 
Where'er  degraded  Nature  bleeds  and  pines, 

'  Among  the  negroes  of  the  West  Indies,  Obi,  or 
Orbiah,  is  the  name  of  a  magical  power,  which  is 
believed  by  them  to  affect  the  object  of  its  malignity 
with  dismal  calamities.  Sucli  a  belief  must  undoubt- 
edly have  been  deduced  from  the  superstitious  mytho- 
logy of  tljeir  kinsmen  on  the  coast  of  Africa.  I  have, 
therefore,  personified  Obi  as  the  evil  spirit  of  the 
African,  although  the  history  of  the  African  tribes  men- 
tions the  evil  spirit  of  their  religious  creed  by  a  different 
appellation. 


From  Guinea's  coast  to  Sibir's  dreary  mines, - 
Truth   shall   pervade   th'   unfathom'd   darkness 

there, 
And  light  the  dreadful  features  of  despair. — 
Hark!  the  stern  captive  spurns  his  heavy  load, 
And  asks  the  image  back  that  Heaven  bestow'd ! 
Fierce  in  his  eye  the  fire  of  valour  bums. 
And  as  the  slave  departs,  the  man  returns. 

Oh!  sacred  Ti-uth!  thy  triumph  ceased  awhile. 
And  Hope,  thy  sister,  ceased  with  thee  to  smile. 
When  leagued  Oppression  pour'd  to  Northern 

wars 
Her  whisker'd  pandoors  and  her  fierce  hussars, 
Waved  her  dread  standard  to  the  breeze  of  morn, 
Peal'd  her  loud  di-um,  and  twang'd  her  trumpet 

horn 
Tumultuous  horror  brooded  o'er  her  van. 
Presaging  wrath  to  Poland — and  to  man! 3 

Warsaw's  last  champion  from  her  height  sur- 
vey'd, 

Wide  o'er  the  fields,  a  waste  of  ruin  laid, — 

"0  Heaven!"  he  cried,  "my  bleeding  country 
save! — ■ 

Is  there  no  hand  on  high  to  shield  the  brave  ? 

Yet,  though  destruction  sweep  those  lovely  plains. 

Rise,  fellow-men!  our  country  yet  remains! 

By  that  dread  name,  we  wave  the  sword  on  high! 

And  swear  for  her  to  live! — with  her  to  die!" 

He  said,  and  on  the  rampart-heights  an-ay'd 
His  trusty  warriors,  few,  but  undismay'd; 
Firm-paced  and  slow,  a  horrid  front  they  form. 
Still  as  the  breeze,  but  dreadful  as  the  storm ; 
Low  munnuring  sounds  along  their  banners  fly, 
Revenge,  or  death, — the  watch-word  and  reply; 
Then  peal'd  the  notes,  omnipotent  to  chann, 
And  the  loud  tocsin  toU'd  then-  last  alarm! — 

In  vain,  alas!  in  vain,  ye  gallant  few! 
From  rank  to  rank  your  volley 'd  thunder  flew: — 
Oh,  bloodiest  picture  in  the  book  of  Time, 
Sarmatia  fell,  unwept,  without  a  crime; 
Found  not  a  generous  friend,  a  pitying  foe, 
Strength  in  her  arms,  nor  mercy  in  her  woe! 
Dropp'd  from  her  nerveless  grasp  the  shatter'd 

spear. 
Closed    her   bright   eye,   and   curb'd   her  high 

career; — 

-  Mr.  Bell  of  Antermony,  in  his  Travels  through 
Siberia,  informs  us  tliat  the  name  of  the  country  is 
universally  pronounced  Sibir  by  the  Russians. 

3  The  history  of  the  partition  of  Poland,  of  the  mas- 
sacre in  the  suburbs  of  Warsaw  and  on  the  bridge  of 
Prague,  the  triumphant  entry  of  Suwarrow  into  the 
Polish  capital,  and  the  insult  offered  to  human  nature, 
by  the  blaspliemous  thanks  offered  up  to  Heaven  for 
victories  obtained  over  men  figliting  in  the  sacred  cause 
of  liberty,  by  murderers  and  oppressors,  are  events 
generally  known. 


10 


THOMAS   CAMPBELL. 


Hope,  for  a  season,  bade  the  world  farewell, 
And  Freedom  shriek'd— as  Kosciusko  fell ! 

The  sun  went  down,  nor  ceased  the  carnage 
there, 
Tumultuous  Murder  shook  the  midnight  air- 
On  Prague's  proud  arch  the  fires  of  ruin  glow. 
His  blood-dyed  waters  murmuring  far  below; 
The  storm  prevails,  the  rampart  yields  a  way, 
Bursts  the  wild  cry  of  horror  and  dismay! 
Hark,  as  the  smouldering  piles  with  thunder  fall, 
A  thousand  shrieks  for  hopeless  mercy  call! 
Earth  shook — red  meteors  flash 'd  along  the  sky, 
And  conscious  Nature  shudder'd  at  the  cry! 

Oh!   righteous   Heaven;   ere  Freedom   found   a 

grave. 
Why  slept  the  sword  omnipotent  to  save  ? 
Where  was  thine  arm,  0  Vengeance!  where  thy 

rod. 
That  smote  the  foes  of  Zion  and  of  God; 
That  crush'd  proud  Ammon,  when  his  iron  car 
Was  yoked  in  wrath,  and  thunder'd  from  afar? 
Where  was  the  stonn  that  slumber'd  till  the  host 
Of  blood-stain'd   Pharaoh   left   then*  trembling 

coast. 
Then  bade  the  deep  in  wild  commotion  flow, 
And  heaved  an  ocean  on  their  march  below  ? 

Departed  spirits  of  the  mighty  dead! 
Ye  that  at  Marathon  and  Leuctra  bled! 
Friends  of  the  world !  restore  your  swords  to  man, 
Fight  in  his  sacred  cause,  and  lead  the  van! 
Yet  for  Sarmatia's  tears  of  blood  atone. 
And  make  her  arm  puissant  as  your  own! 
Oh!  once  again  to  Freedom's  cause  return 
The  patriot  Tell — the  Bruce  of  Banxockburn! 

Yes!  thy  proud  lords,  unpitied  land!  shall  see 
That  man  hath  yet  a  soul — and  dare  be  free! 
A  little  while,  along  thy  saddening  plains. 
The  starless  night  of  Desolation  reigns; 
Truth  shall  restore  the  light  by  Nature  given. 
And,  like  Prometheus,  bring  the  fire  of  Heaven! 
Prone  to  the  dust  Oppression  shall  be  hurl'd. 
Her  name,  her  nature,  wither'd  from  the  world ! 

Ye  that  the  rising  mom  invidious  mark. 
And  hate  the  light— because  your  deeds  are  dark; 
Ye  that  expanding  truth  invidious  view. 
And  think,  or  wish,  the  song  of  Hope  untrue; 
Perhaps  your  little  hands  presume  to  span 
The  march  of  Genius  and  the  powers  of  man ; 
Perhaps  ye  watch,  at  Pride's  unhallow'd  shrine, 
Her  victims,  newly  slain,  and  thus  divine:— 
"Here  shall  thy  triumph,  Genius,  cease, — and 

hero 
Truth,  Science,  Virtue,  close  your  short  career." 

Tyrantsl  in  v.ain  ye  trace  the  wizard  ring; 
In  vain  ye  limit  Mind's  unwearied  spring: 
What!  can  ye  lull  the  winged  winds  asleep, 


Arrest  the  rolling  world,  or  chain  the  deep? 
No ! — the  wild  wave  contemns  your  sceptred  hand : 
It  roU'd  not  back  when  Canute  gave  command! 

Man!  can  thy  doom  no  brighter  soul  allow? 
Still  must  thou  live  a  blot  on  Nature's  brow  ? 
Shall  War's  polluted  banner  ne'er  be  furl'd  ? 
Shall  crimes  and  tyrants  cease  but  with  the  world  ? 
What!  are  thy  triumphs,  sacred  Truth,  belied? 
Why  then  hath  Plato  hved— or  Sidney  died? — 

Ye  fond  adorers  of  departed  fame, 
Who  warm  at  Scipio's  worth,  or  TuUy's  name! 
Ye  that  in  fancied  vision,  can  admire 
The  sword  of  Brutus,  and  the  Theban  lyre! 
Rapt  in  historic  ardour,  who  adore 
Each  classic  haunt,  and  well-remember'd  shore. 
Where  Valour  tuned,  amidst  her  chosen  throng. 
The  Thracian  trumpet,  and  the  Spartan  song; 
Or,  wandering  thence,  behold  the  later  charms 
Of  England's  glory,  and  Helvetia's  arms! 
See  Roman  fire  in  Hampden's  bosom  swell, 
And  fate  and  freedom  in  the  shaft  of  Tell! 
Say,  ye  fond  zealots  to  the  worth  of  yore. 
Hath  valour  left  the  world — to  live  no  more  ? 
No  more  shall  Brutus  bid  a  tyrant  die. 
And  sternly  smile  with  vengeance  in  his  eye  ? 
Hampden  no  more,  when  suffering  Freedom  calls. 
Encounter  Fate,  and  triumph  as  he  falls? 
Nor  Tell  disclose,  through  peril  and  alarm, 
The  might  that  slumbers  in  a  peasant's  arm  ? 

Yes!  in  that  generous  cause,  for  ever  strong. 
The  patriot's  virtue  and  the  poet's  song, 
Still,  as  the  tide  of  ages  rolls  away. 
Shall  charm  the  world,  unconscious  of  decay! 

Yes!  there  are  hearts,  prophetic  Hope  may 
trust. 
That  slumber  yet  in  uncreated  dust, 
Ordain'd  to  fire  th'  adoring  sons  of  earth 
With  every  charm  of  wisdom  and  of  worth; 
Ordain'd  to  light,  with  intellectual  day, 
The  mazy  wheels  of  Nature  as  they  play, 
Or,  warm  with  Fancy's  energy,  to  glow, 
And  rival  all  but  Shakspeare's  name  below. 

And  say,  supernal  Powers!  who  deeply  scan 
Heaven's  dark  decrees,  unfathom'd  yet  by  man. 
When  shall  the  world  call  down,  to  cleanse  her 

shame. 
That  embryo  spirit,  yet  without  a  name, — ■ 
That  friend  of  Nature,  whose  avenging  hands 
Shall  burst  the  Libyan's  adamantine  bands? 
Who,  sternly  marking  on  his  native  soil 
The  blood,  the  tears,  the  anguish,  and  the  toil. 
Shall  bid  each  righteous  heart  exult  to  see 
Peace  to  the  slave,  and  vengeance  on  the  free! 

Yet,  yet,  degraded  men,  th'  expected  day 
That  breaks  your  bitter  cup,  is  far  away; 
Trade,  wealth,  and  fashion,  ask  you  still  to  bleed, 


THOMAS   CAMPBELL. 


11 


And  holy  men  give  Scripture  for  the  deed; 
Scourged,  and  debased,  no  Briton  stoops  to  save 
A  wretch,  a  coward;  yes,  because  a  slave! — 

Eternal  Nature !  when  thy  giant  hand 
Had  heaved  the  floods,  and  lix'd  the  trembling 

land. 
When  life  sprang  startling  at  thy  plastic  call, 
Endless  her  forms,  and  man  the  lord  of  all ! 
Say,  was  that  lordly  form  inspired  by  thee. 
To  wear  eternal  chains  and  bow  the  knee? 
Was  man  ordain'd  the  slave  of  man  to  toil. 
Yoked  with  the  brutes,  and  fetter'd  to  the  soil; 
Weigh'd  in  a  tyi-ant's  balance  with  his  gold? 
No! — Nature  stamp'd  us  in  a  heavenly  mould! 
She  bade  no  wTetch  his  thankless  labour  urge, 
Nor,trembling,  take  the  pittance  and  the  scourge! 
No  homeless  Libyan,  on  the  stormy  deep. 
To  call  upon  his  country's  name,  and  weep! — 

Lo!  once  in  triumph,  on  his  boundless  plain, 
The  quiver'd  chief  of  Congo  loved  to  reign; 
AVith  fires  proportion'd  to  his  native  sky, 
Streng-th  in  his  arm,  and  lightning  in  his  eye; 
Scour'd  with  wild  feet  his  sun-illumined  zone. 
The  spear,  the  lion,  and  the  woods,  his  own! 
Or  led  the  combat,  bold  without  a  plan, 
An  artless  savage,  but  a  fearless  man! 

The  plunderer  came! — alas!  no  glory  smiles 
For  Congo's  chief,  on  yonder  Indian  Isles; 
For  ever  fall'n  I  no  son  of  Nature  now. 
With  freedom  charter'd  on  his  manly  brow; 
Faint,  bleeding,  bound,  he  weeps  the  night  away. 
And  when  the  sea-wind  wafts  the  dewless  day, 
Starts,  with  a  bursting  heart,  for  evermore 
To  curse  the  sun  that  lights  their  guilty  shore ! 

The  shrill  hom  blew;i  at  that  alan.mi  knell 
His  guardian  angel  took  a  last  farewell! 
That  funeral  dirge  to  darkness  hath  resign'd 
The  fiery  grandeur  of  a  generous  mind! 
Poor  fetter'd  man!  I  hear  thee  whispering  low 
Unhallow'd  vows  to  Guilt,  the  chUd  of  Woe, 

'  The  negroes  in  the  West  Indies  are  summoned  to 
their  morning  work  by  a  shell  or  horn. 

2  To  elucidate  this  passage  1  shall  subjoin  annotation 
from  the  preface  to  Letters  from  a  Hindoo  Rojoh.  a  work 
of  elegance  and  celebrity.  "The  impostor  of  Mecca  had 
established,  as  one  of  the  principles  of  his  doctrine,  the 
merit  of  extending  it,  either  by  persuasion  or  the  sword, 
to  all  parts  of  the  earth.  How  steadily  this  injunction 
was  adhered  to  by  his  followers,  and  with  what  success 
it  was  pursued,  is  well  known  to  all  who  are  in  the 
least  conversant  in  history.  The  same  overwhelming 
torrent  which  had  inundated  the  greater  part  of  Africa 
burst  its  way  into  the  very  heart  of  Europe,  and  cover- 
ing many  kingdoms  of  Asia  with  unbounded  desolation, 
directed  its  baneful  course  to  the  flourishing  provinces 
of  Hindostan.  Here  these  fierce  and  hardy  adventurers, 
whose  only  improvement  had  been  in  the  science  of 
destruction,  who  added  the  fury  of  fanaticism  to  the 


Friendless  thy  heart;  and  canst  thou  harbour 

there 
A  wish  but  death — a  passion  but  despair? 

The  widow'd  Indian,  when  her  lord  expires, 
Mounts  the  dread  pile,  and  braves  the  funeral 

fires! 
So  falls  the  heart  at  Thraldom's  bitter  sigh ! 
So  Virtue  dies,  the  spouse  of  Liberty! 

But  not  to  Libya's  barren  climes  alone. 
To  Chili,  or  the  wild  Siberian  zone. 
Belong  the  wretched  heart  and  haggard  eye, 
Degraded  worth,  and  poor  misfortune's  sigh!  — 
Ye  orient  realms,  where  Ganges'  waters  run! 
Prolific  fields!  dominions  of  the  sun! 
How  long  yom-  tribes  have  ti-embled  and  obey'd! 
How  long  was  Timour's  iron  sceptre  sway'd,^ 
Whose  marshall'd  hosts,  the  lions  of  the  jilain. 
From  Scythia's  northern  mountains  to  the  main. 
Raged  o'er  your   plunder'd   shrines  and   altars 

bare, 
AVith  blazing  torch  and  gory  scimitar, — 
Stunn'd  with  the  cries  of  death  each  gentle  gale. 
And  bathed  in  blood  the  verdure  of  the  vale ! 
Yet  could  no  pangs  the  immortal  spirit  tame. 
When  Brama's  children  perish'd  for  his  name; 
The  martyr  smiled  beneath  avenging  power. 
And  braved  the  tyrant  in  his  torturing  hour! 

When  Europe  sought  j'our  subject  realms  to 
gain. 
And  stretch'd  her  giant  sceptre  o'er  the  main ; 
Taught  her  proud  -barks  the  winding  way  to  shape. 
And  braved  the  stormy  Spirit  of  the  Cape;^ 
Children  of  Brama!  then  was  Mercy  nigh 
To  wash  the  stain  of  blood's  eternal  dj^e  ? 
Did  Peace  descend  to  triumph  and  to  save. 
When  freeborn  Britons  cross'd  the  Indian  wave? 
Ah,  no!  to  more  than  Rome's  ambition  true. 
The  Nurse  of  Freedom  gave  it  not  to  you ! 
She  the  bold  route  of  Europe's  guilt  began. 
And,  in  the  march  of  nations,  led  the  van! 

ravages  of  war,  found  the  great  end  of  their  conquest 
opposed  by  objects  which  neither  the  ardour  of  their 
persevering  zeal,  nor  savage  barbivrity,  could  surmouiit. 
Multitudes  were  sacrificed  by  the  cruel  hand  of  reli- 
gious persecution,  and  whole  countries  were  deluged  in 
blood,  in  the  vain  hope  that  by  the  destruction  of  a 
part  the  remainder  might  be  pereuaded  or  terrified  into 
the  profession  of  Mahomedism.  But  all  the.5e  sanguin- 
ary effoi-ts  were  ineffectual;  and  at  length,  being  fully 
convinced  that,  though  they  might  extirpate,  they  could 
never  hope  to  convert  any  number  of  the  Hindoos,  they 
relinquished  the  impracticable  idea  with  which  they 
had  entered  upon  their  career  of  conquest,  and  contented 
themselves  with  the  acquirement  of  the  civil  dominion 
and  almost  universal  empire  of  Hindostan  "  (Letters 
from  a  Hmdoo  Rajali,  by  Eliza  Hamilton). 

*  See  the  description  of  the  Cape  of  Good  Hope,  trans- 
lated from  CamiJens,  by  Mickle. 


12 


THOMAS   CAMPBELL. 


Kich  in  the  gems  of  India's  gaudy  zone,  | 

And  plunder  piled  from  kingdoms  not  their  own, 
Degenerate  trade !  thy  minions  could  despise 
The  heart-born  anguish  of  a  thousand  cries; 
Could  lock,  with  impious  hands,  their  teeming 

store, 
While  famish'd  nations  died  along  the  shore ;! 
Could  mock  the  groans  of  fellow-men,  and  bear 
The  curse  of  kingdoms  peopled  with  despair; 
Could  stamp  disgrace  on  man's  polluted  name, 
And  barter,  with  their  gold,  eternal  shame! 

But  hark !  as  bow'd  to  earth  the  Bramin  kneels, 
From  heavenly  cUmes  propitious  thunder  peals! 
Of  India's  fate  her  guardian  spirits  tell. 
Prophetic  murmurs  breathing  on  the  shell. 
And  solemn  sounds  that  awe  the  listening  mind. 
Roll  on  the  azure  paths  of  every  wind. 

"  Foes  of  mankind!  (her  giiardian  spirits  say,) 
Revolving  ages  bring  the  bitter  day. 
When  Heaven's  unerring  arm  shall  fall  on  you, 
And  blood  for  blood  these  Indian  plains  bedew; 
Nine  times   have   Brama's  wheels  of  lightning 

hurl'd 
His  awful  presence  o'er  the  alarmed  world  ;2 
Nine  times  hath  Guilt,  through  all  his  giant  frame. 
Convulsive  trembled,  as  the  Mighty  came; 
Nine  times  hath  suffering  Mercy  spared  in  vain — 
But  Heaven  shall  burst  her  starry  gates  again! 
He  comes!  dread  Brama  shakes  the  sunless  sky 
With  murmuring  wrath,  and  thunders  from  on 

high; 


1  The  following  account  of  British  conduct,  and  its 
consequences,  in  Bengal,  will  afford  a  sufficient  idea  of 
the  fact  alluded  to  in  this  passage.  After  describing 
the  monopoly  of  salt,  betel-nut,  and  tobacco,  tlie  his- 
torian proceeds  thus:— "Money  in  this  current  came 
but  l>y  drops;  it  could  not  quench  the  thirst  of  those 
who  waited  in  India  to  receive  it.  An  expedient, 
such  as  it  was,  remained  to  quicken  its  pace.  The 
natives  could  live  with  little  salt,  but  could  not  want 
food.  Some  of  the  agents  saw  themselves  well  situated 
for  collecting  the  rice  into  stores;  they  did  so.  They 
knew  the  Gentoos  would  rather  die  than  violate  the 
principles  of  their  religion  by  eating  flesh.  The  alter- 
native would  therefore  be  between  giving  what  they 
had,  or  dying.  The  inhabitants  sunk; — they  that  cul- 
tivated the  land,  and  saw  the  harvest  at  the  disposal  of 
others,  planted  in  doubt— scarcity  ensued.  Then  the 
Tnonojioly  was  easier  managed— sickness  ensued.  In 
some  districts  the  languid  living  left  the  bodies  of  their 
nvmierous  dead  unburied"  (Short  Nistori/  of  tUe  English 
Transnctions  in  the  East  Indies,  p.  145). 

'•^  Among  the  sublime  fictions  of  the  Hindoo  mytho- 
logy, it  is  one  article  of  belief,  that  the  deity  Brama 
has  descended  nine  times  upon  the  world  in  various 
forms,  and  that  he  is  yet  to  appear  a  tenth  time,  in  the 
figure  of  a  warrior  upon  a  white  horse,  to  cut  off  all 
incorrigible  offenders.  Avatar  is  the  word  used  to 
express  his  descent. 


Heaven's  fiery  horse,  beneath  his  warrior  form, 
Paws  the  Hght  clouds  and  gallops  on  the  storm! 
Wide  waves  his  flick'ring  sword;  his  bright  arms 

glow 
Like  summer  suns,  and  light  the  world  below! 
Earth,  and  her  trembling  isles  in  Ocean's  bed. 
Are  shook;  and  Nature  rocks  beneath  his  tread  ! 

"  To  pour  redress  on  India's  injured  realm. 
The  oppressor  to  dethrone,  the  proud  to  whelm; 
To  chase  destruction  from  her  plunder'd  shore 
With  hearts  and  arms  that  triumph'd  once  before, 
The  tenth  Avatar  comes!  at  Heaven's  command 
Shall  Seriswattee  wave  her  hallow'd  wand ! 
And  Camdeo  bright,  and  Ganesa  sublime, ^ 
Shall  bless  with  joy  their  own  propitious  clime! — 
Come,  Heavenly  Powers!  primeval  peace  restore! 
Love! — Mercy !— Wisdom!— rule  for  evermore!" 

PART  II. 

Analysis.— Apostrophe  to  the  power  of  Love  — its 
intimate  connection  with  generous  and  social  Sensi- 
bility—allusion to  that  beautiful  passage  in  the  be- 
ginning of  the  book  of  Genesis,  which  represents  the 
happiness  of  Paradise  itself  incomplete,  till  love  was 
superadded  to  its  other  blessings— the  dreams  of  future 
felicity  which  a  lively  imagination  is  apt  to  cherish, 
when  Hope  is  animated  by  refined  attachment— this 
disposition  to  combine,  in  one  imaginary  scene  of  resid- 
ence, all  that  is  pleasing  in  our  estimate  of  happiness, 
compared  to  the  skill  of  the  great  artist  who  personified 
perfect  beauty,  in  the  picture  of  Venus,  by  an  assem- 
blage of  the  most  beautiful  features  he  could  find— a 
summer  and  winter  evening  described,  as  tliey  may 
be  supposed  to  arise  in  the  mind  of  one  who  wishes, 
with  enthusiasm,  for  the  union  of  friendship  and  re- 
tirement. 

Hope  and  Imagination  inseparable  agents— even  in 
those  contemplative  moments  when  our  imagination 
wanders  beyond  the  boundaries  of  this  world,  our  minds 
are  not  unattended  with  an  impression  that  we  shall 
some  day  have  a  wider  and  more  distinct  prospect  of 
the  universe,  instead  of  the  partial  glimpse  we  now 
enjoy. 

The  l.ast  and  most  sublime  influence  of  Hope  is  the 
concluding  topic  of  the  poem— the  predominance  of  a 
belief  in  a  future  state  over  the  terrors  attendant  on 
di.--solutiou— the  baneful  nifluence  of  that  scei)tical 
philosophy  which  bars  us  from  such  comforts— allusion 
to  the  fiite  of  a  suicide— episode  of  Conrad  and  Ellen- 
ore — conclusion. 

In  joyous  youth,  what  soul  hath  never  known 
Thought,  feeling,  taste,  harmonious  to  its  own? 
Who  hath  not  paused  while  Beauty's  pensive  eye 
Ask'd  from  his  heart  the  homage  of  a  sigh? 
Who  hath  not  own'd,  with  rapture-smitten  frame, 
The  power  of  grace,  the  magic  of  a  name  ? 


3  Camdeo  is  the  god  of  love  in  the  mythology  of  the 
Hindoos.  Ganesa  and  Seriswattee  corresiond  to  the 
pagan  deities  Janus  and  Minerva. 


THOMAS   CAMPBELL. 


13 


There  be,  perhaps,  who  barren  hearts  avow, 
Cold  as  the  rocks  on  Torneo's  hoary  brow; 
There  be,  whose  loveless  wisdom  never  fail'd, 
In  self-adorning  pride  securely  mail'd : — 
But  triumph  not,  ye  peace-enamour'd  few! 
Fire,  Nature,  Genius,  never  dwelt  with  you! 
For  you  no  fancy  consecrates  the  scene 
Where  rapture  uttered  vows,  and  wept  between; 
'Tis  yours,  unmoved,  to  sever  and  to  meet; 
No  pledge  is  sacred,  and  no  home  is  sweet! 

Who  that  would  ask  a  heart  to  dulness  wed, 
The  waveless  calm,  the  slumber  of  the  dead  ? 
No;  the  wild  bliss  of  Nature  needs  alloj^, 
And  fear  and  sorrow  fan  the  fire  of  joy! 
And  say,  without  our  hopes,  without  our  fears, 
Without  the  home  that  plighted  love  endears, 
Without  the  smile  from  partial  beauty  won, 
Oh!  what  were  man? — a  world  without  a  sun. 

Till  Hymen  brought  his  love-delighted  hour. 
There  dwelt  no  joy  in  Eden's  rosy  bower! 
In  vain  the  viewless  seraph  lingering  there, 
At  starry  midnight  charm'd  the  silent  air; 
In  vain  the  wild  bird  caroll'd  on  the  steep. 
To  hail  the  sun,  slow  wheeling  from  the  deep; 
In  vain,  to  soothe  the  solitary  shade. 
Aerial  notes  in  mingling  measure  play'd; 
The  summer  wind  that  shook  the  spangled  tree. 
The  whispering  wave,  the  murmur  of  the  bee; — 
Still  slowly  pass'd  the  melancholy  day, 
And  still  the  stranger  wist  not  where  to  sti-ny. 
The  world  was  sad!— the  garden  was  a  wild  I 
And  man,  the  hermit,  sigh'd— till  woman  smiled! 

True,  the  sad  power  to  generous  hearts  may 
bring 
Delirious  anguish  on  his  fiery  wing; 
Barr'd  from  delight  by  Fate's  untimely  hand. 
By  wealthless  lot  or  pitiless  command; 
Or  doom'd  to  gaze  on  beauties  that  adorn 
The  smile  of  triumph  or  the  frown  of  scorn; 
While  Memory  watches  o'er  the  sad  review 
Of  joys  that  faded  like  the  morning  dew; 
Peace  may  depart — and  life  and  nature  seem 
A  barren  path,  a  wildness,  and  a  dream ! 

But  can  the  noble  mind  for  ever  brood, 
The  willing  victim  of  a  weary  mood, 
On  heartless  cares  that  squander  life  away, 
And  cloud  young  Genius  brightening  into  day?— 
Shame  to  the  coward  thought  that  e'er  betray'd 
The  noon  of  manhood  to  a  myrtle  shade  l^ — 
If  Hope's  creative  spirit  cannot  raise 
One  trophy  sacred  to  thy  future  days, 
Scorn  the  dull  crowd  that  haunt  the  gloomy 

shrine. 
Of  hopeless  love  to  muiTnur  and  repine ! 
But,  should  a  sigh  of  milder  mood  express 
Thy  heart-warm  wishes,  true  to  happiness, 

1  "Sacred  to  Venus  is  tlie  uiyitle  shade''  (Dri/den). 


Should  heaven's  fair  harbinger  delight  to  pour 
Her  blissful  visions  on  thy  pensive  hour. 
No  tear  to  blot  thy  memory's  pictured  page. 
No  fears  but  such  as  fancy  can  assuage; 
Though  thy  wild  heart  some  hapless  hour  may 

miss 
The  peaceful  tenor  of  unvaried  bliss, 
(For  love  pursues  an  ever-devious  race, 
True  to  the  winding  lineaments  of  grace;) 
Yet  still  may  Hope  her  talisman  employ 
To  snatch  from  Heaven  anticipated  joy, 
And  all  her  kindred  energies  impart 
That  burn  the  brightest  in  the  purest  heart. 

When  first  the  Rhodian's  mimic  art  ariay'd 
The  Queen  of  Beauty  in  her  Cyprian  shade, 
The  happy  master  mingled  on  his  piece, 
Each  look  that  charm'd  him  in  the  fair  of  Greece. 
To  faultless  Nature  true,  he  stole  a  grace 
Fi'om  every  finer  form  and  sweeter  face; 
And  as  he  sojourn'd  on  the  ^gean  isles, 
Woo'd  all  their  love,  and  treasured  all  their  smiles; 
Then  glow'd  the  tints,  pure,  precious,  and  refined, 
And  mortal  charms  seem'd  heavenly  when  com- 
bined ! 
Love  on  the  picture  smiled!  Expression  pour'd 
Her  mingling  spirit  there— and  Greece  adored ! 

So  thy  fair  hand,  enamour'd  Fancy!  gleans 
The  treasured  pictures  of  a  thousand  scenes; 
Thy  pencil  traces  on  the  lover's  thought 
Some  cottage  home,  from  towns  and  toil  remote, 
Where  love  and  lore  may  claim  alternate  hours, 
With  Peace  embosom'd  in  Idalian  bowers! 
Remote  from  busy  Life's  bewilder'd  way. 
O'er  all  his  heart  shall  Taste  and  Beauty  swr.y! 
Free  on  the  sunny  slope,  or  winding  shore, 
With  hermit  steps  to  wander  and  adore ! 
There  shall  he  love,  when  genial  morn  appears, 
Like  pensive  Beauty  smiling  in  her  tears. 
To  watch  the  brightening  roses  of  the  sky, 
And  muse  on  Nature  with  a  poet's  eye! — 
And  when  the  sun's  last  splendour  lights  the  deep. 
The  woods  and  waves,  and  murmui-ing  winds 

asleep. 
When  fairy  harps  th'  Hesperian  planet  hail. 
And  the  lone  cuckoo  sighs  along  the  vale. 
His  path  shall  be  where  streamy  mountains  swell 
Their  shadowy  grandeur  o'er  the  narrow  dell, 
Where  mouldering  jiiles  and  forests  intervene, 
Mingling  with  darker  tints  the  living  green; 
No  circling  hills  his  ravish'd  eye  to  bound. 
Heaven,  Earth,  and  Ocean  blazing  all  around. 

The   moon   is   up  — the   watch-tower   dimly 
burns — 
And  down  the  vale  his  sober  step  returns; 
But  pauses  oft,  as  winding  rocks  convey 
The  still  sweet  fall  of  music  far  away; 
And  oft  he  lingers  from  his  home  awhile 
To  watch  the  dying  notes!— and  start,  and  smile! 


14 


THOMAS   CAMPBELL. 


Let  Winter  come— let  polar  spirits  sweep 
The  darkening  world,  and  tempest-troubled  deep! 
Though  boundless  snows  the  wither'd  heath  de- 
form, 
And  the  dim  sun  scarce  wanders  through  the 

storm, 
Yet  shall  the  smile  of  social  love  repay, 
With  mental  light,  the  melancholy  day! 
And,  when  its  short  and  sullen  noon  is  o'er. 
The  ice-chain'd  waters  slumbering  on  the  shore, 
How  bright  the  faggots  in  his  little  hall 
Blaze  on  the  hearth,  and  warm  the  pictured  wall! 

How  blest  he  names,  in  Love's  familiar  tone. 
The  kind  fair  friend,  by  nature  mai-k'd  his  own; 
And,  in  the  waveless  mirror  of  his  mind, 
Views  the  fleet  years  of  pleasure  left  behind, 
Since  when  her  empire  o'er  his  heart  began! 
Since  first  he  call'd  her  his  before  the  holy  man! 

Trim  the  gay  taper  in  his  rustic  dome, 
And  light  the  wintry  paradise  of  home; 
And  let  the  half-uncurtain'd  window  hail 
Some  way-worn  man  benighted  in  the  vale! 
Now,  while  the  moaning  night-wind  rages  high, 
As  sweep  the  shot-stars  down  the  troubled  sky, 
While  fiery  hosts  in  Heaven's  wide  circle  play, 
And  bathe  in  lurid  light  the  milky-way, 
Safe  from  the  storm,  the  meteor,  and  the  shower. 
Some  pleasing  page  shall  charm  the  solemn  hoiu- — 
With  pathos  shall  command,  with  wit  beguile, 
A  generous  tear  of  anguish,  or  a  smile — 
Thy  woes,  Arionl^  and  thy  simple  tale. 
O'er  all  the  heart  shall  triumph  and  prevail! 
Charm'd  as  they  read  the  verse  too  sadly  true. 
How  gallant  Albert,  and  his  weary  crew. 
Heaved  all  their  guns,  their  foundering  bark  to 

save, 
And  toil'd— and  shriek'd— and  pcrish'd  on  the 
•  wave! 

Yes,  at  the  dead  of  night,  by  Lonna's  steep. 
The  seaman's  cry  was  heard  along  the  deep; 
There,  on  his  funeral  waters,  dark  and  wild, 
The  dying  fa' her  bless'd  his  darling  child! 
Oh!  Mercy,  shield  her  innocence,  he  cried, 
Spent  on  the  prayer  his  bursting  heart,  and  died! 

Or  they  will  learn  how  generous  worth  sublimes 
The  robber  Moor,^  and  pleads  for  all  his  crimes! 
How  poor  Amelia  kiss'd,  with  many  a  tear, 
His  hand,  blood-stain'd,  but  ever,  ever  dear! 
Hung  on  the  tortured  bosom  of  her  lord, 
And  we[)t  and  pray'd  perdition  from  his  sword! 
Nor  sought  in  vain !  at  that  heart-piercing  cry 
The  strings  of  Nature  crack'd  with  agony! 
He,  with  delirious  laugh,  the  dagger  hurl'd 
And  burst  the  ties  that  bound  him  to  the  world! 


1  Falconer,  in  his  poem  "  The  Shipwreck''  (canto  iii), 
speaks  of  himself  by  tlie  name  of  Aiion. 

-  See  Scliiller's  tragedy  o(  "  The  Robbers,"  scene  v. 


Turn  from  his  dying  words,  that  smite  with  steel 
The  shuddering  thoughts,  or  wind  them  on  the 

wheel — 
Turn  to  the  gentler  melodies  that  suit 
Thalia's  harp,  or  Pan's  Arcadian  lute; 
Or,  down  the  stream  of  Truth's  histoi-ic  page. 
From  clime  to  clime  descend,  from  age  to  age! 

Yet  there,  perhaps,  may  darker  scenes  obtrude 
Than  Fancy  fashions  in  her  wildest  mood; 
There  shall  he  pause  with  horrent  brow,  to  rate 
What  millions  died — that  Caesar  might  be  great!^ 
Or  learn  the  fate  that  bleeding  thousands  bore, 
March'd  by  their  Charles  to  Dnieper's  swampy 

shore  ;^ 
Faint  in  his  wounds,  and  shivering  in  tlie  blast. 
The  Swedish  soldier  sunk— and  groan'd  his  last ! 
File  after  file  the  stormy  showers  benumb, 
Freeze  every  standard-sheet,  and  hush  the  drum; 
Horseman  and  horse  confess'd  the  bitter  pang. 
And  arms  and  warriors  fell  with  hollow  clang! 
Yet,  ere  he  sunk  in  Nature's  last  repose. 
Ere  life's  warm  torrent  to  the  fountain  froze. 
The  dying  man  to  Sweden  turn'd  his  eye, 
Thought  of  his  home,  and  closed  it  with  a  sigh! 
Imperial  Pride  look'd  sullen  on  his  plight, 
And  Charles  beheld — nor  shudder'd  at  the  sight! 

Above,  below,  in  Ocean,  Earth,  and  Sky, 
Thy  fairy  worlds,  Imagination,  lie; 
And  Hope  attends,  companion  of  the  way. 
Thy  dream  by  night,  thy  visions  of  the  day  ! 
In  yonder  pensile  orb,  and  every  sphere 
That  gems  the  starry  girdle  of  the  year; 
In  those  unmeasured  worlds,  she  bids  thee  tell. 
Pure  from  their  God,  created  millions  dwell. 
Whose  names  and  natures,  unreveal'd  below, 
We  yet  shall  learn,  and  wonder  as  we  know; 
For,  as  lona's  saint, ^  a  giant  form, 
Throned  on  her  towers,  conversing  with  the  storm, 
(When  o'er  each  Runic  altar,  weed-entwined, 
The  vesper  clock  tolls  mournful  to  the  wind,) 
Counts  every  wave-worn  isle,  and  mountain  hoar. 
From  Kilda  to  the  green  lerne's  shore; 
So,  when  thy  pure  and  renovated  mind 

s  The  carnage  occasioned  by  the  wars  of  Julius  Caesar 
has  been  usually  estimated  at  2,000,000  men. 

*  "  In  this  extremity  "  (says  the  biographer  of  Charles 
XII.  of  Sweden,  speaking  of  his  military  exploits  before 
the  battle  of  Pultowa)  "the  memorable  wijiter  of  1700, 
which  was  still  more  remarkal>le  in  that  part  of  Europe 
than  in  France,  destroyed  numbers  of  liis  troo|is;  for 
Charles  resolved  to  brave  the  seasons  as  he  had  done 
his  enemies,  and  ventured  to  make  long  marches  during 
this  mortal  cold.  It  was  in  one  of  these  marches  that 
2000  men  fell  down  dead  with  cold  before  his  eyes." 

5  The  natives  of  the  island  of  lona  have  an  opinion 
that  on  certain  evenings  every  year  the  tutelary  saint 
Columba  is  seen  on  the  top  of  the  church  spires  count- 
ing the  suiTounding  islands,  to  see  that  thej-  have  not 
been  sunk  by  the  power  of  witchcraft. 


THOMAS   CAMPBELL. 


15 


This  perishable  dust  hath  left  behind, 
Thy  seraph  eye  shall  count  the  starry  train, 
Like  distant  isles  embosom'd  in  the  main; 
Rapt  to  the  shiine  where  motion  first  began. 
And  light  and  life  in  mingling  torrent  ran; 
From  whence  each  bright  rotundity  was  hurl'd. 
The  throne  of  God,  —the  centre  of  the  world ! 

Oh!  vainly  wise,  the  moral  Muse  hath  sung 
That  suasive  Hope  hath  but  a  Syren  tongue ! 
True;  she  may  sport  with  Ufe's  untutor'd  day, 
Nor  heed  the  solace  of  its  last  decay, 
The  guileless  heart  her  happy  mansion  spurn, 
And  part,  like  Ajut — never  to  return!^ 

But  yet,  methinks,  when  Wisdom  shall  assuage 
The  grief  and  passions  of  our  greener  age, 
Though  dull  the  close  of  life,  and  far  away 
Each  flower  that  hail'd  the  dawning  of  the  day; 
Yet  o'er  her  lovely  hopes,  that  once  were  dear. 
The  time-taught  spirit,  pensive,  not  severe, 
With  milder  griefs  her  aged  eye  shall  fill. 
And  weep  their  falsehood,  though  she  loves  them 
still. 

Thus,  with  forgiving  tears,  and  reconciled. 
The  king  of  Judah  mourn'd  his  rebel  child! 
Musing  on  days,  when  yet  the  guiltless  boy 
Smiled  on  his  sire,  and  fill'd  his  heart  with  joy! 
My  Absalom!  the  voice  of  Nature  cried, 
Oh!  that,  for  thee  thy  father  could  have  died! 
For  bloody  was  the  deed,  and  rashly  done. 
That  slew  my  Absalom!— my  son! — my  son! 

Unfading  Hope  !  when  life's  last  embers  burn, 
When  soul  to  soul,  and  dust  to  dust  return! 
Heaven  to  thy  charge  resigns  the  awful  hour! 
Oh!  then,  thy  kingdom  comes!  Immortal  Power! 
What  though  each  spark  of  earth-bom  rapture  fly 
The  quivering  lip,  pale  cheek,  and  closing  eye! 
Bright  to  the  soul  thy  seraph  hands  convey 
The  morning  dream  of  life's  eternal  day — 
Then,  then,  the  triumph  and  the  trance  begin. 
And  all  the  phoenix  spirit  burns  within! 

Oh,  deep-enchanting  prelude  to  repose, 
The  dawn  of  bliss,  the  twilight  of  our  woes ! 
Yet  half  I  hear  the  panting  spirit  sigh. 
It  is  a  dread  and  awful  thing  to  die! 
Mysterious  worlds,  untravell'd  by  the  sun! 
Where  Time's  far-wandering  tide  has  never  run. 
From    your   unfathom'd    shades,    and    viewless 

spheres, 
A  warning  comes,  unheard  by  other  ears. 
'Tis  Heaven's  commanding  trumi^ct,   long  and 

loud. 
Like  Sinai's  thunder,  pealing  from  the  cloud ! 
While  Nature  hears,  to  terror-mingled  trust, 

1  See  the  history  of  Ajut  and  Anniiigait  in  the  Ram- 
bler. 


The  shot  that  hurls  her  fabric  to  the  dust; 
And,  hke  the  trembling  Hebrew,  when  he  trod 
The  roaring  waves,  and  called  upon  his  God, 
With  mortal  terrors  clouds  immortal  bliss. 
And  shrieks,  and  hovers  o'er  the  dai'k  abyss! 

Daughter  of  Faith,  awake,  arise,  illume 
The  dread  unknown,  the  chaos  of  the  tomb; 
Melt,  and  dispel,  ye  spectre-doubts,  that  roll 
Cimmerian  darkness  o'er  the  parting  soul ! 
Fly,  hke  the  moon-eyed  herald  of  Dismay, 
Chased  on  his  night-steed  by  the  star  of  day! 
The  strife  is  o'er — the  pangs  of  Nature  close. 
And  life's  last  rapture  triumphs  o'er  her  woes. 
Hark!  as  the  spirit  eyes,  with  eagle  gaze. 
The  noon  of  Heaven  undazzled  by  the  blaze. 
On  heavenly  winds  that  waft  her  to  the  sky. 
Float  the  sweet  tones  of  star-born  melody; 
Wild  as  that  hallow'd  anthem  sent  to  hail 
Bethlehem's  shepherds  in  the  lonely  vale. 
When  Jordan  hush'd  his  waves,  and  midnight  still 
Watch'd  on  the  holy  towers  of  Zion  hill ! 

Soal  of  the  just!  companion  of  the  dead! 
Where  is  thy  home,  and  whither  art  thou  fled  ? 
Back  to  its  heavenly  source  thy  being  goes. 
Swift  as  the  comet  wheels  to  whence  he  rose; 
Doom'd  on  his  airy  path  awhile  to  burn. 
And  doom'd,  like  thee,  to  travel  and  return. — 
Hark!  from  the  world's  exploding  centre  driven. 
With  sounds  that  shook  the  firmament  of  Heaven, 
Careers  the  fiery  giant,  fast  and  far. 
On  bickering  wheels,  and  adamantine  car; 
From  planet  whirl'd  to  planet  more  remote. 
He  visits  realms  beyond  the  reach  of  thought; 
But  wheeling  homeward,  when  his  course  is  run. 
Curbs  the  red  yoke,  and  mingles  with  the  sun! 
So  hath  the  traveller  of  earth  unfurl'd 
Her  trembling  wings,  emerging  from  the  world; 
And  o'er  the  path  by  moi'tal  never  trod. 
Sprung  to  her  source,  the  bosom  of  her  God ! 

Ohl   lives  there.  Heaven!   beneath  thy  dread 
expanse. 
One  hopeless,  dark  idolater  of  Chance, 
Content  to  feed,  with  pleasures  unrefined. 
The  lukewarm  passions  of  a  lowly  mind; 
Who,  mouldering  earthward,  'reft  of  every  trust, 
In  joyless  union  wedded  to  the  dust. 
Could  all  his  parting  energy  dismiss, 
And  call  this  barren  world  sufficient  bliss  ? — 
There  live,  alas!  of  heaven-directed  mien. 
Of  cultured  soul,  and  sapient  eye  serene. 
Who  hail  thee,  Man!  the  pilgrim  of  a  day. 
Spouse  of  the  worm,  and  brother  of  the  clay, 
Frail  as  the  leaf  in  Autumn's  yellow  bower. 
Dust  in  the  wind,  or  dew  upon  the  flower; 
A  friendless  slave,  a  child  without  a  sire, 
Whose  mortal  Ufe  and  momentary  fire. 
Light  to  the  grave  his  chanco-created  form, 
As  ocean- wrecks  illuminate  the  storm; 


16 


THOMAS   CAMPBELL. 


And,  when  the  gun's  tremendous  flash  is  o'er, 
To  night  and  silence  sink  for  evermore!— 

Are  these  the  pompous  tidings  ye  proclaim. 
Lights  of  the  world,  and  demi-gods  of  Fame  ? 
Is  this  your  triumph— this  your  proud  applause. 
Children  of  Truth,  and  champions  of  her  cause? 
For  this  hath  Science  search'd  on  weary  wing, 
By  shore  and  sea— each  mute  and  hving  thing! 
Launch'd  with  Iberia's  pilot  from  the  steep. 
To  worids  unknown,  and  isles  beyond  the  deep? 
Or  round  the  cope  her  living  chariot  driven, 
And  wheel'd  in  triumph  thi-ough  the  signs  of 

Heaven. 
Oh !  star-eyed  Science,  hast  thou  wander'd  there. 
To  waft  us  home  the  message  of  despair  ? 
Then  bind  the  palm,  thy  sage's  brow  to  suit, 
Of  blasted  leaf,  and  death-distilling  fruit  ? 
Ah  me!  the  laurell'd  wreath  that  Murder  rears, 
Blood-nursed,  and  wator'd  by  the  widow's  tears, 
Seems  not  so  foul,  so  tainted,  and  so  dread, 
As  waves  the  nightshade  round  the  sceptic  head. 
What  is  the  bigot's  torch,  the  tyrant's  chain? 
I  smile  on  death,  if  Heavenward  Hope  remain! 
But,  if  the  warring  winds  of  Nature's  strife 
Be  all  the  faithless  charter  of  my  life, 
If  Chance  awaked,  inexorable  power, 
This  frail  and  feverish  being  of  an  hour; 
Doom'd   o'er  the  world's   precarious  scene  to 

sweep 
Swift  as  the  tempest  travels  on  the  deep. 
To  know  Delight  but  by  her  parting  smile. 
And  toil,  and  wish,  and  weep  a  little  while; 
Then  melt,  ye  elements  that  form'd  in  vain 
This  troubled  pulse,  and  visionary  brain! 
Fade,  ye  wild  flowers,  memorials  of  my  doom, 
And  sink,  ye  stars,  that  light  me  to  the  tomb! 
Truth,  ever  lovely, — since  the  world  began. 
The  foe  of  tyrants,  and  the  friend  of  man, — 
How  can  thy  words  from  balmy  slumber  start 
Reposing  Virtue,  pillow'd  on  the  heart! 
Yet,  if  thy  voice  the  note  of  thunder  roll'd, 
And  that  were  true  which  Nature  never  told, 
Let  Wisdom  smile  not  on  her  conquer'd  field; 
No  rapture  dawns,  no  treasure  is  reveal'd! 
Oil!  let  her  read,  nor  loudly,  nor  elate. 
The  doom  tliat  bars  us  from  a  better  fate; 
But,  sad  as  angels  for  the  good  man's  sin, 
Weep  to  record,  and  blush  to  give  it  in! 

And  well  may  Doubt,  the  mother  of  Dismay, 
Pause  at  her  martyr's  tomb,  and  read  the  lay. 
Down  by  the  wilds  of  yon  deserted  vale, 
It  darkly  hints  a  melancholy  tale! 
There  as  the  homeless  madman  sits  alone, 
In  hollow  winds  he  hears  a  spirit  moan! 
And  there,  they  say,  a  wizard  orgie  crowds. 
When  the  Moon  lights  her  watch-tower  in  the 

clouds. 
Poor  lost  Alonzo !  Fate's  neglected  child  ! 
Mild  be  the  doom  of  Heaven — asthouwert  mild! 


For  oh !  thy  heart  in  holy  mould  was  cast, 
And  all  thy  deeds  were  blameless,  but  the  last. 
Poor  lost  Alonzo!  still  I  seem  to  hear 
The  clod  that  struck  thy  hollow-sounding  bier! 
When   Friendship    paid,   in   speechless    sorrow 

drown'd. 
Thy  midnight  rites,  but  not  on  hallow'd  ground ! 

Cease,  every  joy,  to  glimmer  on  my  mind. 
But  leave — oh!  leave  the  light  of  Hope  behind! 
What  though  my  winged  hours  of  bliss  have  been. 
Like  angel-visits,  few  and  far  between, 
Her  musing  mood  shall  every  pang  appease. 
And  charm — when  pleasures  lose  the  power  to 

please! 
Yes;  let  each  rapture,  dear  to  Nature,  flee: 
Close  not  the  light  of  Fortune's  stormy  sea — 
Mirth,  Music,  Friendship,  Love's  propitious  smile, 
Chase  every  care,  and  charm  a  little  while. 
Ecstatic  throbs  the  fluttering  heart  employ, 
And  all  her  strings  are  hannonized  to  joy ! — 
But  why  so  short  is  Love's  delighted  hour  ? 
Why  fades  the  dew  on  Beauty's  sweetest  flower? 
Why  can  no  hynmed  charm  of  music  heal 
The  sleepless  woes  impassion'd  spirits  feel  ? 
Can  Fancy's  fairy  hands  no  veil  create, 
To  hide  the  sad  realities  of  fate  ? — 

No !  not  the  quaint  remark,  the  sapient  rule, 
Nor  all  the  pride  of  Wisdom's  worldly  school. 
Have  power  to  soothe,  unaided  and  alone. 
The  heart  that  vibrates  to  a  feeling  tone! 
When  stepdame  Nature  every  bliss  recalls. 
Fleet  as  the  meteor  o'er  the  desert  falls; 
When,  'reft  of  all,  yon  widow'd  sire  appears 
A  lonely  hemiit  in  the  vale  of  years; 
Say,  can  the  world  one  joyous  thought  bestow 
To  Friendship,  weeping  at  the  couch  of  Woe  ? 
No!  but  a  brighter  soothes  the  last  adieu, — 
Souls  of  impassion'd  mould,  she  speaks  to  you! 
W'eep  not,  she  says,  at  Nature's  transient  pain. 
Congenial  spirits  part  to  meet  again ! 

What  plaintive  sobs  thy  filial  spirit  drew, 
Wliat  sorrow  choked  thy  long  and  last  adieu! 
Daughter  of  Conrad !  when  he  heard  his  knell, 
And  bade  his  country  and  his  child  farewell! 
Doom'd  the  long  isles  of  Sydney-cove  to  see, 
The  martyr  of  his  crimes,  but  true  to  thee  ? 
Thrice  the  sad  father  tore  thee  from  his  heart. 
And  thrice  retuni'd,  to  bless  thee,  and  to  part; 
Thrice  from  his  trembling  lips  he  murmur'd  low 
The  plaint  that  owu'd  unutterable  woe; 
Till  Faith,  prevaihng  o'er  his  sullen  doom. 
As  bursts  the  morn  on  night's  unfathom'd  gloom, 
Lured  his  dim  eye  to  deathless  hopes  sublime. 
Beyond  the  realms  of  Nature  and  of  Time! 

"And    weep    not    thus,"   he   cried,    "young 
Ellenore, 
My  bosom  bleeds,  but  soon  shall  bleed  no  more ! 


THOMAS   CAMPBELL. 


17 


Short  shall  this  half-extingiiish'd  spirit  bum, 
And  soon  these  limbs  to  kindred  dust  return! 
But  not,  my  child,  with  life's  precarious  fire, 
The  immortal  ties  of  Nature  shall  expire; 
These  shall  resist  the  triumph  of  decay, 
When  time  is  o'er,  and  worlds  have  pass'd  away! 
Cold  in  the  dust  this  perish'd  heart  may  lie, 
But  that  which  warm'd  it  once  shall  never  die ! 
That  spark,  unburied  in  its  mortal  frame, 
With  living  light,  eternal,  and  the  same, 
Shall  beam  on  Joy's  interminable  years, 
Uuveil'd  by  darkness — unassuaged  by  tears! 

"  Yet,  on  the  barren  shore  and  stormy  deep. 
One  tidious  watch  is  Conrad  doom'd  to  weep; 
But  when  I  gain  the  home  without  a  friend. 
And  press  the  uneasy  couch  where  none  attend, 
This  last  embrace,  still  cherish'd  in  my  heart. 
Shall  calm  the  struggling  spirit  ere  it  part! 
Thy  darling  form  shall  seem  to  hover  nigh, 
And  hush  the  groan  of  life's  last  agony! 

"Farewell!  when  strangers  lift  thy  father's  bier. 
And  place  my  nameless  stone  without  a  tear; 
When  each  retiu-ning  pledge  hath  told  my  child 
That  Conrad's  tomb  is  on  the  desert  piled; 
And  when  the  dream  of  troubled  Fancy  sees 
Its  lonely  rank  grass  waving  in  the  breeze; 
Who  then  will  soothe  thy  grief,  when  mine  is  o'er  ? 
Who  will  protect  thee,  helpless  Ellenore? 
Shall  secret  scenes  thy  filial  sorrows  hide, 
Scorn'd  by  the  world,  to  factious  guilt  allied  ? 
Ah,  no!  methinks  the  generous  and  the  good 
Will  woo  thee  from  the  shades  of  solitude ! 
O'er  friendless  grief  Compassion  shall  awake. 
And  smile  on  Innocence  for  Mercy's  sake!" 

Inspiring  thought  of  rapture  yet  to  be. 
The  tears  of  Love  were  hopeless,  but  for  thee! 
If  in  that  frame  no  deathless  spirit  dwell. 
If  that  faint  murmur  be  the  last  farewell, 
If  Fate  unite  the  faithful  but  to  part, 
Why  is  their  memory  sacred  to  the  heart? 
Why  does  the  brother  of  my  childhood  seem 
Restoi'ed  a  while  in  every  pleasing  dream? 
W^hy  do  I  joy  the  lonely  spot  to  view. 
By  artless  friendship  bless'd  when  life  was  new  ? 

Eternal  Hope  !  when  yonder  spheres  sublime 
Peal'd  their  first  notes  to  sound  the  march  of 

Time, 
Thy  joyous  youth  began — but  not  to  fade. — 
AVhen  all  the  sister  planets  have  decay'd; 
When  rapt  in  fire  the  realms  of  ether  glow. 
And   Heaven's   last   thunder  shakes   the  world 

below; 
Thou,  undismay'd,  shalt  o'er  the  ruins  smile, 
And  light  thy  torch  at  Nature's  funeral  pile. 


Vol.  IL— B 


DEATH   OF  GERTRUDE. 
(extkact.)^ 

Past  was  the  flight,  and  welcome  seemed  the 

tower, 
That  like  a  giant  standard-bearer  frowned 
Defiance  on  the  roving  Indian  power. 
Beneath,  each  bold  and  promontory  mound 
With  embrasure  embossed  and  armour  crowned, 
And  arrowy  frize,  and  wedged  ravelin, 
Wove  like  a  diadem  its  tracery  round 
The  lofty  summit  of  that  mountain  green; 
Here  stood  secure  the  group,  and  eyed  a  distant 

scene, 

A  scene  of  death!  where  fires  beneath  the  sun, 
And  blended  arms,  and  white  pavilions  glow; 
And  for  the  business  of  destruction  done, 
Its  requiem  the  war-horn  seemed  to  blow: 
There,  sad  spectatress  of  her  country's  woe! 
The  lovely  Gertrude,  safe  from  present  harm. 
Had  laid  her  cheek,  and  clasped  her  hands  of  snow 
On  Waldegrave's  shoulder,  half  within  his  ann 
Enclosed,  that  felt  her  heart,  and  hushed  its  wild 
alarm. 

But  short  that  contemplation — sad  and  short 
The  pause  to  bid  each  much-loved  scene  adieu ! 
Beneath  the  very  shadow  of  the  fort, 
Where  friendly  swords  were  drawn,  and  banners 

flew; 
Ah!  who  could  deem  that  foot  of  Indian  crew 
Was  near? — yet  there,  with  lust  of  murderous 

deeds, 
Gleamed  like  a  basilisk,  from  woods  in  view. 
The  ambushed  foeman's  eye — his  volley  speeds. 
And  Albert,  Albert  falls !    the  dear  old  father 

bleeds. 

And  tranced  in  giddy  horror,  Gertrude  swooned; 
Yet,  while  she  clasps  him  lifeless  to  her  zone. 
Say,  burst  they,  borrowed  from  her  father's  wound. 
These  drops  ?    0  God  !  the  life-blood  is  her  own ! 
And  faltering,  on  her  Waldegrave's  bosom  thrown; 
"Weep  not,  0  love!"  she  cries,  "  to  see  me  bleed; 
Thee,  Gertrude's  sad  survivor,  thee  alone 
Heaven's  peace  commiserate;  for  scarce  I  heed 
These  wounds; — yet  thee  to  leave  is  death,  is 
death  indeed ! 

"  Clasp  mo  a  little  longer  on  the  brink 
Of  fate !  while  I  can  feel  thy  dear  caress; 

1  The  gi-eatest  effort  of  Campbell's  genius,  however, 
was  his  "Gertrude  of  Wyoming,"  nor  is  it  ever  likely 
to  be  excelled  in  its  own  peculiar  style  of  excellence. 
It  is  superior  to  the  "Pleasures  of  Hope"  iu  the  only 
one  thing  in  which  that  poem  couUl  be  surpassed  — 
purity  of  diction ;  while  in  pathos  and  in  imaginative 
power  it  is  no  whit  inferior. — Dr.  D.  M.  Muir. 


18 


THOMAS   CAMPBELL. 


And  when  this  heart  hath  ceafs-od  to  beat,  0  think, 
And  let  it  mitigate  thy  woe's  excess, 
That  thou  hastbeen  to  me  all  tenderness. 
And  friend  to  more  than  human  friendship  just. 
Oh,  by  that  retrospect  of  happiness, 
And  by  the  hopes  of  an  immortal  trust, 
God  shall  assuage  thy  pangs— when  I  am  laid  in 
dust! 

"  Go,  Henry,  go  not  back,  when  I  depart. 

The  scene  thy  bursting  tears  too  deep  will  move, 

Where  my  dear  father  took  thee  to  his  heart, 

And  Gertmde  thought  it  ecstacy  to  rove 

With  thee,  as  with  an  angel,  through  the  grove 

Of  peace,  imagining  her  lot  was  cast 

In  heaven;  for  ours  was  not  like  earthly  love. 

And  must  this  parting  be  our  very  last? 

No!  1  shall  love  thee  still,  when  death  itself  is  past. 

"  Half  could  I  bear,  methinks,  to  leave  this  earth, 

And  thee,  more  loved  than  aught  beneath  the  sun. 

If  1  had  lived  to  smile  but  on  the  birth 

Of  one  dear  pledge.    But  shall  there  then  be  none. 

In  future  times— no  gentle  little  one 

To  clasp  thy  neck,  and  look,  resembling  me? 

Yet  seems  it,  even  while  life's  last  pulses  run, 

A  sweetness  in  the  cup  of  death  to  be, 

Lord  of  my  bosom's  love!  to  die  beholding  thee!" 

Hushed  were  his  Gerti-ude's  hps!  but  still  their 

bland 
And  beautiful  expression  seemed  to  melt 
With  love  that  could  not  die!  and  still  his  hand 
She  presses  to  the  heart  no  more  that  felt. 
Ah,  heart!  where  once  each  fond  affection  dwelt, 
And  features  yet  that  spoke  a  soul  more  fair. 
Mute,  gazing,  agonizing  as  he  knelt — 
Of  them  that  stood  encircling  his  despair 
He  heard  .some  friendly  words;  but  knew  not 

what  they  were. 

For  now  to  mourn  their  judge  and  child  arrives 
A  faithful  band.     With  solemn  rites  between, 
'Twas  sung  how  they  were  lovely  in  their  lives. 
And  in  their  deaths  had  not  divided  been. 
Touched  by  the  music  and  the  melting  scene. 
Was  scarce  one  tearless  eye  amidst  the  crowd; — 
Stem  warriors,  resting  on  their  swords,  were  seen 
To  veil  their  eyes,  as  passed  each  nmch-loved 

shroud, 
While  woman's  softer  soul  in  woe  dissolved  aloud. 

Then  movirnfully  the  parting  bugle  bid 

Its  farewell  o'er  the  grave  of  worth  and  truth; 

Prone  to  the  dust  afflicted  Waldcgrave  hid 

His  face  on  earth;  him  watched,  in  gloomy  ruth. 

His  woodland  guide :  but  words  had  none  to  soothe 

The  grief  that  knew  not  consolation's  name; 

Casting  his  Indian  mantle  o'er  the  youth. 

He  watched,  beneath  its  folds,  each  burst  that 

came 
Convulsive,  ague-like, across  his  shuddering  frame  I 


"  And  I  could  weep,"  the  Oneyda  chief 

His  descant  wildly  thus  begun; 

"  But  that  I  may  not  stain  with  grief 

The  death-song  of  my  father's  son. 

Or  bow  this  head  in  woe! 

For,  by  my  wrongs,  and  by  wrath, 

To-morrow  Areouski's  breath. 

That  fires  yon  heaven  with  storms  of  death, 

Shall  light  us  to  the  foe: 

And  we  shall  share,  my  Christian  boy, 

The  foeman's  blood,  the  avenger's  joy! 

"But  thee,   my   flower,  whose   breath   was 

given 
By  milder  genii  o'er  the  deep, 
The  spirits  of  the  white  man's  heaven 
Forbid  not  thee  to  weep: 
Nor  will  the  Christian  host. 
Nor  will  thy  father's  spirit  grieve. 
To  see  thee,  on  the  battle's  eve. 
Lamenting,  take  a  mournful  leave 
Of  her  who  loved  thee  most: 
She  was  the  rainbow  to  thy  sight! 
Thy  sun— thy  heaven— of  lost  dehght! 

"  To-morrow  let  \is  do  or  die. 

But  when  the  bolt  of  death  is  hurled. 

Ah!  whither  then  with  thee  to  fly. 

Shall  Outalissi  roam  the  world  ? 

Seek  we  thy  once-loved  home  ? 

The  hand  is  gone  that  cropped  its  flowers; 

Unheard  their  clock  repeats  its  hours; 

Cold  is  the  hearth  within  their  bowers: 

And  should  we  thither  roam. 

Its  echoes  and  its  empty  tread 

Would  sound  like  voices  from  the  dead ! 

"Or  shall  we  cross  yon  mountains  blue, 

Whose  streams  my  kindred  nation  quaffed. 

And  by  my  side,  in  battle  true, 

A  thousand  warriors  drew  the  shaft  ? 

Ah!  there,  in  desolation  cold. 

The  desert  serpent  dwells  alone. 

Where  grass  o'ergrows  each  mouldering  bone, 

And  stones  themselves  to  ruin  grown, 

Like  mo,  are  death-like  old. 

Then  seek  we  not  their  camp;  for  there 

The  silence  dwells  of  my  despair. 

"  But  hark,  the  trump!  to-morrow  thou 
In  glory's  fires  shalt  dry  thy  tears: 
Even  from  the  land  of  shadows  now 
My  father's  awful  ghost  appears 
Amidst  the  cloud.s  that  round  us  roll ; 
He  bids  my  .soul  for  battle  thirst;— 
He  bids  me  dry  the  last— the  first^ 
The  only  tears  that  ever  burst 
From  Outalissi's  soul; 
Because  I  may  not  stain  with  gi-ief 
The  death-song  of  an  Indian  chief." 


THOMAS   CAMPBELL. 


19 


HALLOWED  GROUND. 

What's  hallowed  ground?    Has  earth  a  clod 
Its  Maker  meant  not  should  be  trod 
By  man,  the  image  of  his  God, 

Erect  and  free, 
Unscourged  by  Superstition's  rod 

To  bow  the  knee? 

That's  hallowed  ground  where,  mourned  and 

missed. 
The  lips  repose  our  love  has  kissed: — 
But  Where's  their  memory's  mansion?     Is't 

Yon  churchyard's  bowers? 
No!  in  oui-selves  their  souls  exist, 

A  part  of  ours. 

A  kiss  can  consecrate  the  ground 
Where  mated  hearts  are  mutual  bound; 
The  spot  where  love's  first  links  were  wound; 

That  ne'er  are  riven, 
Is  hallowed  down  to  earth's  profound. 

And  up  to  heaven! 

For  time  makes  all  but  true  love  old; 
The  burning  thoughts  that  then  were  told 
Kun  molten  still  in  memory's  mould; 

And  will  not  cool 
Until  the  heart  itself  be  cold 

In  Lethe's  pool. 

What  hallows  ground  where  heroes  sleep? 
'Tis  not  the  sculptured  piles  you  heap! 
In  dews  that  heavens  far  distant  weep 

Their  turf  may  bloom, 
Or  genii  twine  beneath  the  deep 

Their  coral  tomb. 

But  strew  his  ashes  to  the  wind 

Whose  sword  a  voice  has  served  mankind — 

And  is  he  dead  whose  glorious  mind 

Lifts  thine  on  high? — • 
To  live  in  hearts  we  leave  behind 

Is  not  to  die. 

la't  death  to  fall  for  Freedom's  right  ? 
He's  dead  alone  that  lacks  her  light! 
And  murder  sullies  in  Heaven's  sight 

The  sword  he  draws: — 
AVhat  can  alone  ennoble  fight? 

A  noble  cause! 

Give  that!  and  welcome  war  to  brace 
Her  drums,  and  rend  Heaven's  reeking  space ! 
The  colours  planted  face  to  face, 
The  charging  cheer. 


Though  death's  pale  horse  lead  on  the  chase, 
Shall  still  be  dear. 

And  place  our  trophies  where  men  kneel 
To  Heaven!     But  Heaven  rebukes  my  zeal. 
The  cause  of  truth  and  human  weal, 

0  God  above! 
Transfer  it  from  the  sword's  appeal 

To  peace  and  love. 

Peace!  love!  the  cherubim  that  join 
Their  spread  wings  o'er  devotion's  shrine! 
Prayers  sound  in  vain,  and  temples  shine. 

Where  they  are  not; 
The  heart  alone  can  make  divine 

IJeligion's  spot. 

To  incantations  dost  thou  trust. 
And  pompous  rites  in  domes  august? 
See  mouldering  stones  and  metal's  rust 

Belie  the  vaunt. 
That  men  can  bless  one  pile  of  dust 

With  chime  or  chaunt. 

The  ticking  wood- worm  mocks  thee,  man! 
Thy  temples — creeds  themselves  grow  wan! 
But  thei'e's  a  dome  of  nobler  span, 

A  temple  given. 
Thy  faith,  that  bigots  dare  not  ban — 

Its  space  is  heaven! 

Its  roof  star-pictured  Nature's  ceiling, 
Where,  trancing  the  rapt  spirit's  feeling. 
And  God  himself  to  man  revealing. 

The  harmonious  spheres 
JIake  music,  though  unheard  their  pealing 

By  mortal  ears. 

Fair  stars!  are  not  j-our  beings  pure? 
Can  sin,  can  death  your  worlds  obscure? 
Else  why  so  swell  the  thoughts  at  your 

Aspect  above ! 
Ye  must  be  heavens  that  make  us  sure 

Of  heavenly  love! 

And  in  your  harmony  sublime 
I  read  the  doom  of  distant  time: 
That  man's  regenerate  soul  from  crime 

Shall  yet  be  drawn. 
And  reason,  on  his  mortal  clime, 

Immoi-tal  dawn. 

What's  hallowed  ground?     'Tis  what  gives 

birth 
To  sacred  thoughts  in  souls  of  worth! — 
Peace,  Independence,  Truth,  go  forth. 

Earth's  compass  round; 
And  your  high-priesthood  shall  make  earth 

All  hallowed  ground! 


20 


THOMAS   CAMPBELL. 


LORD  ULLIN'S  DAUGHTER. 

A  chieftain  to  the  Highlands  bound, 
Cries,  "Boatman,  do  not  tarry! 

And  I'll  give  thee  a  silver  pound 
To  row  us  o'er  the  ferry." 

"Now  who  be  ye,  would  cross  Lochgyle, 
This  dark  and  stormy  water?" 

"  0,  I'm  the  chief  of  Ulva's  isle, 
And  this  Lord  UUin's  daughter. 

"  And  fast  before  her  fatlier's  men 
Three  days  we've  fled  together; 
For  should  he  find  us  in  the  glen. 
My  blood  would  stain  the  heather. 

"  llis  horsemen  hard  behind  us  ride; 
Should  tiiey  our  steps  discover, 
Tiien  who  will  cheer  my  bonny  bride 
When  they  have  slain  her  lover?" 

Out  spoke  the  hardy  Highland  wight, 
"  I'll  go,  my  chief — I'm  ready, 

It  is  not  for  your  silver  bright. 
But  for  your  winsome  lady. 

"  And  by  my  word,  the  bonny  bird. 
In  danger  shall  not  tarry; 
So  though  the  waves  are  raging  white, 
I'll  row  you  o'er  the  ferry." 

By  this  the  storm  grew  loud  apace; 

The  water-wraith  was  shrieking; 
And  in  tiie  scowl  of  heaven  each  face 

Grew  dark  as  tiiey  were  speaking. 

But  still  as  wilder  blew  the  wind, 
And  as  the  night  grew  drearer, 

Adown  tlic  glen  rode  armed  men — 
Their  trampling  sounded  nearer. 

"  0  haste  thee,  haste!"  the  lady  cries, 
"  Though  tempests  round  us  gather; 
I'll  meet  the  raging  of  the  skies. 
But  not  an  angry  father." 

The  boat  has  left  a  stormy  land, 
A  stormy  sea  before  licr — 

AVhen,  0!  too  strong  for  liuman  hand, 
The  tempests  gutliered  o'er  her. 

And  still  they  rowed  amidst  the  roar 
'  Of  waters  fast  prevailing: 

Lord  L'Uin  readied  tliat  fatal  shore; 
His  wrath  was  changed  to  wailing. 


For  sore  dismayed,  through  storm  and 
shade, 
His  clilld  he  did  discover; 


One  lovely  hand  she  stretched  for  aid, 
And  one  was  round  her  lover. 

"Come  back!  come  back ! "  he  cried  in  grief, 
"Across  this  stormy  water; 
And  I'll  forgive  your  Highland  chief, 
My  daughter!— 0,  my  daughter!" 

'Twas  vain :  the  loud  waves  lashed  the  shore, 

Return  or  aid  preventing. 
The  waters  wild  went  o'er  his  child, 

And  he  was  left  lamenting. 


YE  MARINERS  OF  ENGL.^ND. 

Ye  mariners  of  England! 

That  guard  our  native  seas; 
Whose  flag  has  braved,  a  thousand  years. 

The  battle  and  the  breeze! 
Your  glorious  standard  launch  again, 

To  match  another  foe! 
And  sweep  tlirough  the  deep 

While  the  stormy  winds  do  blow; 
While  the  battle  rages  loud  and  long, 

And  the  stormy  winds  do  blow. 

Tlie  spirits  of  your  fathers 

Shall  start  from  every  wave!  — 
For  the  deck  it  was  their  field  of  fame. 

And  ocean  was  their  grave. 
AVhere  Blake  and  mighty  Nelson  fell, 

Your  manly  hearts  shall  glow. 
As  ye  sweep  through  the  deep. 

While  the  stormy  winds  do  blow — 
While  the  battle  rages  loud  and  long. 

And  the  stormy  winds  do  blow. 

Britannia  needs  no  bulwarks. 

No  towers  along  the  steep: 
Her  march  is  o'er  the  mountain-wave, 

Her  home  is  on  the  deep. 
With  thunders  from  her  native  oak 

She  quells  the  floods  below, 
As  they  roar  on  the  shore, 

AVhcn  the  stormy  winds  do  blow — 
When  the  battle  rages  loud  and  long. 

And  the  stormy  winds  do  blow. 

The  meteor  flag  of  England 

Shall  yet  terrific  l)urn. 
Till  danger's  troubled  night  depart, 

And  the  star  of  peace  return. 
Then,  tlien,  ye  ocean  warriors! 

Our  song  and  feast  shall  flow 
To  the  fame  of  your  name, 

AVhen  the  storm  has  ceased  to  blow — 
When  the  fiery  fight  is  heard  no  more. 

And  the  storm  has  ceased  to  blow. 


THOMAS   CAMPBELL. 


21 


LOCIIIEL'S  WARNING. 

Wizard — Lochiel. 

WIZARD. 

Lochiel,  Lochiel!  beware  of  the  day 

Wheu  the  Lowlands  shall  meet  thee  in  battle 

array ! 
For  a  field  of  the  dead  rushes  red  on  my  sight, 
And  the  clans  of  Culloden  are  scattered  in  fight. 
They  ralLyj-jfchey  bleed,  for  theii'  kingdom  and 

crown; 
Woe,  woe  to  the  riders  that  trample  them  down. 
Proud  Cumberland  prances,  insulting  the  slain, 
And  their  hoof-beaten  bosoms  are  trod  to  the 

plain. 
But,  hark!  through  the  fast-flashing  lightning  of 

war. 
What  steed  to  the  desert  flies  frantic  and  far? 
'Tis  thine,  oh  Glenullin!  whose  bride  shall  await 
Like  a  love-lighted  watch-fire,all  night  at  thegate. 
A  steed  comes  at  morning:  no  rider  is  there; 
But  its  bridle  is  red  with  the  sign  of  despair. 
Weep,  Albin!  to  death  and  captivity  led — 
Oh,  weep!  but  thy  tears  cannot  number  the  dead; 
For  a  merciless  sword  on  Culloden  shall  wave, 
Culloden  that  reeks  with  the  blood  of  the  brave. 

LOCHIF.L. 

Go,  preach  to  the  coward,  thou  death-telling  seer! 
Or,  if  gory  Culloden  so  dreadful  appear. 
Draw,  dotard,  around  thy  old  wavering  sight 
This  mantle,  to  cover  the  i)liautoms  of  fright. 

■WIZARD. 

Ha!  laugh'st  thou,  Lochiel,  my  vision  to  scorn? 
Proud  bird  of  the  mountain,  thy  plume  shall  be 

torn ! 
Say,  rushed  the  bold  eagle  exnltingly  forth 
From  his  home  in  the  dark -rolling  clouds  of  the 

north  ? 
Lo!  the  death-shot  of  foemen  outspeeding,  he  rode 
Companionless,  bearing  destraction  abroad; 
But  down  let  him  stoop  from  his  havoc  on  high! 
Ah!  home  let  him  speed — for  the  spoiler  is  nigh. 
Why  flames  the  far  summit  ?    Why  shoot  to  the 

blast 
Those  embers,  like  stars  from  the  firmament  cast? 
'Tis  the  fire-shower  of  ruin,  all  dreadfully  driven 
From  his  eyrie,    that  beacons  the   darkness  of 

heaven. 
Oh,  crested  Lochiel!  the  peerless  in  might. 
Whose  banners  arise  on  the  battlements'  height. 
Heaven's  fire  is  around  thee,  to  blast  and  to  burn; 
Return  to  thy  dwelling! — all  lonely  return! 
For  the  blackness  of  ashes  shall  mark  where  it 

stood. 

And  a  wild  mother  scream  o'er  her  famishing 
brood. 


LOCHIEL. 

False  Wizard,  avaunt!  I  havemarshalledmy  clan; 
Their  swords  areathousand,  their  bosoms  are  one! 
They  are  true  to  the  last  of  their  blood  and  their 

breath, 
And  like  reapers  descend  to  the  harvest  of  death. 
Then  welcome  be  Cumberland's  steed  to  the  shock! 
Let  him  dash  his  proud  foam  like  a  wave  on  the 

rock ! 
But  woe  to  his  kindred,  and  woe  to  his  cause. 
When  Albin  her  claymore  indignantly  draws; 
When  her  bonneted  chieftains  to  victory  crowd, 
Clanronald  the  dauntless,  and  Moray  the  proud, 
All  plaided  and  plumed  in  theii"  tartan  array — 

WIZARD. 

— Lochiel,  Lochiel !  beware  of  the  day; 
For,  dark  and  despairing,  my  sight  I  may  seal, 
But  man  cannot  cover  what  God  would  reveal ; 
'Tis  the  sunset  of  life  gives  me  mj'stical  lore, 
And  coming  events  cast  their  shadows  before. 
I  tell  thee,  Cullodeu's  dread  echoes  shall  ring 
With  the  bloodhounds  that  bark  for  thy  fugitive 

king. 
Lo!  anointed  by  Heaven  with  the  vials  of  wrath. 
Behold,  where  he  flies  on  his  desolate  path! 
Now  in  darkness  and  billows  he  sweeps  from  my 

sight: 
Rise,  rise,  ye  wild  tempests,  and  cover  his  flight ! 
'Tis  finished.     Their  thunders  are  hushed  on  the 

moors : 
Culloden  is  lost,  and  my  country  deplores. 
But  where  is  the  iron-bound  prisoner?  where? 
For  the  red  eye  of  battle  is  shut  in  desjiair. 
Say,  mounts  he  the  ocean-wave,  banished,  forlorn. 
Like  a  limb  from  his  country  cast  bleeding  and 

torn  ? 
Ah,  no!  for  a  darker  departure  is  near; 
The  war-drum  is  muffled,  and  black  is  the  bier; 
His  death-bell  is  tolling.     0 !  mercy,  dispel 
Yon  sight,  that  it  freezes  my  spirit  to  tell! 
Life  flutters  convulsed  in  his  quivering  limbs. 
And  his  blood-streaming  nostril  in  agony  swims. 
Accursed  be  the  faggots  that  blaze  at  his  feet, 
Where  his  heart  shall  be  tlirowu  ere  it  ceases  to 

beat. 
With  the  smoke  of  its  ashes  to  poison  the  gale— 

LOCHIEL. 

— Down,  soothless  insulter!  I  tnist  not  the  tale! 
For  never  shall  Albin  a  destiny  meet 
So  black  with  dishonour,  so  foul  with  retreat. 
Though  my  perishing  ranks  should  be  strewed  in 

their  gore. 
Like  ocean-weeds  heaped  on  the  surf-beaten  shore, 
Lochiel,  untainted  by  flight  or  by  chains, 
While  the  kindling  of  life  in  his  bosom  remains. 
Shall  victor  exult,  or  in  death  be  laid  low, 
With  his  back  to  the  field,  and  his  feet  to  the  foe! 


22 


THOMAS  CAMPBELL. 


And,  leaving  in  battle  no  blot  on  his  name, 
Look  proudly  to  heaven  from  the  death-bed  of 
fame. 


THE  LAST  MAN.i 

All  worldly  shapes  shall  melt  in  gloom,— 

The  sun  himself  must  die, — 
Before  this  mortal  shall  assume 

Its  immortality! 
I  saw  a  vision  in  my  sleep, 
That  gave  my  spirit  strength  to  sweep 

Adown  the  gulf  of  time! 
I  saw  the  last  of  human  mould, 
That  shall  creation's  death  behold. 

As  Adam  saw  her  prime! 

The  sun's  eye  had  a  sickly  glare, — 

The  earth  Avith  age  was  wan,— 
The  skeletons  of  nations  were 

Around  that  lonely  man! 
Some  had  expired  in  fight, — the  brands 
Still  rusted  in  their  bony  hands, — 

In  plague  and  famine  some; 
Earth"s  cities  had  no  sound  nor  tread; 
And  ships  were  drifting,  with  the  dead, 

To  shores  where  all  was  dumb! 

Yet,  prophet  like,  that  lone  one  stood, 

^VitU  dauntless  Mords  and  high, 
That  sliook  the  sere  leaves  from  the  wood, 

As  if  a  storm  passed  by : — 
Saying, —  we're  twins  in  death,  proud  sun! 
Thy  face  is  cold,— thy  race  is  run — 

'Tis  mercy  bids  thee  go; 
For  thou,  ten  thousand  thousand  years, 
Hast  seen  the  tide  of  human  tears, 

That  shall  no  longer  flow. 

What  though,  beneath  thee,  man  put  forth 

His  pomp,  his  pride,  his  skill, — ■ 
And  arts  that  made  fire,  flood,  and  earth 

The  vassals  of  his  will? 
Yet  mourn  I  not  thy  jiarted  swaj', 
Thou  dim  discrowned  king  of  day! 

For  all  those  trophicd  arts 
And  triuiniihs  that,  beneath  thee,  sprang, 
Healed  not  a  passion  or  a  pang 

FiHtailcd  oil  human  liearts. 

'  Campbell's  fiiine,  says  the  Loiulou  Spectator  of  Oct. 
1875,  "is  likely,  we  thmk,  to  be  ])errnaiieiit,  for  no 
alteration  of  pojmliir  taste,  no  f  mliioiis  in  poetry,  as 
evanescent  sometimes  and  as  absurd  as  fashions  in 
dress,  can  affect  the  repntation  of  such  iwenis  as  'The 
Soldier's  Dream,"  'The  Battle  of  tlie  Baltic,'  'Holien- 
linden,'  or  'The  Last  Man.'  These  are  Campbell's 
noblest  works,  in  which  whatever  lyrical  inspiration 
was  iu  him  finds  fullest  exi'vession." — Ed. 


Go! — let  oblivion's  curtain  fall 

Upon  the  stage  of  men, 
Nor  with  thy  rising  beams  recall 

Life's  tragedy  again ! 
Its  piteous  pageants  bring  not  back. 
Nor  waken  flesh,  upon  the  rack 

Of  pain,  anew,  to  writhe, — 
Stretched  in  disease's  shapes  abhorred, 
Or  mown  in  battle  by  the  sword, 

Like  grass  beneath  the  scythe! 

Even  I  am  weary,  in  yon  skies 

To  watch  thy  fading  fire; 
Test  of  all  sumless  agonies. 

Behold  not  me  expire! 
My  lips,  that  speak  thy  dirge  of  death — 
Their  rounded  gasp  and  gurgling  breath 

To  see  thou  shalt  not  boast : 
The  eclipse  of  nature  spreads  my  pall,— 
Tlie  majesty  of  darkness  shall 

lleceive  my  parting  ghost! 

This  spirit  shall  return  to  Him 

Who  gave  its  heavenly  spark; 
Yet  think  not,  sun,  it  shall  be  dim. 

When  thou  thyself  art  dark. 
No!  it  shall  live  again, — and  shine 
In  bliss  unknown  to  beams  of  thine, — 

By  Him  recalled  to  breath. 
Who  captive  led  captivity, 
AVho  robbed  the  grave  of  victory. 

And  took  the  sting  from  death! 

Go,  sun!  while  mercy  holds  mc  up 

On  nature's  awful  waste, 
To  drink  this  last  and  bitter  cup 

Of  grief  that  man  shall  ta.ste — 
Go!— tell  the  night,  that  hides  thy  face, 
Thou  saw'.st  the  last  of  Adam's  race, 

On  earth's  sepulchral  clod, 
The  darkening  universe  defy 
To  quench  his  immortality. 

Or  shake  his  trust  iu  God! 


BATTLE  OF  THE  BALTIC. 

Of  Nelson  and  the  North, 

Sing  the  glorious  day's  renown, 

AVlien  to  battle  fierce  came  forth 

All  the  might  of  Denmark's  crown. 

And  her  arms  along  the  deep  proudly  shone; 

Bv  each  gun  the  lighted  brand. 

In  a  bold  dctenuined  hand, 

And  the  prince  of  all  the  land 

Led  them  on. — 


THOMAS   CAMPBELL. 


23 


Like  Leviathans  afloat, 

Lay  tlieir  bulwarks  on  the  brine; 
While  the  sign  of  battle  flew 

On  the  lofty  British  line: 
It  was  ten  of  April  morn  by  the  chime; 
As  they  drifted  on  their  path, 
There  was  silence  deep  as  death; 
And  the  boldest  held  his  breath, 
For  a  time. — 

But  the  might  of  England  flush'd 

To  anticipate  the  scene; 

And  her  van  the  fleeter  rush'd 

O'er  the  deadly  space  between. 

'•  Hearts  of  oak!"  our  captains  cried,  when 

each  gun 
From  its  adamantine  lips 
Spread  a  death-shade  round  the  ships. 
Like  the  hurricane  eclipse 
Of  the  sun. — 

Again!  again!  again! 

And  the  havoc  did  not  slack, 

Till  a  feeble  cheer  the  Dane 

To  our  cheering  sent  us  back; — 

Their  shots  along  the  deep  slowly  boom: — 

Then  ceas'd — and  all  is  wail. 

As  they  strike  the  shattcr'd  sail; 

Or  in  conflagration  pale. 

Light  the  gloom. — 

Out  spoke  the  victor  then. 

As  he  hail'd  them  o'er  the  wave, 

"Ye  are  brothers!  ye  are  men! 

And  we  conquer  but  to  save: — 

So  peace  instead  of  death  let  us  bring: 

But  yield,  proud  foe,  thy  fleet, 

With  the  crews,  at  England's  feet, 

And  make  submission  meet 

To  our  king." — 

Then  Denmark  blest  our  chief, 

That  he  gave  her  wounds  repose; — 

And  the  sounds  of  joy  and  grief. 

From  her  people  wildly  rose; 

As  death  withdrew  his  shades  from  the  day, 

While  the  sun  look'd  smiling  bright 

O'er  a  wide  and  woeful  sight, 

AVhere  the  fires  of  fun'ral  light 

Died  away. — 

Now  joy.  Old  England,  raise! 
For  the  tidings  of  thy  might, 
By  the  festal  cities'  blaze, 
Whilst  the  wine-cup  shines  in  light; 
And  yet  amidst  that  joy  and  uproar. 
Let  us  think  of  them  that  sleep, 
Full  many  a  fathom  deep. 
By  thy  wild  and  stormy  steep, 
Elsinore! — 


Brave  hearts!  to  Britain's  pride 

Once  so  faitliful  and  so  true. 

On  the  deck  of  fame  that  died, — 

With  the  gallant  good  Riou: 

Soft  sigh  the  winds  of  heav'n  o'er  their  grave ! 

While  the  billow  mournful  rolls, 

And  the  mermaid's  song  condoles, — 

Singing  glory  to  the  souls 

Of  the  brave! 


HOIIEXLIXDEN. 

On  Linden,  when  the  sun  was  low. 
All  bloodless  lay  the  untrodden  snow; 
And  dark  as  winter  was  the  flow 
Of  Iser,  rolling  rapidlj'. 

But  Linden  saw  another  sight, 
When  the  drum  beat  at  dead  of  night. 
Commanding  fires  of  death  to  light 
The  darkness  of  her  scenery. 

By  torch  and  trumpet  fast  array'd 
Each  horseman  drew  his  battle  blade, 
And  furious  every  charger  neigh'd, 
To  join  the  dreadful  revelry. 

Then  shook  the  hills,  with  thunder  riven; 
Then  rush'd  the  steed,  to  battle  driven; 
And,  louder  than  the  bolts  of  heav'n, 
Far  flash'd  the  red  artillery. 

But  redder  yet  that  light  shall  glow. 
On  Linden's  hills  of  stained  snow; 
And  bloodier  yet  the  torrent  flow 
Of  Iser,  rolling  rapidly. 

'Tis  morn;  but  scarce  yon  level  sun 
Can  pierce  the  war-clouds,  rolling,  dun, 
AVhere  furious  Frank,  and  fiery  Hun, 
Shout  in  their  sulph'rous  canopy. 

The  combat  deepens.     On,  ye  brave, 
AVho  rush  to  glory,  or  the  grave! 
Wave,  JIunich,  all  thy  banners  wave, 
And  charge  with  all  thy  chivalry! 

Few,  few  shall  part,  where  many  meet, 
The  snow  shall  be  their  winding-sheet, 
And  every  turf  beneath  their  feet 
Shall  be  a  soldier's  sepulchre! 


GLENARA. 

0  heard  ye  yon  pibroch  sound  sad  in  the  gale. 
Where  a  band  cometh  slowly  with  weeping  and 
wail  ? 


24 


THOMAS  CAMPBELL. 


'Tis  the  chief  of  Glonara  laments  for  his  dear; 
And  her  sire,  and  the  people,  are  call'd  to  her  bier. 

Glenara  came  first  with  the  mourners  and  shrond; 
Her  kinsmen  they  followed,  but  mourned  not 

aloud; 
Their  plaids  all  their  bosoms  were  folded  around : 
They  marched  all  in  silence— they  look'd  on  the 

ground. 

In  silence  they  reach'd  over  mountain  and  moor. 
To  a  heath  where  the  oak-tree  grew  lonely  and 

hoar; — 
"Nowhere  let  us  place  the  gray  stone  of  her 

cairn: 
Why  speak  ye  no  word?"  said  Glenara  the  stern. 

"And  tell  me,  1  charge  you!  ye  clan  of  my  spouse, 
Why  fold  ye  your  mantles,  why  cloud  ye  your 

brows  ? " 
So  spake  the  rude  chieftain :— no  answer  is  made, 
But  each  mantle  unfolding  a  dagger  display'd. 

"  I  dreamt  of  my  lady,  I  dreamt  of  her  shroud," 
Cried  a  voice  from  the  kinsmen,  all  wrathful  and 

loud ; 
"And  empty  that  shroud  and  that  coffin  did  seem: 
Glenara!  Glenara!  now  read  me  my  dream!" 

Oh!  pale  grew  the  check  of  that  chieftain,  I  ween, 
"WTien  the  shroud  was  unclos'd,  and  no  lady  was 

seen ; 
When  a  voice  from  the  kinsmen  spoke  louder  in 

scorn, 
"Twas  the  youth  who  had  loved  the  fair  Helen  of 

Loi-n: 

"  I  dreamt  of  my  lady,  I  dreamt  of  her  grief, 
I  dreamt  that  her  lord  was  a  barbarous  chief; 
On  a  rock  of  the  ocean  fair  Helen  did  seem; 
Glenara!  Glenan.I  now  read  me  my  dream." 

Tn  dust,  low  the  traitor  has  knelt  to  the  ground. 
And  the  desert  rcvcal'd  where  his  lady  was  found; 
From  a  rock  of  the  ocean  that  beauty  is  borne, 
Now  joy  to  the  house  of  fair  Helen  of  Lorn! 


THE  EXILE  OF  EIMN. 

There  came  to  the  beach  a  poor  exile  of  Erin; 

The  dew  on  his  thin  robe  was  heavy  and  chill; 
For  his  country  he  sigh'd,  when  at  twilight  re- 
pairing. 

To  wander  alone  by  the  wind-beaten  hill. 
But  the  day-star  attracted  his  eye's  sad  devotion; 
For  it  rose  o'er  his  own  native  isle  of  the  ocean. 
Where  once,  in  the  tire  of  his  youthful  emotion, 

He  sang  the  bold  anthem  of  Ei-in-go-bragh. 


' '  Sad  is  my  fate ! "  said  the  heart-broken  stranger, 
"  The  wild  deer  and  wolf  to  a  covert  can  flee; 

But  I  have  no  refuge  from  famine  and  danger, 
A  home  and  a  country  remain  not  to  me. 

Never  again  in  the  green  sunny  bowers. 

Where  my  forefathers  liv'd,   shall  I  spend  the 
sweet  hours; 

Or  cover  my  harp  with  the  wild-woven  flowers. 
And  strike  to  the  numbers  of  Erin-go-bragh. 

"  Erin,  my  country!  though  sad  and  forsaken, 
In  dreams  I  revisit  thy  sea-beaten  shore; 

But,  alas!  in  a  far  foreign  land  I  awaken. 

And  sigh  for  the  friends  who  can  meet  me  no 
more! 

Oh,  cruel  fate!  wilt  thou  never  replace  me 

In  a  mansion  of  peace,  where  no  perils  can  chase 
me? 

Never  again  shall  my  brothers  embrace  me! 
They  died  to  defend  me,  or  live  to  deplore! 

"Where  is  my  cabin  door,  fast  by  the  wild  wood? 

Sisters  and  sire,  did  ye  weep  for  its  fall  ? 
Where  is  the  mother  that  look'd  on  my  childhood? 

And  where  is  the  bosom-friend  dearer  than  all? 
Ah,  my  sad  heart,  long  abandon'd  by  pleasure ! 
Why  did  it  dote  on  a  fast-fading  treasure  ? — 
Tears  like  the  rain-drops  may  fall  without  mea- 
sure. 

But  rapture  and  beauty  they  cannot  recall. 

"Yet  all  its  sad  recollections  suppressing, 
One  dying  wish  my  lone  bosom  can  draw: 

Erin!  an  exile  bequeaths  thee  his  blessing! 
Land  of  my  forefathers,  Ei'in-go-bragh  I 

Buried  and  cold  when  my  heart  stills  her  motion, 

Green  be  thy  fields,  sweetest  isle  of  the  ocean! 

And  thy  harp  -  striking  bards   sing  aloud  with 
devotion, 
Erin,  mavourain— Erin-go-bragh! " 


CORA  LINN",  OR  THE  FALLS  OP  THE 
CLYDE. 

WRITTEN    ON    REVISITING    IT    IN    1S37. 

The  time  T  saw  thee,  Cora,  last, 
'Twas  with  congenial  friends; 

And  calmer  hours  of  pleasure  past, 
My  memory  seldom  sends. 

It  was  as  sweet  an  autumn  day 

As  ever  shone  on  Clyde, 
And  Lanark's  orchards  all  tlie  way 

Put  forth  their  golden  pride; 

Ev'n  hedges,  liusk'd  in  bravery, 
Look'd  rick  that  sunny  morn; 


THOMAS   CAMPBELL. 


25 


The  scarlet  hip  and  blackberry 
So  prank" (I  September's  thorn. 

In  Cora's  glen  the  calm  how  deep! 

That  trees  on  loftiest  hill 
Like  statues  stooil,  or  things  asleep, 

All  motionless  and  still. 

The  torrent  spoke,  as  if  his  noise 
Bade  earth  be  quiet  round, 

And  give  his  loud  and  lonely  voice 
A  more  commanding  sound. 

His  foam,  beneath  the  yellow  light 
Of  noon,  came  down  like  one 

Continuous  sheet  of  jaspers  bright — 
Broad  rolling  by  the  sun. 

Dear  Linn!  let  loftier  falling  floods 
Have  prouder  names  than  thine; 

And  king  of  all,  enthroned  in  woods. 
Let  Niagara  shine. 

Barbarian,  let  him  shake  his  coasts 
AVith  reeking  thunders  far 

Extended  like  tii'  array  of  hosts 
In  broad,  embattled  war! 

His  voice  appals  the  wilderness: 
Approaching  thine,  we  feel 

A  solemn,  deep  melodiousness. 
That  needs  no  louder  peal. 

More  fury  would  but  disenchant 
Thy  dream-inspiring  din; 

Be  tliou  the  Scottish  Muse's  haunt, 
llomantic  Cora  Liun. 


I  From  each  wandering  sunbeam  a  lonely  embrace, 
j  For  the  night-weed  and  thorn  overshadow'd  the 
place 
Where  the  flower  of  my  forefathers  grew. 

Sweet  bud  of  the  wilderness!  emblem  of  all 

That  remains  in  this  desolate  heart! 
The  fabiic  of  bliss  to  its  centre  may  fall, 

But  patience  shall  never  depart! 
Though  the  wilds  of  enchantment,  all  vernal  and 
bright, 

In  the  days  of  delusion  by  fancy  combined 
With  the  vanishing  phantoms  of  love  and  delight, 
Abandon  my  soul  like  a  dream  of  the  night, 

And  leave  but  a  desert  behind. 

Be  hush'd,  my  dark  spirit!  for  wisdom  condemns 

When  the  faint  and  the  feeble  deplore; 
Be  strong  as  the  rock  of  the  ocean  that  stems 

A  thousand  wild  waves  on  the  shore! 
Thi-ough  the  perils  of  chance,  and  the  scowl  of 
disdain. 

May  thy  front  be  unalter'd,  thy  courage  elate! 
Yea,  even  the  name  I  have  worshipp'd  in  vain 
Shall  awake  not  the  sigh  of  remembrance  again: 

To  bear  is  to  conquer  our  fate. 


LINES  WRITTEN  ON  VISITING  A 
SCENE   IN   ARGYLESHIRE. 

At  the  silence  of  twilight's  contemplative  hour 

I  have  mused  in  a  sorrowful  mood. 
On  the  wind-shaken  weeds  that  embosomed  the 
bower 

Where  the  home  of  my  forefathers  stood. 
All  ruin'd  and  'svild  is  their  roofless  abode. 

And  lonely  the  dark  raven's  sheltering  tree: 
And  travell'd  by  few  is  the  grass-cover'd  road, 
Where  the  hunter  of  deer  and  the  warrior  trod, 

To  his  hiUs  that  encircle  the  sea. 

Yet  wandering,  I  found  on  my  ruinous  walk, 

By  the  dial-stone  aged  and  green, 
One  rose  of  the  wilderness  left  on  its  stalk. 

To  mark  where  a  garden  had  been : 
Like  a  brotherless  hermit,  the  last  of  its  race, 

All  wild  in  the  silence  of  nature,  it  drew 


ODE  TO  THE  MEMORY  OF  BURNS. 

Soul  of  the  Poet!  wheresoe'er 
Reclaimed  from  earth,  thy  genius  plume 
Her  wings  of  immortality : 
Suspend  thy  harp  in  happier  sphere, 
And  with  thine  influence  illume 
The  gladness  of  our  jubilee. 

And  fly  like  fiends  from  secret  spell. 
Discord  and  strife,  at  Burns's  name, 
Exorcised  by  his  memory; 
For  he  was  chief  of  bards  that  swell 
The  heart  with  songs  of  social  flame, 
And  high  delicious  revelry. 

And  love's  own  strain  to  him  was  given. 

To  warble  all  its  ecstacies 

With  Pythian  words  unsought,  unwill'd,— 

Love,  the  surviving  gift  of  Heaven, 

The  choicest  sweet  of  Paradise, 

In  Ufe's  else  bitter  cup  distill'd. 

Who  that  has  melted  o'er  his  lay 
To  Mary's  soul,  in  Heaven  above. 
But  pictured  sees,  in  fancy  strong, 
Tlie  landscape  and  tlie  livelong  day 
That  smiled  upon  their  mutual  love? 
Who  that  has  felt  forgets  the  song? 

Nor  skill'd  one  flame  alone  to  fan: 
His  country's  high-souled  peasantry 


23 


THOMAS   CAMPBELL. 


"What  patriot-pride  he  taught!-how  much 
To  weigh  the  inborn  worth  of  man! 
And  rustic  hfe  and  poverty 
Grow  beautiful  beneath  his  touch. 

Him  in  his  clay-built  cot,  the  Muse 
Entranced,  and  show'd  him  all  the  foiTQS 
Of  fairy  light  and  wizard  gloom, 
(That  only  gifted  poet  views,) 
The  genii  of  the  floods  and  storms, 
And  martial  shades  from  glory's  tomb. 

On  Bannock-field  what  thoughts  arouse 

The  swain  whom  Burns's  song  inspu-es! 

Beat  not  his  Caledonian  veins, 

As  o'er  the  heroic  turf  he  ploughs, 

With  all  the  spirit  of  his  sires, 

And  all  their  scorn  of  death  and  chains? 

And  see  the  Scottish  exile,  tann'd 

By  many  a  far  and  foreign  clime. 

Bend  o'er  his  home-born  verse,  and  weep 

In  memory  of  his  native  land. 

With  love  that  scorns  the  lapse  of  time, 

And  ties  that  stretch  beyond  the  deep. 

Encamp'd  by  Indian  rivers  wild, 

The  soldier  resting  on  his  anns 

In  Burns'  carol  sweet  recals 

The  scenes  that  bless'd  him  when  a  child. 

And  glows  and  gladdens  at  the  charms 

Of  Scotia's  woods  and  waterfalls. 

0  deem  not,  'midst  this  worldly  strife, 

An  idle  art  the  poet  brings: 

Let  high  philosophy  control, 

And  sages  calm,  the  stream  of  life, 

'Tis  he  refines  its  fountain-springs, 

The  nobler  passions  of  the  soul. 

It  is  the  muse  that  consecrates 
The  native  baimcr  of  the  brave, 
Unfurling  at  the  tnmipet's  breath. 
Rose,  thistle,  harj);  'tis  she  elates 
To  sweep  the  field  or  ride  the  wave, 
A  sunburst  in  the  storm  of  death. 

And  thou,  young  hero,  when  thy  pall 

Is  cross'd  with  mournful  sword  and  plume, 

When  public  grief  begins  to  fade, 

And  only  tears  of  kindred  f.all, 

Who  but  the  Viard  shall  dress  thy  tomb 

And  greet  with  fame  thy  gallant  shade! 

Such  wa.s  the  soldier — Bums,  forgive 
That  sorrows  of  mine  own  intnule 
In  strains  to  thy  great  memory  due. 
In  verse  like  thine — oh!  could  he  live. 
The  fi-icnd  I  mourn'd — the  brave,  the  good, 
Edward  that  died  at  Waterloo!' 

>  Major  Edward  Hodge,  of  the  7th  Hussiirs,  who  fell 


Farewell,  high  chief  of  Scottish  song ! 
That  couldst  alternately  impart 
Wisdom  and  rapture  in  thy  page, 
And  brand  each  vice  with  satu-e  strong; 
Whose  lines  are  mottoes  of  the  heart, 
Whose  truths  electrify  the  sage. 

Farewell !  and  ne'er  may  Envy  dare 
To  wring  one  baleful  poison  drop 
From  the  crush'd  laurels  of  thy  bust: 
But  while  the  lark  sings  swest  in  air. 
Still  may  the  grateful  pilgrim  stop 
To  bless  the  spot  that  holds  thy  dust. 


LINES  ON  REVISITING  CATHCART. 

Oh!   scenes  of  my  childhood,  and  dear  to  my 

heart. 
Ye  green  waving  woods  on  the  margin  of  Cart, 
How  blest  in  the  morning  of  life  I  have  stray'd 
By  the  stream  of  the  vale  and  the  grass-cover'd 

glade. 

Then,  then  every  rapture  was  young  and  sincere, 
Ere  the  sunshine  of  bUss  was  bedimm'd  by  a  tear, 
And  a  sweeter  delight  every  scene  seem'd  to  lend. 
That  the  mansion  of  peace  was  the  home  of  a 

fiiend. 

Now  the  scenes  of  my  childhood,  and  dear  to  my 

heart. 
All  pensive  I  visit,  and  sigh  to  depart; 
Their  flowers  seem  to  languish,  their  beauty  to 

cease. 
For  a  stranger  inhabits  the  mansion  of  peace. 

But  hush'd  be  the  sigh  that  untimely  complains. 
While  friendship  and  all  its  enchantment  remains, 
Wliile  it  blooms  like  the  flower  of  a  winterless 

clime. 
Untainted  by  chance,  unabated  by  time. 


THE  SOLDIER'S  DREAM. 

Our  bugles  sang  truce— for  the  night-cloud  hr.d 
lower'd. 
And  the  sentinel  stars  set  their  watch  in  the  sky ; 
And  thousands  had  sunk  on  the  ground  over- 
power'd, 
The  weary  to  sleep,  and  the  wounded  to  die. 

When  reposing  that  night  on  my  pallet  of  straw. 
By  the  wolf-scaring  fagot  that  guarded  the  slain, 

At  the  dead  of  the  night  a  sweet  vision  I  saw; 
And  twice  ere  the  morning  I  dreamt  it  agahi. 


at  the  he.ad  of  his  sriuadron,  in  th 
Lancers. 


I  att.ickof  the  Polish 


THOMAS  CAMPBELL. 


27 


Methought  from  the  battle-field's  dreadful  array, 
Far,  far  I  had  roam'd  on  a  desolate  track ; 

'Twas  autumn — and  sunshine  arose  on  the  way 
To  the  home  of  my  fathers,  that  welcom'd  me 
back. — 

I  flew  to  the  pleasant  fields,  travers'd  so  oft 
In  life's  morning  march,  when  my  bosom  was 
young; 
I  heard  my  own  mountain-goats  bleating  aloft. 
And   knew  the   sweet  strain    that   the  corn- 
reapers  sung. 

Then  pledged  we  tlie  wine-cup,  and  fondly  I  swore 
From  my  home  and  my  weeping  friends  never 
to  part; 
My  little  ones  kiss'd  me  a  thousand  times  o'er, 
And  my  wife  sobb'd  aloud  in  her  fulness  of 
heart. 

"  Stay,  stay  with  us! — rest!— thou  art  weary  and 
worn!" — 

(And  fain  was  their  war-broken  soldier  to  stay;) 
But  sorrow  retum'd  with  the  dawniing  of  morn. 

And  the  voice  in  my  dreaming  ear  melted  away ! 


TO  THE  EVENING  STAK. 

Star  that  bringest  home  the  bee, 
And  sett'st  the  weary  labourer  free! 
If  any  star  shed  peace,  'tis  thou, 

That  send'st  it  from  above. 
Appearing  when  heaven's  breath  and  brow 

Are  sweet  as  lier's  we  love. 

Come  to  the  luxuriant  skies, 
Whilst  the  landscape's  odours  rise, 
AVhilst,  far  off,  lowing  herds  are  heard, 

And  songs  when  toil  is  done. 
From  cottages  whose  smoke  unstirred 

Curls  yellow  in  the  sun. 

Star  of  love's  soft  interviews, 
Parted  lovers  on  thee  muse; 
Their  remembrancer  in  iieaven 

Of  thrilling  vows  thou  art. 
Too  delicious  to  be  riven. 
By  absence,  from  the  heart. 


THE  DIRGE  OF  WALLACE. i 

They  lighted  a  taper  at  the  dead  of  night. 
And  chanted  their  holiest  hymn; 

1  Campbell  declined  to  have  these  lines  included  in 
his  collected  works,  because  l,e   had  been  accused  of 


But  her  brow  and  her  bosom  were  damp  with 
affright. 

Her  ej'e  was  all  sleepless  and  dim, — 
And  the  lady  of  Elderslie  wept  for  her  lord. 

When  a  death-watch  beat  in  her  lonely  room. 
When  her  curtain  had  shook  of  its  own  accord. 
And  the  raven  had  flapp'd  at  her  window-board. 

To  tell  of  her  wan-ior's  doom. 

"  Now  sing  ye  the  song,  and  loudly  pray 

For  the  soul  of  my  knight  so  dear; 
And  call  me  a  widow  this  wretched  day. 

Since  the  warning  of  God  is  here. 
For  a  nightmare  rides  on  my  strangled  sleep; 

The  lord  of  my  bosom  is  doom'd  to  die; 
His  valorous  heart  they  have  wounded  deep, 
And  the  blood-red  tears  shall  his  country  weep 

For  Wallace  of  Eldershe." 

Yet  knew  not  his  country  that  ominous  hour 

Ere  the  loud  matin  bell  was  rung. 
That  a  trumpet  of  death  on  an  English  tower 

Had  the  dii-ge  of  her  champion  sung. 
When  his  dungeon  light  look'd  dim  and  red 

On  the  high-bom  blood  of  a  martyr  slain. 
No  anthem  was  sung  at  his  holy  death-bed, 
No  weeping  there  was  when  his  bosom  bled, 

And  his  heart  was  rent  in  twain. 

0!  it  was  not  thus  when  his  oaken  spear 

Was  tnie  to  the  knight  forlorn. 
And  the  hosts  of  a  thousand  were  scatter'd  like 
deer 
At  the  sound  of  the  huntsman's  horn. 
When  he  strode  o'er  the  wreck  of  each  well-fought 
field, 
With  the  yellow -hair'd  chiefs  of  his   native 
land; 
For  his  lance  was  not  shiver'd,  or  helmet,  or  shield. 
And  the  sword  that  seem'd  fit  for  archangel  tj 
wield. 
Was  light  in  his  terrible  hand. 

But,  bleeding  and  bound,  though  the  V7allace 
wight 
For  his  much-lov'd  countrj^  die. 
The  bugle  ne'er  sung  to  a  braver  knight 

Than  Wallace  of  Elderslie. 
But  the  day  of  his  glory  shall  never  depart. 
His   head    uncntomb'd    shall   with    glory   be 
balm'd, 
From  his  blood-streaming  altar  his  spu-it  shall 

start. 
Though  the  raven  has  fed  on  his  mouldering  hera-t, 
A  nobler  was  never  embalm'd. 


boiTOwing  from  Wolfe's  "  Burial  of  Sir  John  Moore.  ' 
They  should  ba  published  in  all  future  editions  of  his 
poems. — Ed. 


23 


THOMAS  BEOWN. 


THOMAS    BROWN. 


BOBN  1778  —  Died  1820. 


Thomas  Bnowx,  one  of  the  most  eminent 
of  modern  metaphysicians,  was  tlie  voungest 
son  of  Samuel  Brown,  minister  of  Kirkmabreck, 
in  the  stewartry  of  Kirkcudbright,  and  was 
born  in  the  manse  of  that  parish,  January  9, 
1778.  Having  lost  his  father  when  very 
young,  he  was  placed  by  a  maternal  uncle  at 
various  academies  in  England;  and  in  his 
fourteenth  year  he  entered  the  University  of 
Edinburgh,  attending,  among  other  courses  of 
lectures,  those  of  Professor  Dugald  Stewart. 
The  young  student  made  rapid  progress  in  his 
studies,  and  soon  gained  the  friendship  of  his 
celebrated  preceptor.  In  the  year  1797  Brown 
became  a  member  of  the  "Academy  of  Pliy- 
sics,"  a  philosophical  association  established 
by  a  few  young  men  of  talent,  some  of  whom 
were  afterwards  the  originators  of  the  Ed'm- 
huriih  Review,  As  a  member  of  this  society 
he  formed  the  acquaintance  of  Brougham, 
Jeffrey,  Leyden,  Sydney  Smith,  and  others 
subsequently  greatly  distinguished  in  the  walks 
of  literature. 

At  the  age  of  twenty-five  he  received  his 
diploma  as  a  physician,  and  formed  a  partner- 
ship with  Dr.  Gregory  of  Edinburgh.  But 
the  medical  profession  proved  no  more  con- 
genial than  that  of  the  law,  which  he  had  pre- 
viously abandoned  after  one  year's  study.  His 
favourite  pursuits  were  poetry  and  philosophy 
— a  somewhat  rare  combination.  In  1804  Dr. 
Brown  published  a  volume  of  poems,  mostly 
written  during  his  college  days;  and  he  was 
among  the  garlicst  contributors  to  the  Edin- 


hurrjh,  Bevletv,  established  in  1802— the  lead- 
ing article  in  tlie  second  number  on  "Kant's 
Philosophy"  being  from  his  pen.  An  essay  on 
Hume's  llieonj  of  Causation  established  his 
growing  reputation,  and  soon  after,  when  Pro- 
fessor Stewart's  declining  health  obliged  him 
to  be  occasionally  absent  from  his  chair,  Brown 
was  appointed  his  substitute.  In  this  new 
sphere  he  met  with  gratifying  suCcess,  and  after 
two  years  was  appointed  joint-professor  with 
his  former  teacher. 

In  1814  appeared  the  Paradise  of  Coquettes, 
his  largest  poetical  work.  A  reviewer  of 
note  declared  it  to  be  "by  far  the  best  and 
most  brilliant  imitation  of  Pope  that  has  ap- 
peared since  the  time  of  that  great  writer; 
with  all  his  point,  polish,  and  nicely  balanced 
versification,  as  well  as  his  sarcasm  and  witty 
malice."  In  1816  he  published  another  poem, 
entitled  the  "  AVanderer  in  Norway,"  followed 
soon  after  by  "Agnes,"  and  "Emily,"  two 
separate  volumes  of  poems,  all  of  which  met 
with  considerable  favour  and  success.  Professor 
Brown  died  at  Brompton,  London,  April  2, 1820, 
and  his  remains  were  removed  to  the  churchyard 
of  his  native  parish.  After  his  decease  his 
Lectures  on  the  Philosophy  of  the  Hitman 
Mind  were  published  in  four  8vo  volumes,  and 
have  deservedly  obtained  a  high  reputation. 

Miss  Margaret  Brown,  sister  of  the  philo- 
sopher, a  lady  of  gentle  Christian  character, 
was  the  author  of  a  number  of  very  respectable 
poems,  which  were  collected  and  published  at 
Edinburgh  in  1819,  in  a  small  12mo  volume. 


THE    FAITHLESS    MOURNEK. 


When  thy  smile  was  still  clouded  in  gloom, 
When  the  tear  wa-s  still  dim  in  thine  eye, 

I  tliouti^ht  of  the  virtues,  scarce  cold  in  the  toml) 
And  I  spoke  not  of  love  to  thy  sigh ! 

I  spoke  not  of  love;  yet  the  breast. 

Which  mark'd  thy  long  anguish  deplore 


The  sire,  whom  in  sickness,  in  age,  thou  hadct 
blcss'd, 
Though  silent,  was  loving  thee  more. 

How  soon  wert  thou  pledged  to  my  arms, 
Thou    hadst    vow'd,    but    I    urged    not    the 
day; 


THOMAS   BPtOWN. 


29 


And  thine  eye  grateful  tum'd — oh,  so  sweet  were 
its  charms, 
That  it  more  than  atoned  the  delay. 


I  fearVl  not,  too  slow  of  belief — 
I  fexr'd  not,  too  proud  of  thy  heart, 

That  another  would  steal  on  the  hour 
grief, 
That  thy  giief  would  be  soft  to  his  art. 


of  thy 


Thou  heardst — and  how  easy  allured 
Every  vow  of  the  past  to  forswear; 

The  love,  which  for  thee  would  all  pangs  have 
endured, 
Thou  couldst  smile  as  thou  gav'st  to  dcspaii". 

Ah,  think  not  my  passion  has  flown! 

Why  say  that  my  vows  now  are  free  ? 
Why  say — yes!  I  feel  that  my  heart  is  my  own, 

I  feel  it  is  breakino-  for  thee. 


THE   XON-DESCrJPT.i 

Thou  nameless  loveliness,  wliose  mind, 
AVitli  every  grace  to  soothe,  to  warm, 

Has  lavish  Nature  blcss'd,  and  shrined 
The  sweetness  in  as  soft  a  form! 

Say  on  what  wonder-beaming  soil 

Her  sportive  malice  wrought  thy  form — 

That  haughty  science  long  might  toil. 
Nor  learn  to  fix  thy  doubtful  name! 

For  this  she  cuU'd,  with  eager  care. 
The  scatter'd  glories  of  her  plan, — 

All  that  adorns  the  softer  fair. 
All  that  exalts  the  prouder  man. 

And  gay  she  triumph'd — now  no  more 
Her  Avorks  shall  daring  systems  bound; 

As  though  her  skill  inventive  o'er. 
She  only  traced  the  forms  she  found. 

In  vain  to  seek  a  kindred  race, 

Tired  tiirough  her  mazy  realms  I  stray; 
Where  sliall  I  rank  thy  radiant  place? 

Thou  dear  perplexing  creature,  say ! 

Tliy  smile  so  soft,  thy  heart  so  kind, 
Thy  voice  for  pity's  tones  so  fit — 

All  speak  thee  Woman;  but  thy  mind 
Lifts  thee  where  bards  and  sages  sit. 


1  These  verses  were  addressed  by  their  author  to  Jlre. 
Dugald  Stewart,  and  were  by  him  entitled  "The  Non- 
Uesciipt— To  a  very  Cliarming  Jlonster." — Ed. 


CONSOLATION  OF  ALTERED 
FORTUNES. 

Yes!  the  shades  we  must  leave  which  my  child- 
hood has  haunted; 
Each  charm  by  endearing  remembrance  im- 
proved ; 
These  walks  of  our  love,  the  sweet  bower  thou 
hast  planted, — 
We  must  leave  them  tj  eyes  that  will  view 
them  unmoved. 

Oh,  weep  not,  my  Fanny!  though  changed  bo 
our  dwelling. 

We  bear  with  us  all,  in  the  home  of  our  mind ; 
In  wtues  will  glow  that  heart,  fondly  swelling, 

Affection's  best  treasure  we  leave  not  behind. 

I  shall  labour,  but  still  by  thy  image  attended, — 
Can  toil  be  severe  which  a  smile  can  repay ! 

How  glad  shall  we  meet!  every  care  will  be  ended, 
And  our  evening  of  bliss  will  be  more  than  a 
day. 

Content's   cheerful  beam  will   our   cottage   en- 
lighten ; 
New  charms  the  new  cares  of  thy  love  will 
inspire; 
Thy  smiles,  'mid  the  smiles  of  our  offsi^ring,  will 
lighten; 
I  shall  see  it — and  oh,  can  I  feel  a  desire? 


THE   LUTE. 

Ah!  do  not  bid  me  wake  the  lute, 
It  once  was  dear  to  Henry's  ear. 

Now  be  its  voice  for  ever  mute. 

The  voice  which  Henry  ne'er  can  hear. 

Though  many  a  month  has  pass'd  since  spring. 
His  grave's  wan  turf  has  bloom'd  anew; 

One  whisper  of  those  choi'ds  Mill  bring, 
In  all  its  grief,  our  last  adieu. 

The  songs  he  loved — 'twere  sure  prof;me 
To  careless  Pleasure's  laughing  brow 

To  breathe;  and  oh!  what  other  strain 
To  Henry's  lute  could  love  allow? 

Though  not  a  sound  thy  soul  hath  caught, 
To  mine  it  looks,  thus  softly  dead, 

A  sweeter  tenderness  of  thought 

Than  all  its  living  strings  have  shed. 

Then  ask  me  not — the  charm  was  broke; 

With  each  loved  vision  must  I  part; 
If  gaj'  to  every  ear  it  spoke, 

'Twould  speak  no  longer  to  my  heart. 


30 


JOSEPH   TRAIN. 


Yet  once  too  blest! — the  moonlit  grot, 
Wliere  last  I  gave  its  tones  to  swell  ; 

All!  the  last  tones — thou  heardst  them  not- 
From  other  hands  than  mine  they  fell. 


Still,  silent  slumbering,  let  it  keep 
That  sacred  touch!     And  oh!  as  dim 

To  life,  would,  would  that  I  could  sleep- 
Could  sleep,  and  only  dream  oiliim! 


JOSEPH    TEAIN. 


Born  1779  — Died  1852. 


Joseph  Train  was  born  in  the  parish  of 
Sorn,  Ayrshire,  November  6,  1779.  When  he 
was  eight  years  of  age  his  parents  removed  to 
Ayr,  where,  after  being  a  short  time  at  school, 
he  was  apprenticed  to  a  trade,  at  which  he 
continued  for  some  years,  zealously  devoting 
his  leisure  time  to  mental  improvement.  In 
1799  he  entered  the  Ayrshire  militia,  and 
remained  with  his  regiment  for  three  years, 
till  it  was  disbanded.  On  one  occasion, 
when  stationed  at  Inverness,  he  ordered  a  copy 
of  Currie's  edition  of  Burns,  then  sold  for  a 
guinea  and  a  half  This  circumstance  becom- 
ing known  to  Sir  David  Hunter  Blair,  colonel 
of  the  regiment,  he  not  only  presented  the 
book  to  Train,  but  interested  himself  in  his 
behalf,  and  on  the  disbanding  of  the  regiment 
obtainc<l  for  him  an  agency  for  an  extensive 
manufacturing  firm  in  Glasgow.  In  1808, 
through  Sir  David's  influence,  he  obtained  an 
appointment  in  the  excise,  which  he  held 
for  nearly  thirty  years,  when  his  name  was 
placed  on  the  retired  list. 

Train's  first  work  was  a  small  volume  entitled 
Poetical  Reveries,  published  in  1806,  fol- 
lowed in  1814  by  Strains  of  the  Mountain 
Muse,  wliich  brought  him  under  the  notice  of 
Sir  Walter  Scott,  and  during  a  long  series  of 
years  Scott  was  indebted  to  him  for  many 
curious  legendary  tales,  historical  facts,  and 
anticpiarian  ana,  the  fruits  of  which  are  found 
in  the  "  Lay  of  the  Last  Minstrel,"  Giuj  Man- 
verinrf.  Old  Mortalltij,  and  many  other  of  the 
Wavcrleij  Xorels.  In  1820,  through  the  kindly 
oflices  of  Sir  Walter,  he  was  promoted  to  the 
position  of  supervisor,  and  was  stationed  suc- 
cessively at  Cupar-Fife,  Kirkintilloch,  Queens- 
ferry.  Falkirk,  and  lastly,  Castle-Douglas,  from 
all  of  which  districts  he  obtained  curious  data 


for  his  distinguished  friend,  as  well  as  various 
objects  of  antiquity  for  the  armoury  at  Abbots- 
ford.  Train  was  a  frequent  contributor  of 
both  prose  and  verse  to  such  periodicals  as 
Chambers's  Journal,  the  Dumfries  Magazine, 
&c.  Having  obtained  from  Scott  a  copy  of 
Waldron's  Description  of  the  Isle  of  Man,  a 
very  scarce  and  curious  work,  he  formed  the 
design  of  writing  a  history  of  that  island, 
which  appeared  in  1845,  in  two  large  octavo 
volumes.  In  the  course  of  his  researches  for 
materials  he  obtained  possession  of  several 
ancient  records  relative  to  the  annals  of  the 
island,  and  transmitted  to  Sir  Walter  some 
interesting  particulars  to  be  found  in  Peveril 
of  the  Peak.  Train's  last  work  was  The 
Buchanites  from  First  to  Last  (Edinburgh, 
1846),  being  the  history  of  a  religious  sect 
once  well  known  in  Scotland.  He  died  at 
Lochvale,  Castle-Douglas,  December  7,  1852, 
aged  seventy-three  years.  In  1803  he  married 
Hiss  Mary  Wilson,  by  whom  he  had  five  chil- 
dren; and  after  his  death  a  pension  of  £50  was 
conferred  upon  his  widow^  and  daughter  by  the 
government  "  in  consequence  of  his  personal 
services  to  literature  and  the  valuable  aid 
derived  by  the  late  Sir  Walter  Scott  from  his 
antiquarian  and  literary  researches  prosecuted 
under  Sir  AValter's  direction." 

A  writer  in  1873  remarks:  "  Train  was  no 
mere  dry-as-dust  antiquarian.  He  was  a  man  ot 
taste  and  of  some  poetical  ability.  Already  he 
had  published  two  successive  volumes  of  poetry 
before  his  acquaintance  with  Scott  began.  His 
second  volume  met  with  a  very  favourable  recep- 
tion. But  no  sooner  did  he  discover  how  he  could 
be  useful  to  the  greater  poet  than  he  abandoned 
all  ambitious  aims  for  himself,  and  turned  his 
efforts  to  promote  the  literary  projects  of  his 


JOSEPH  TRAIN. 


31 


friend,  and  that  -without  pay,  and  apparently 
without  expectation  that  his  name  would  ever 


whether  lii.story  can  adduce  another  such  in- 
stance of  a  literary  man  so  consecrating  himself 


be  lieard  in  connection  Avith  his  work.     I  doubt  '  to  be  absorbed  into  the  splendour  of  another." 


BLOOMING    JESSIE. 

On  this  unfrequented  plain, 
"What  can  gar  thee  sigh  alane, 

Bonnie  blue-eyed  lassie? 
Is  thy  mammy  dead  and  gane, 
Or  thy  loving  Jamie  slain? 
Wed  anither,  mak  nae  main, 

Bonnie  blooming  Jessie. 

Though  I  sob  and  sigh  alane, 
I  was  never  wed  to  ane, 

Quo'  the  blue-eyed  lassie. 
But  if  loving  Jamie's  slain, 
Farewell  pleasure,  welcome  pain; 
A'  the  joy  wi'  him  is  gane; 

0'  poor  hapless  Jessie. 

Ere  he  cross'd  the  raging  sea, 
Was  he  ever  true  to  thee, 

Bonnie  blooming  Jessie? 
Was  he  ever  frank  and  free? 
Swore  he  constant  aye  to  be? 
Did  he  on  the  roseate  lea 

Ca'  thee  blooming  Jessie  ? 

Ere  he  cross'd  the  raging  sea, 
Aft  he  on  the  dewy  lea 

Ca'd  me  blue-eyed  lassie. 
AVeel  I  mind  his  words  to  me. 
Were,  if  he  abroad  should  die, 
His  last  throb  and  sigh  should  be- 

Bonnie,  blooming  Jessie. 

Far  frae  hame,  and  far  frae  thee, 
I  saw  loving  Jamie  die, 

Bonnie,  blue-eyed  lassie. 
Fast  a  cannon  ball  did  flee. 
Laid  him  stretch'd  upo'  the  lea; 
Soon  in  death  he  closed  his  e'e, 

Crying,  "  Blooming  Jessie!" 

Swelling  with  a  smother'd  sigh, 
Eose  the  snowy  bosom  high 

Of  the  blue-eyed  lassie. 
Fleeter  than  the  streamers  fly. 
When  they  flit  athwart  the  sky, 
Went  and  came  the  rosy  dye 

On  the  cheeks  of  Jessie. 

Langer  wi'  sic  grief  oppress'd 
Jamie  couldna  sae  distress'd 
See  the  blue-eyed  lassie. 


Fast  he  clasp'd  her  to  his  breast. 
Told  her  a'  his  dangers  past, 
Yow'd  tiiat  he  would  wed  at  last, 
Bonnie,  blooming  Jessie. 


Wr   DRUMS  AND  FIPES. 

Wi'  drums  and  pipes  the  clachan  rang, 

I  left  my  goats  to  wander  wide; 
And  e'en  as  fast  as  I  could  bang, 

I  bickered  down  the  mountain  side. 
Jly  hazel  rung  and  haslock  plaid 

Awa'  I  flang  wi'  cauld  disdain, 
Resolved  I  would  nae  langer  bide 

To  do  the  auld  thing  o'er  again. 

Ye  barons  bold,  whose  turrets  rise 

Aboon  tlie  wild  woods  white  wi'  snaw, 
I  trow  the  laddies  ye  may  prize 

Wha  fight  your  battles  far  awa'. 
Wi'  them  to  stan',  wi'  them  to  fa'. 

Courageously  I  crossed  the  main, 
To  see,  for  Caledonia, 

The  auld  thing  weel  done  o'er  again. 

Right  far  a-fiel'  I  freely  fought 

'Gainst  mony  an  outlandish  loon; 
An'  wi'  my  good  claymore  I've  brought 

Mony  a  beardy  birkie  down : 
While  I  had  pith  to  wield  it  roun'. 

In  battle  I  ne'er  met  wi'  ane 
Could  danton  me,  for  Britain's  crown. 

To  do  the  same  thing  o'er  again. 

Although  I'm  marching  life's  last  stage, 

Wi'  sorrow  crowded  roun'  my  brow; 
And  though  the  knapsack  o'  auld  age 

Hangs  heavy  on  my  shoulders  now — 
Yet  recollection,  ever  new. 

Discharges  a'  my  toil  and  pain. 
When  fancy  figures  in  my  view 

The  pleasant  auld  thing  o'er  again. 


GARRYHORX. 

Gin  ye  wad  gang,  lassie,  to  Garryhorn, 

Ye  might  be  happy,  I  ween ; 
Albeit  the  cuckoo  was  never  heard  there, 

And  a  swallow  there  never  was  seen. 


32 


JOSEPH  TRAIN. 


While  cushats  coo  round  the  mill  of  Glenleo, 

And  little  birds  sing  on  the  thorn, 
Ye  might  hear  the  bonnie  heather  bleat  croak 

In  the  wilds  of  Garryhorn. 

'Tis  bonnie  to  see  at  the  Garryhorn 

Kids  skipping  the  highest  rock, 
And,  wrapt  in  his  plaid  at  midsummer  day, 

The  moorman  tending  his  flock. 

The  reaper  seldom  his  sickle  whets  there, 

To  gather  in  standing  corn; 
But  many  a  sheeis  is  to  sheer  and  smear 

In  the  bughts  of  Garryhorn. 

There  are  hams  on  the  bauks  at  Garryhorn 

Of  braxy,  and  eke  a  store 
Of  cakes  in  the  kist,  and  peats  in  the  neuk, 

To  put  aye  the  winter  o'er. 

There  is  aye  a  clog  for  the  fire  at  Yule, 
With  a  browst  for  New-Year's  morn; 

And  gin  ye  gang  up  ye  may  sit  like  a  queen 
In  the  chamber  at  Garryhorn. 

And  when  ye  are  lady  of  Garryhorn, 

Ye  shall  ride  to  the  kirk  with  me; 
Although  my  mither  should  skelp  through  the 
mire. 

With  her  coats  kilted  up  to  the  knee. 

I  woo  not  for  siller,  my  bonnie  May, 

Sae  dinna  my  offer  scorn; 
"  No !  but  ye  maun  specr  at  my  minny,''  quo'  she, 

"  Ere  I  gang  to  Garryhorn." 


MY  DOGGIE. 

The  neighbours  a'  tliey  wonder  how 

I  am  sue  ta'eii  wi'  JMaggie; 
But  ah!  tliey  little  ken,  I  trow, 

How  kind  she's  to  my  doggie. 
Yestreen,  as  we  linked  o'er  tlie  lea, 

To  meet  licr  in  the  gloamin'. 
She  fondly  on  my  Bawtie  cried, 

Whene'er  she  saw  us  comin'. 

But  was  the  tyke  not  e'en  as  kind, 
Thougli  fast  .she  beck'd  to  pat  him? 

lie  loupcd  up  and  slaked  her  cheek, 
Afore  slie  could  win  at  liim. 

But  save  us,  sirs,  when  I  gaed  in 
To  lean  me  on  tlic  settle, 


Atween  my  Bawtie  and  the  cat 
There  rose  an  awfu'  battle. 

An'  tliough  that  Maggie  saw  him  lay 

His  lugs  in  bawtliron's  coggie, 
She  wi'  the  besom  lounged  poor  cliit, 

And  syne  she  clapp'd  my  doggie. 
Sae  wcel  do  I  this  kindness  feel, 

Though  Mag  she  isna  bonnie ; 
An'  though  she's  feckly  twice  my  age, 

I  lo'e  her  best  of  ony. 

May  not  this  simple  ditty  shoAV 

How  oft  afFection  catches. 
And  from  what  silly  sources,  too, 

Proceed  unseemly  matches; 
An'  eke  the  lover  he  may  see, 

Albeit  his  joe  seem  saucy. 
If  she  is  kind  unto  his  dog, 

He'll  win  at  length  the  lassie. 


OLD   SCOTIA. 

I've  loved  thee,  old  Scotia,  and  love  thee  I  will, 
Till  the  heart  that  now  beats  in  my  bosom  is  still. 
My  forefathers  loved  thee,  for  often  they  drew 
Their  dirks  in  defence  of  thy  banners  of  blue; 
Though  murky  thy  glens,  where  the  wolf  prowl'd 

of  yore. 
And  craggy  thy  mountains,  where  cataracts  war. 
The  race  of  old  Albyn,  when  danger  was  nigh, 
For  thee  stood  resolved  still  to  conquer  or  die. 

I  love  yet  to  roam  where  the  beacon-light  rose. 
Where  echoed  thy  slogan,  or  gather'd  thy  foes. 
Whilst  forth  rush'd  thy  heroic  sons  to  the  fight, 
Opposing  the  stranger  who  came  in  his  might. 
I  love  through  thy  time-fretted  castles  to  stray. 
The  mould'ring  halls  of  thy  chiefs  to  survey; 
To  grope  through  the   keep,    and    the   turret 

explore. 
Where  waved  the  blue  flag  when  the  battle  was 


I  love  yet  to  roam  o'er  each  field  of  thy  fame, 
Where  valour  has  gain'd  thee  a  glorious  name; 
I  love,  where  the  cairn  or  the  cromlech  is  made, 
To  ponder,  for  low  there  the  mighty  are  laid. 
Were  those  fall'n  heroes  to  rise  from  their  graves. 
They  might  deem  us  dastards,  they  might  deem 

us  slaves; 
But  let  a  foe  face  thee,  raise  fire  on  each  hill. 
Thy  sons,  my  dear  Scotia,  will  fight  for  thee  still! 


WALTER  WATSON. 


33 


WALTER    WATSON. 


Born  17S0  — Died  1854. 


Walter  Watson,  the  author  of  several  ad- 
mirable songs  and  poems  abounding  in  pawky 
Scottish  humour,  was  born  in  the  village  of 
Chryston,  Lanarkshire,  March  29,  1780.  His 
father  being  in  very  humble  circumstances 
could  give  his  son  but  a  scanty  education. 
When  eight  years  old  he  was  sent  to  herd  cows 
in  summer,  picking  up  a  little  more  instruc- 
tion during  the  winter  months.  After  trying 
weaving  and  other  occupations  for  a  time  he 
at  length,  in  1799,  enlisted  in  the  famous 
cavalry  regiment  the  Scots  Greys,  where  he 
remained  for  three  years,  and  was  discharged 
on  the  reduction  of  the  army  after  the  peace 
of  Amiens.  It  was  about  this  period  that  he 
became  known  as  a  poet  by  the  songs  "  Jockie's 
Far  Awa,"  "Sae  Will  we  yet,"  and  others, 
which  have  acquired  great  popularity.  After 
leaving  the  army  Watson  resumed  his  former 
trade  of  weaving,  married,  and  settled  in 
his  native  village.  Encouraged  by  the  suc- 
cess of  his  fugitive  pieces,  he  published  in 
1803  a  small  volume  of  songs  and  ballads, 
which  gained  him  something  more  than  a 
local  reputation.  In  1823  a  second  volume 
appeared,  and  in  1843  a  third  collection  of 
miscellaneous  poems  from  his  pen  was  pub- 


lished. Ten  years  later  a  selection  of  his  best 
pieces,  with  a  memoir  by  Hugh  JIacdonald, 
was  published  in  Glasgow.  In  1820  Watson 
left  Chryston  for  Kilsyth,  and  after  many 
migrations  during  the  next  thirty  years  he 
finally  settled  at  Duntiblae,  near  Kirkintilloch, 
where  he  died  September  13,  1854.  His  re- 
mains were  interred  in  the  churchyard  of  his 
native  parish,  and  a  handsome  granite  monu- 
ment was  erected  to  his  memory  in  1875. 

A  notice  of  the  poet  written  at  the  time  of 
his  death  says:  "Independent  of  his  merit  as 
one  of  the  best  of  our  minor  Scottish  poets,  he 
was  a  good  and  worthy  man,  beloved  by  all 
who  knew  him;"  and  the  kindly  hand  of  a 
brother  poet  thus  sketches  him  in  old  age: 
"In  the  course  of  nature  he  is  now  drawing 
near  the  close  of  his  career,  and  amidst  age 
and  the  infirmities  incident  to  a  more  than 
ordinarily  extended  span  is  now  earning  his 
living  on  the  loom  in  the  village  of  Duntiblae. 
Yet  is  the  old  man  ever  cheerful.  He  has 
many  friends  among  his  lowly  compeers,  and 
the  respect  in  which  he  is  held  by  them  has 
been  manifested  in  many  ways,  which  must 
have  been  alike  gratifying  to  his  feelings  and 
ameliorative  of  his  necessities." 


MAGGIE    AN'    ME. 


The  sweets  o'  the  simmer  invite  us  to  wander 
Amang  the  wild  flowers,  as   they  deck   the 
green  lea; 
An'  by  the  clear  burnies  that  sweetly  meander, 

To  charm  us,  as  hameward  they  rin  to  the  sea. 
The  nestlin's  are  fain  the  saft  wing-  to  be  tryin', 
As  fondly  the  dam  the  adventure  is  eyein', 
An'  teachin'  her  notes,  while  \vi'  food  she's  sup- 
plyin' 
Her  tender  young  offspring,  like  Maggie  an' 
me. 

The  com  in  full  ear,  is  now  promisin'  plenty, 
The  red   clusterin'   row'ns   bend    the   witch- 
scarriir  tree, 

Vol.  IL— C 


While  lapt  in  its  leaves  lies  the  strawberry  dainty, 

As  shy  to  receive  the  embrace  o'  the  bee. 
Then  hope,  come  alang,  an'  our  steps  will  be 

pleasant; 
The  future,  by  thee,  is  made  almost  the  present; 
Thou  frien'  o'  the  prince,  an'  thou  frieu'  o'  the 
peasant. 
Thou  lang  hast  befiiended  my  Maggie  an'  me. 

Ere  life  was  in  bloom  we  had  love  in  our  glances. 
An'  aft  I  had  mine  o'  her  bonnie  blue  e'e; 

We  needit  nae  art  to  engage  our  young  fancies, 
'Twas  done  ere  we  kent,  an'  we  own  it  wi  glee. 

Now  pleased,   an'   aye    wishin'   to    please    anc 
anither. 


34 


WALTER  WATSON, 


We've   pass'd   twenty   years   binco  we   buckled 

theg-ither, 
An'  ten  bonnie  bairns,  lispin'  faither  an'  mither, 
Hae  toddled  fu'  faiu  atween  Maggie  an'  me. 


THE   BRAES   0'   BEDLAY.i 

"When  I  think  on  the  sweet  smiles  o'  my  lassie, 
My  cares  flee  awa'  like  a  thief  frae  the  day; 

My  heart  leaps  licht,  an'  I  join  in  a  sang- 
Aniang  the  sweet  birds  on  the  braes  o'  Bedlay.  ; 

How  sweet   the  embrace,  yet  how  honest  the 
wishes. 

When  hive  fa's  a-wooing,  and  modesty  blushes, 

Whaur  IMary  an'  I  meet  amang  the  green  bushes 
That  screen  us  sae  wcel  on  the  braes  o'  Bedlay. 

There's  nane  sae  trig  or  sae  fair  as  my  lassie, 
An'  mony  a  wooer  she  answers  wi'  "  Nay," 

Wha  fain  wad  hae  her  to  lea'  rae  alane, 
An'  meet  me  nae  mair  on  the  braes  o'  Bedlaj'. 

T  fcarna,  I  carena,  theii-  braggin'  o'  siller. 

Nor  a'  the  fine  things  they  can  think  on  to  tell 
her; 

1  The  Braes  of  Bedlay  are  situated  near  Clirystoii, 
about  seven  miles  to  the  north  of  Glasgow.  Hugh 
Macdoiiakl,  a  friend  of  the  ]ioet,  relates  the  following 
amusing  incident  connected  with  the  origin  of  this 
song  :— 'A  rumour  having  reached  Watson  that  the 
laird  of  Bedlay  House  had  expressed  a  favourable 
opinion  of  some  of  his  verses,  nothing  would  serve  him. 
in  the  vanity  of  his  lieart,  but  that  he  should  write 
something  new,  and  present  it  to  the  great  man  in 
person.  Ca.sting  about  for  a  subject,  he  at  length  came 
to  the  conclusion  that  were  he  to  compose  a  song  the 
scene  of  which  was  laid  on  tlie  gentleman's  own  estate, 
he  would  be  quite  certain  of  a  favourable  reception. 
The  'Braes  o"  Bedlay'  was  accordingly  written,  and 
'snodding'  himself  up  with  liis  Sunday  braws,  the 
young  poet  took  the  roul  one  evening  to  the  big  house. 
On  coming  to  the  door  he  tirled  bravely  at  the  knocker, 
and  wa.s  at  once  u.shered  into  tlie  presence  of  the  laird. 
In  the  eyes  of  the  young  weaver  he  looked  exceedingly 
grand,  and  he  almost  began  to  repent  his  temerity  in 
having  ventured  into  such  company.  -Well,  who  are 
you,  an. I  what  do  you  wont?'  said  the  laird  (who  was 
evidently  in  one  of  his  bad  moods),  with  a  voice  of 
thunder.  '  My  name's  Walter  Watson,'  faltered  the 
poet,  'and  I  wjw  wanting  you  to  look  at  this  bit  paper.' 
'  What  paper,'  snid  the  grandee,  '  can  you  liave  to  show 
me?  But  let  me  see  it.'  The  manuscript  was  placed 
in  his  hands,  and,  stepj  ing  close  to  the  candle,  he  pro- 
ceeded to  peruse  it.  '  It'll  be  a'  richt  noo,'  thinks  his 
hardsliip.  The  laird,  reading  to  himself,  had  got  through 
with  the  first  verse,  v^hen  he  repeateil  aloud  the  la.st 
two  lines — 

"Whaur  Mary  and  I  meet  amang  the  green  bushes 
That  screen  us  sae  weel  ou  the  braes  o'  Bedlay. " 


Nae  vauntin'  can  buy  her,  nae  threatnin'  can 
sell  her — 
It's  luve  leads  her  out  to  the  braes  o'  Bedlay. 

We'll    gang    by   the    links   o'  the   wild    rowin' 
burnie, 

Whaur  aft  in  my  mornin'  o'  life  I  did  stray; 
Whaur  luve  was  invited  and  cares  were  beguiled 

By  Mary  an'  me,  on  the  braes  o'  Bedlay. 
Sae  luviu',  sae  movin',  I'll  tell  her  my  story, 
Unmixt  wi'  the  deeds  o'  ambition  for  glory, 
Whaur  wide  -  spreadin'  hawthorns,   sac   ancient 
and  hoary, 

Enrich  the  sweet  breeze  on  the  braes  o'  Bedlay. 


SAE   WILL  WE  YET. 

Sit  ye  down  here,  my  cronies,  and  gi'e  us  your 

crack. 
Let  the  win'  tak'  the  care  o'  this  life  on  its  back; 
Our  hearts  to  despondency  we  never  will  submit, 
For  we've  aye  been  provided  for,  and  sae  will  we 

yet. 

And  sae  will  we  yet,  &c. 

'Who  is  JIary?'  quoth  he  abruptly.  'Oh,  I  dinna 
ken,'  said  the  poet ;  '  but  Mary's  a  nice  poetical  name, 
and  it  suited  my  measure.'  'And  ifou  actually  wrote 
this !'  added  the  laird.  '  Yes,'  replied  the  poet,  gaining 
confidence;  'you'll  see  I've  put  mj"  name  to  the  verses.' 
'  Well,'  vociferated  his  lairdship,  raising  himself  to  his 
full  altitude,  'are  you  not  a  most  impudent  fellow  to 
come  here  and  tell  me  that  you  h.ave  been  breaking  my 
fences  and  strolling  over  my  grounds  without  leave'? 
I'm  just  pestered  with  such  interlopers  as  you  on  my 
property,  and  now  that  I  have  the  acknowledgment  of 
the  offence  under  yom-  own  hand,  I've  really  a  very  good 
mind  to  prosecute  you  for  trespass !  Get  away  witli 
you  to  your  loom !  and  if  ever  I  catch  either  you  or 
your  Mary  among  my  green  bushes  again,  dejiend  ujion 
it  I'll  make  yo\i  repent  it.'  Saying  thts,  he  flung  the 
manuscript  scornfully  at  the  poet  (who  stooil  trembling, 
half  in  fear  and  half  in  indignation),  and  ringing  the 
bell,  ordered  him  at  once  to  be  ejected  from  the  house. 
Alas !  poor  fellow,  he  went  home  that  night  with  an 
aching  heart  and  sadly  crest-fallen.  His  song  was  given 
to  the  world,  however,  and  immediately  attained  a 
considerable  degree  of  popularity,  a  great  portion  of 
which,  we  are  h.ippy  to  say,  it  still  retains.  The  laird 
has  left  the  land  wliich  he  so  churlishly  guarded,  and 
his  memory  is  fa-st  falling  into  oblivion,  while  that  of 
Walter  Watson,  who  sung  its  beauties,  will  be  entwined 
with  the  spot  for  ages.  Truly  there  is  a  lairdship  in 
genius  which  is  more  potent  and  lasting  than  that 
which  is  associated  with  rent  rolls  and  title-deeds  !  It 
is  but  fair  to  state,  however,  th.at  the  laird  and  the 
]>oet  afterwards  liecime  good  friends,  and  that  the 
friendship  was  in  many  respects  beneficial  to  the 
humble  bard." — Ed. 


WILLIAM   LAIDLAW. 


35 


Let  the  miser  delight  in  the  hoarding  of  pelf, 
Since  he  has  not  the  saul  to  enjoy  it  himself: 
Since  the  bounty  of  Providence  is  new  every  day, 
As  we  journey  through  life  let  us  live  hy  the  way. 
Let  us  live  by  the  way,  kc. 

Then  bring  us  a  tankard  o'  nappy  gude  ale, 
For  to  comfort  our  hearts  and  enliven  the  tale; 
We'll  aye  be  the  merrier  the  langer  we  sit, 
For  we've  drank  thegither  mony  a  time,  and  sae 
will  we  yet. 

And  sae  will  we  yet,  &c. 

Success  to  the  farmer,  and  prosper  his  plough. 
Rewarding  his  eident  toils  a'  the  year  through ! 
Our  seed-time  and  harvest  we  ever  will  get, 
For  we've  lippen'd  aye  to  Providence,  and  sae 
will  we  yet. 

And  sae  will  we  yet,  &c. 

Long  live  the  king,  and  happy  may  he  be, 
And  success  to  his  forces  by  land  and  by  sea! 
His  enemies  to  triumph  we  never  will  pemiit, 
Britons  aye  have  been  victorious,  and  sae  wiil 
they  yet. 

And  sae  wiU  they  yet,  &c. 

Let  the  glass  keep  its  course,  and  go  merrily 

roun', 
For  the  sun  has  to  rise,  though  the  moon  it  goes 

down ; 
Till  the  house  be  rinnin'  roun'  about,  it's  time 

enough  to  flit; 
When  we  fell  we  aye  got  up  again,  and  sae  will 

wo  yet. 

And  sae  will  we  yet,  &c. 


MY   JOCKIKS   FAR   AWA'. 

ISTow  simmer  decks  the  fields  wi'  flowers, 

The  woods  wi'  leaves  sae  green. 
An'  little  birds  around  their  Lowers 

In  harmony  convene; 
Tlie  cuckoo  flees  frae  tree  to  tree, 

Wiiile  saft  the  zephyrs  bluw; 
But  wliat  are  a'  tliae  joys  to  me, 
Wlien  Jockie's  far  awa'? 

When  Jockie's  far  awa'  on  sea, 

When  Jockie's  far  awa'; 
But  what  are  a'  thae  jovs  to  me. 
When  Jockie's  far  awa"? 

Last  ]\Iay  mornin',  how  sweet  to  see 

The  little  lambkins  play, 
Whilst  my  dear  lad,  alang  wi'  me, 

Did  kindly  walk  this  way! 
On  yon  green  bank  wild  flowers  he  pou'd, 

To  busk  my  bosom  braw; 
Sweet,  sweet  lie  talk'd,  and  aft  he  vow'd, 

But  now  he's  far  awa'. 
But  now,  &c. 

0  gentle  peace,  return  again, 

Bring  Jockie  to  my  arms, 
Frae  dangers  on  the  raging  main. 

An'  cruel  war's  alarms; 
Gin  e'er  we  meet,  nae  mair  we'll  part 

While  we  liae  breath  to  draw; 
Nor  will  I  sing,  wi'  aching  heart, 

My  Jockie's  far  awa'. 

J[y  Jockie's  far  awa',  &c. 


WILLIAM    LAIDLAW. 


Born  1780  — Died  1845. 


William  Laidlaw,  the  author  of  the  beauti- 
ful song  of  "Lucy's  Flittin',"  and  the  trusted 
friend  of  Sir  Walter  Scott,  was  the  son  of 
James  Laidlaw,  a  respectable  sheep-farmer  at 
Blackhouse,  in  the  Yarrow  district,  Selkirk- 
shire, where  he  was  born  November  19,  1780. 
He  was  the  eldest  of  three  sons,  and  received 
part  of  his  education  at  the  grammar-school  of 
Peebles.  Hogg,  the  Ettrick  Shepherd,  was 
for  some  years  servant  to  his  father,  and  the 
two  young  men  formed  here  a  lasting  friend- 
ship. "He  was,"  says  the  Shepherd,  "the 
only  person  who  for  many  years  ever  pretended 


to  discover  tlie  least  merit  in  my  essays,  either 
in  verse  or  prose."  In  1801,  when  Sir  Walter 
Scott  visited  Ettrick  and  Yarrow  to  collect 
materials  for  his  Border  Minstrelsi/,  he  made 
the  acquaintance  of  young  Laidlaw,  from  whom 
he  received  much  assistance.  Laidlaw  began 
life  by  leasing  a  farm  at  Traquair,  and  after- 
wards one  at  Liberton,  near  Edinburgh,  but 
the  business  proving  unsuccessful  he  gave  up 
the  lease  in  1817,  and  accepted  an  invitation 
from  Sir  Walter  Scott  to  act  as  his  steward  at 
Abbotsford.  Here  he  continued  for  some  years, 
being  held  in  high  esteem  and  confidence  by 


36 


WILLIAM   LAIDLAW. 


liis  employer,  whom  lie  in  turn  greatly  loved 
and  revered.  ■\Vliil.st  at  Abbotsford  part  of 
Laidlaw's  time  was  occupied  in  writing  under 
Sir  Walter's  direction  for  the  Edinbunjh 
Annual  Register.  After  the  unhappy  reverse 
in  the  affairs  of  his  benefactor  Laidlaw  left 
Abbotsford  for  a  time,  but  returned  in  1830, 
and  continued  there  till  Sir  Walter's  death  in 
1S32.  He  afterwards  acted  as  factor  for  Sir 
Charles  Lockliart  Ross  of  Balnagowan,  IJoss- 
shire;  but  his  heaitii  failing,  he  gave  up  tliis 
position,  and  went  to  reside  witli  his  brother 


James  at  Contin,  near  Dingwall,  where  he 
died  May  18,  1845,  aged  sixty-five.  Besides 
the  far-famed  song  of  ''Lucy's  Flittin',"  Avhich 
was  first  printed  in  1810  in  Hogg's  Foretit 
Minstrel,  Lai<llaw  was  the  autlior  of  the  sweet 
and  simple  songs  "Iler  bonnie  black  E'e" 
and  "Alake  for  the  Lassie."  He  also  wrote 
on  Scottish  superstitions  for  the  Edlnhurgli 
Mont/d;/  Magazine,  contributed  several  articles 
to  the  Edlnhurgli  Enci/clopcedla,  and  was  the 
author  of  a  geological  description  of  liis  native 
count  V. 


HER   BONNIE   BLACK  E'E. 

On  tlie  banks  o'  the  burn  while  I  pensively  wander, 
The  mavis  sings  sweetly,  unheeded  by  me; 

I  think  on  my  lassie,  her  gentle  mild  nature, 
I  think  on  the  smile  o'  lier  bonnie  black  e'e. 

When  heavy  the  rain  fa's,  and  loud,  loud,  the 
win'  blaws, 
An'  sinmier's  gay  cleedin'  drives  fast  frae  the 
tree; 
I  heedna  the  win'  nor  the  rain  when  I  think  on 
The  kind  lovely  smile  o'  my  lassie's  black  e'e. 

When  swift  as  the  hawk,  in  the  stormy  November, 
The  caidd  norlan'  win"  ca's  the  di'ift  owre  the 
lea', 
Though  bidin'  its  blast  on  the  side  o'  the  moun- 
tain, 
I  think  on  the  smile  o'  her  bonnie  black  e'e. 

When  liraw  at  a  weddin'  I  see  the  fine  lasses, 
Though  a'  neat  an'  bonnie,  they're  naething  to 
me; 

I  sii,di  and  sit  dowie,  regardless  what  passes, 
When  1  miss  the  smile  o"  her  bonnie  black  e'e. 

When  thin  twinklin'  stcmies  announce  the  gray 
gloamin', 

W'hen  a'  round  the  ingle  sac  cheery  to  see; 
Then  music  delightfu',  saft  on  the  heart  steahn', 

Minds  mc  o'  the  smile  o'  her  bonnie  black  e'e. 

When  jokin'  an'  laughin',  the  lave  they  are  meny, 
Though  absent  my  heart,  like  the  lave  I  maun 
be; 

Sometimes  I  laugh  wi'  them,  but  oft  I  turn  dowie. 
An'  think  on  the  smile  o'  my  lassie's  black  e'e. 

Her  lovely  fair  form  frae  iny  mind's  awa'  never. 
She's  dearer  than  a'  this  hale  warld  to  me; 

An'  this  is  my  wish,  may  I  leave  it  if  ever 
She  rowc  on  anither  her  love-beaming  e'e. 


LUCY'S   FLITTIN'. 

'Twas  when  the  wan  leaf  frae  the  birk  tree  was 
fa'in', 
And  Martinmas  dowie  had  wound  up  the  year, 
That  Lucy  row'd  up  her  wee  kist  wi'  her  a'  in't, 
And  left  her  auld  maister  and  neebours  sae 
dear: 
For  Lucy  had  sei-ved  in  "  The  Glen"  a'  the  sim- 
mer; 
She  cam'  there  afore  the  flower  bloom'd  on  the 
pea; 
An  orphan  was  she,  and  they  had  been  gude  till 
her. 
Sure  that  was  the  thing  brocht  the  tear  to  her 
e'e. 

She  gaed  by  the  stable  where  Jamie  was  stan'in'; 

Richt  sair  was  his  kind  heart  the  flittin'  to  see. 
Fare-ye-weel,  Lucy!  quo'  Jamie,  and  ran  in, 

The  gatherin'  tears  trickled  fast  frae  his  e'e. 
As  doun  the  burnside  she  gaed  slaw  wi'  the  flittin', 

Fare-ye-weel,  Lucy!  was  ilka  bird's  sang. 
She   heard   the  craw  sayin't,  high   on  the  tree 
sittin'. 

And   robin   was   chirpin't    the   brown   leaves 
amang. 

Oh!  what  is't  that  pits  my  puir  heart  in  a  flutter? 

And  what  gars  the  tears  come  sae  fast  to  my 
e'e': 
If  I  wasna  ettled  to  be  ony  better. 

Then  what  gars  me  wish  ony  better  to  be  ? 
I'm  just  like  a  lammie  that  loses  its  mither; 

Nae  mither  or  friend  the  puir  lammie  can  see; 
I  fear  I  hae  tint  my  puir  heart  a'  thegither, 

Nae  wonder  the  tears  fa'  sae  fast  frae  my  e'e. 

Wi'  the   rest  o'  my  clacs   I   hae  row'tl  up  the 
ribbon, 

The  boimie  blue  ribbon  that  Jamie  gae  me; 
Yestreen,  when  he  gae  me't,  and  saw  I  was  sabbin', 

I'll  never  forget  the  wae  blink  o'  his  e'e. 


EGBERT   JAMIESON. 


Though  now  he  said  nacthing  but  Fare-ye-weel, 
Lucj' ! 

It  made  me  I  neither  could  speak,  hear,  nor  see; 
He  cudna  say  mair  hut  just  Fare-ye-weel,  Lucy! 

Yet  that  I  will  mind  till  the  day  that  I  dee. 

The   Iamb   likes    the   gowan  wi'  dew  when  it's 
di'oukit; 
The  hare  likes  the  brake,  and  the  braird  on  the 
lea; 
But  Lucy  likes  Jamie; — she  turn'd  and  she  lookit. 
She  thocht  the  dear  place  she  wad  never  mair 
see. 
Ah,   weel    may  young  Jamie   gang   dowie  and 
cheerless ! 
And  weel  may  he  greet  on  the  bank  o'  the 
bum! 
For  bonnie  sweet  Lucy,  sae  gentle  and  peerless. 
Lies  cauld  in  her  grave,  and  will  never  return. 


ALAKE   FOR   THE   LASSIE! 

Alakc  for  the  lassie!  she's  no  right  at  a', 
That  lo'es  a  dear  laddie  an'  he  far  awa'; 
But  the  lassie  has  muckle  mair  cause  to  complain. 
That  lo'es  a  dear  lad,  when  she's  no  lo'ed  again. 

The  fair  was  just  comin',  my  heart  it  grew  fain 
To  see  my  dear  laddie,  to  sec  him  again; 


My  heart  it   grew  fain,   an'   lapt  light  at  the 

thought 
0'  milkin'  the  ewes  mj''  dear  Jamie  wad  bught. 

The  bonnie  gray  morn  scarce  had  open'd  her  e'e, 
When  we  set  to  the  gate,  a'  wi'  nae  little  glee; 
I  was  blythe,  hut  my  mind  aft  misga'e  me  richt 

sair, 
For  I  badna  seen  Jamie  for  five  months  an'  mair. 

I'  the  liirin'  richt  soon  mj'  dear  Jamie  I  saw, 
I  saw  nae  ane  like  him,  sae  bonnie  an'  braw; 
I  watch'd  an'  baid  near  him,  his  motion  to  see, 
In  hopes  aye  to  catch  a  kind  glance  o'  his  e'e. 

He  never  wad  see  me  in  ony  ae  place : 
At  length  I  gaed  up  an'  just  smiled  in  his  face; 
I  wonder  aye  yet  my  heart  brakna  in  twa, — 
He  just  said,  "  How  are  ye?"  an'  steppit  awa'. 

My  neebour  lads  strave  to  entice  me  awa'; 
They  roosed  me  an'  hecht  me  ilk  thing  that  was 

braw; 
But  I  hatit  them  a',  an'  I  hatit  the  fair. 
For  Jamie's  behaviour  had  wounded  me  sair. 

His  heart  was  sae  leal,  and  his  manners  sae  kind! 
He's  someway  gane  wrang,  he  may  alter  his  mind; 
An'  sud  he  do  sae,  he's  be  welcome  to  me — 
I'm  sure  I  can  never  like  ony  but  he. 


EOBEET    JAMIESON. 


BoRX  17S0  — Died  1844. 


Egbert  jAiriESOX,  an  accomplished  scholar 
r.nd  antiquary,  was  born  in  Morayshire  in 
the  year  1780.  When  a  young  man  he  became 
classical  assistant  in  a  school  at  ^Macclesfield, 
and  during  this  time  he  set  himself  to  collect 
all  the  Scottish  ballads  be  could  meet  with. 
He  tells  us  that  his  object  in  doing  tliis  was 
to  preserve  the  traditions  of  habits  and  customs 
of  his  countrymen  that  were  fast  disappearing, 
and  so  help  to  fill  up  the  great  outlines  of 
history  handed  down  by  contemporary  writers. 
After  some  years'  labour  the  work  appeared  at 
Edinburgh  in  1806,  under  the  title  of  "Popu- 
lar Ballads  and  Songs,  from  Tradition,  Manu- 
scripts, and  scarce  Editions;  with  Translations 
of  similar  pieces  from  the  ancient  Danish 
Language, and  a  few  Originals  by  the  Editor." 


The  collection  is  one  of  great  value,  and  h 
ably  illustrated  with  notes,  but  it  was  not 
greeted  by  the  public  with  the  attention  it  de- 
served. Jluch  of  Jamieson's  materials  was 
obtained  from  ]\Irs.  Brown  of  Falkland  in  Fife- 
shire,  a  lady  who  was  remarkable  for  the  extent 
of  her  legendary  lore  and  the  accuracy  of  her 
memory. 

On  the  completion  of  liis  book  Jamieson 
proceeded  to  Riga  in  Russia,  there  to  push  his 
fortune;  but  he  does  not  appear  to  have  met 
with  success,  and  on  his  return  to  Scotland  he 
obtained,  through  the  influence  of  Sir  Walter 
Scott,  a  post  in  the  General  Register  House  at 
Edinburgh,  which  he  held  for  many  years. 
He  died  in  London,  September  24,  1844,  aged 
sixty-four.     Jamieson's  acquaintance  with  the 


33 


EGBERT  JAMIESON. 


Northern  languages  enabled  him  to  share  with 
Walter  Scott  and  Henry  Weber  the  editorship 
of  a  work  entitled  "Illustrations  of  Northern 
Antiquities  from  the  Earlier  Teutonic  and 
Scandinavian  llomances,"  a  copy  of  which, 
presented  by  him  to  the  Editor's  father,  now 


lies  before  us.  He  also  edited  an  edition  of 
Burt's  "Letters  from  the  North  of  Scotland." 
In  his  "Popular  Ballads"  are  found  a  number 
of  original  songs  composed  in  early  life,  the 
merit  of  which,  and  of  his  poetical  translations, 
entitles  Jamieson  to  a  place  in  this  Collection. 


SIR   OLUF   AND   THE   ELF-KING'S 
DAUGHTER. 

(FKOM    the   DANISH.) 

Sir  Oluf  the  hend  has  ridden  sae  wide, 
All  imto  his  bridal  feast  to  bid. 

And  lightly  the  elves,  sae  feat  and  free, 
They  dance  all  under  the  greenwood  tree. 

And  there  danced  four,  and  there  danced  five; 
The  elf-king's  daughter  she  rcekit  bilive. 

Her  hand  to  Sir  Oluf,  sae  fair  and  free; 
"0  welcome,  Sir  Oluf,  come  dance  wi'  me  I 

"0  welcome,  Sir  Oluf!  now  lat  thy  love  gae. 
And  tread  wi'  me  in  the  dance  sae  gay." 

•'To  dance  wi'  thee  ne  dare  I,  ne  may; 
The  morn  it  is  my  bridal  day." 

"0  come.  Sir  Oluf,  and  dance  wi'  me; 
Twa  buckskin  boots  I'll  give  to  thee; 

"Twa  buckskin  boots,  that  sit  sae  fair, 
Wi'  gilded  spurs  sae  rich  and  rare. 

"And  hear  ye,  Sir  Oluf!  come  dance  wi'  me; 
And  a  silken  sark  I'll  give  to  thee; 

"A  .silken  sark,  sae  white  and  fine, 
That  my  mother  bleached  in  the  moonshine." 

"I  darcna,  I  maunna  come  dance  wi'  thee; 

For  the  morn  my  bridal  day  maun  be." 

"0  hear  ye,  Sir  Oluf  !  come  dance  wi'  me, 
And  a  helmet  o'  gowd  I'll  give  to  thee." 

"A  helmet  o'  gowd  I  well  may  hae; 
But  dance  wi'  thee,  ne  dare  I,  ne  may." 

"And  winna  thou  dance.  Sir  Oluf,  wi'  me? 
Then  sickness  and  pain  shall  follow  thee!" 

She's  smitten  Sir  Oluf— it  strak  to  his  heart; 
He  never  before  had  kent  sic  a  smart; 

Then  lifted  him  up  on  his  ambler  red; 
"And  now,  Sir  Oluf,  ride  hame  to  thy  bride." 

And  whan  he  came  till  the  castell  yett. 
His  mithcr  she  stood  and  leant  thereat. 


"0  hear  ye,  Sir  Oluf,  my  ain  dear  son, 
Whareto  is  your  lire  sae  blae  and  wan?" 

"0  well  may  my  lire  be  wan  and  blae, 
For  I  hae  been  in  the  elf -woman's  play." 

"  0  hear  ye,  Sir  Oluf,  my  son,  my  pride. 
And  what  shall  I  say  to  thy  young  bride?" 

"  Ye'll  say  that  I've  ridden  but  into  the  wood, 
To  prieve  gin  my  horse  and  hounds  are  good." 

Ear  on  the  morn,  when  night  was  gane, 
The  bride  she  cam'  wi'  the  bridal  train. 

They  skinked  the  mead,  and  they  skinked  the 
wine : 
"0  whare  is  Sir  Oluf,  bridegroom  mine?" 

"Sir  Oluf  has  ridden  but  into  the  wood, 
To  prieve  gin  his  horse  and  hounds  are  good." 

And  she  took  up  the  scarlet  red. 

And  there  lay  Su'  Oluf,  and  he  was  dead  1 

Ear  on  the  morn,  whan  it  was  day, 

Three  likes  were  ta'en  frae  the  castle  away; 

Sir  Oluf  the  leal,  and  his  bride  sae  fair, 

And  his  mither,  that  died  wi'  sorrow  and  care. 

And  lightly  the  elves  sae  feat  and  free, 
They  dance  all  under  the  greenwood  tree  I 


ANNIE   0'    THAEAW. 

(from    the   PRUSSIAN   LOW   DUTCH.) 

Annie  o'  Tharaw,  I've  waled  for  my  fere, 

My  life  and  my  treasure,  my  gudes  and  my  gear. 

Annie  o'  Tharaw,  come  weal  or  come  wae, 
Has  set  her  leal  heart  on  me  ever  and  aye. 

Annie  o'  Tharaw,  my  riches,  rny  gudc, 

Ye're  the  saul  o'  my  saul,  ye'rc  my  flesh  and  my 

blude. 
Come  wind  or  come  weather,  how  snell  sae  (.r 

cald. 
We'll  stand  by  ilk  ither,  and  closer  ay  bald. 

Pain,  .sickness,  oppres.sion,  and  fortune  unkind. 
Our  true-love  knot  ay  but  the  faster  sail  bind. 


EOBEET  JAMIESON. 


33 


As  the  aik,  hy  the  stormy  winds  tossed  till  find  fra, 
Ay  roots  him  the  faster,  the  starker  they  blaw; 

Sae  love  in  our  hearts  will  wax  stranger  and  mair. 
Thro'  crosses  and  down-cb-ug,  and  poortith  and 
care. 

Should  ever  my  fate  be  frae  thee  to  be  twinn'd, 
And  wert  thou  whare  man  scarce  the  sun  ever 
kenn'd, 

I'll  follow  thro'  deserts,  thro'  forests  and  seas, 
Thi-o'  ice  and  thro'  iron,  thro'  ai-mies  o'  faes. 

Annie  o'  Tharaw,  my  light  and  my  sun, 
Sae  twined  our  life-threads  are,  in  ane  they  are 
spun. 

Whatever  I  bid  you's  ay  sure  to  be  dane, 
And  what  I  forbid,  that  ye'U  ay  lat  alane. 

The  love  may  be  warm,  but  how  lang  can  it  stand 
AVhare  there's  no  ae  heart,  and  ae  tongue,  and 
ae  hand  S 

■\Vi'  cangUng,  and  wrangling,  and  worrj-ing,  and 

strife, 
Just  like  dog  and  cat,  live  sic  man  and  sic  wife. 

Annie  o'  Tharaw,  that  we'll  never  do. 

For  thou  art  my  lammie,  my  chuckie,  my  dow. 

My  wish  is  to  you  ay  as  gude's  a  comman', 
I  lat  i/ou  be  gudeidfe,  ye  lat  me  be  gudzman; 

And  0  how  sweet,  Annie,  our  love  and  our  lee, 
AVhan  thou  and  I  ae  soul  and  body  sail  be! 

'Twill  beet  our  bit  ingle  wi'  heavenly  flame; 
But  wran-'iing  and  strife  mak'  a  hell  of  a  hame. 


THE  QUERN  LILT. 

The  cronach  stills  the  dowie  heart, 

'Hhejurrcnn  stills  the  bairnie; 
The  music  for  a  liungry  wame 
Ls  grinding  o'  the  quernie! 

And  Iocs  me  o'  my  little  querniel 

Grind  the  gradden,  grind  it: 
We'll  a'  get  erowdie  whan  it's  done, 
And  bannocks  stccve  to  bind  it. 

The  married  man  his  jay  may  prize, 

The  lover  prize  his  arles; 
But  gin  the  quernie  gangna  round, 

Tliey  baitli  will  soon  be  careless. 
Sae  Ices  me,  &c. 

The  whisky  gars  the  bark  o'  life 

Drive  merrily  and  rarely; 
But  gradden  is  the  ballast  gars 

It  steady  gang  and  fairly. 
Then  Iocs  me,  &c. 


Though  winter  steeks  the  door  wi"  drift, 

And  o'er  tlie  ingle  lungs  us; 
Let  but  the  little  quernie  gae, 

We're  blythe,  whatever  dings  us. 
Then  loes  me,  &c. 

And  how  it  cheers  the  herd  at  e'en. 
And  sets  his  heart-strings  dirlin', 

"When,  comin'  frae  the  hungry  hill. 
He  hears  the  quernie  birlin'! 
Then  loes  me,  &c. 

Though  sturt  and  stride  wi'  young  and  auld. 

And  fly  tin'  but  and  ben  be; 
Let  but  the  quernie  play,  they'll  soon 

A'  lown  and  fidgin'-faiu  be. 
Then  loes  me,  &e. 


MY    SWEET   WEE   LADDIE. 

0  blessings  attend  my  sweet  wee  laddie, 
That  blinks  sae  bonnily  now  on  my  knee; 

And  thousands  o'  blessings  attend  on  his  daddie, 
Tho'  far  awa'  now  frae  his  babie  and  me. 

It's  aft  ha'e  I  sitten,  and  sair  ha'e  I  grutten. 

Till  blear'd  and  blinded  wi'  tears  was  my  e'e; 
And  aft  I  bethought  me,  how  dearly  I've  bought 
thee; 
For  dear  hast  thou  been,  and  dear  art  thou  to 
me. 

Yet  blessings  attend,  &c. 

Olanely  and  weary,  caukl,  friendless,  and  dreary, 
To  me  the  -svide  warld's  a  wilderness  a'; 

Yet  still  ae  dear  blossom  I  clasp  to  my  bosom, 
And  oh!  'tis  sae  sweet — like  the  joy  that's  awa'! 
And  blessings  attend,  &c. 

When  thou  lycst  sleeping,  I  hang  o'er  thee  weep- 
ing, 
And  bitter  the  tears  that  thy  slumbers  bedew ; 
Yet  thy  innocence  smiling,  sae  sweetly  beguiling. 
Half  mak's  me  forget  that  I  sorrow  e'er  knew. 
And  blessings  attend,  kc. 

Then  smile,  my  sweet  laddie — 0  smile  like  thy 
daddie; 
My  heart  will  be  hght  tho'  the  tear's  in  my  e'e; 
I  canna  believe  he  will  ever  deceive  me, 

Sae  leal  and  sae  kind  as  he  kythed  aye  to  be. 
And  blessings  attend,  kc. 

And  0,  mid  my  mourning  to  see  him  returning!— 
Wi'  thee  to  his  arms,  when  with  rapture  I  fly- 
Come  weal  or  come  wae  then,  nae  fear  I  can  hae 

then, 
And  wha'll  be  sae  blest  as  my  babie  and  I ! 
Then  blessings  attend,  kc. 


40 


EOBEET  JAMIESO^. 


BALADE. 


(from   the   old   FRENCH   OF   GOWER.) 

Now  in  this  jolly  time  of  Jlay, 
To  Eden  I  compare  the  ground; 
While  sings  the  merle  and  popingay, 
Green  herb  and  tree  bloometh  around, 
And  all  for  Nature's  feast  are  crown'd; 
Yenus  is  Queen,  all  hearts  obey,  ^ 
And  none  to  Love  may  now  say  Kay. 

"When  this  I  see,  and  how  her  sway 

Dame  Nature  over  all  extends; 

And  all  that  lives,  so  warm,  so  gay, 

Each  after  kind  to  other  tends. 

Till  liking  life  and  being  blends; — 

What  marvel,  if  my  sighs  bewray, 
That  none  to  Love  may  now  say  Nay. 

To  nettles  must  the  rose  give  way. 
And  Care  and  Grief  my  garland  weave; 
Nor  ever  Joy  dispense  one  ray 
To  chear  me,  if  my  Lady  leave 
My  love  unblest,  and  me  bereave 

Of  every  hope  to  smile,  and  say 
That  none  to  love  may  now  say  Nay. 

Then  go  and  try  her  ruth  to  move. 
If  aught  thy  skill,  my  simple  lay; 

For  thou  and  I  too  well  approve, 

Tiiat  none  to  love  may  now  say  Nay. 


GO  TO  HIM,  THEN,  IF  TIIOU  CAN'ST 
GO. 


But  if  thy  heart  can  suffer  thee 

The  powerful  call  obey. 
And  mount  the  splendid  bed  that  wealth 

And  pride  for  thee  display. 
Then  gaily  bid  farewell  to  a' 

Love's  trembling  hopes  and  fears, 
"While  I  my  lanely  pillow  here 

"Wash  with  unceasing  tears. 

Yet,  in  the  fremmit  arms  of  liim 

That  half  thy  worth  ne'er  knew, 
Oh!  think  na  on  my  lang-tried  love, 

How  tender  and  how  true! 
For  sure  'twould  break  thy  gentle  heart 

My  breaking  heart  to  see, 
Wi'  a'  the  wrangs  and  waes  it's  tholed. 

And  yet  maun  thole  for  thee. 


Go  to  him,  then,  if  thou  can'st  go. 

Waste  not  a  thought  on  me; 
!My  iieart  and  mind  arc  a'  my  store,- 

They  ance  were  dear  to  tlice. 
But  there  is  music  in  his  gold 

(I  ne'er  sac  sweet  could  sing), 
That  finds  a  chord  in  every  breast 

In  unison  to  ring. 

The  modest  virtues  dread  the  .spell, 

The  honest  loves  retire. 
The  finer  sympathies  of  soul 

Far  other  charms  require. 
The  breathings  of  my  i)laintive  reed 

Sink  dying  in  despair. 
The  still  small  voice  of  gratitude, 

Even  that  is  heard  uac  mair. 


MY  WIFE'S  A  WINSOME  WEE  THING. 

Jtiv  wife's  a  winsome  wee  thing, 
A  bonnie,  blythesome  wee  thing. 
My  dear,  my  constant  wee  thing, 

And  evermair  sail  be; 
It  warms  my  heart  to  view  her, 
I  canna  chose  but  lo'e  her, 
And  oh!  weel  may  I  trow  her 

How  dearly  she  lo'es  me! 

For  though  her  face  sae  fair  be 
As  nane  could  ever  mair  be; 
And  though  her  wit  sae  rare  be, 

As  seenil  do  we  see; 
Her  beauty  ne'er  had  gain'd  me. 
Her  wit  had  ne'er  enchain'd  me. 
Nor  baith  sae  lang  retained  me, 

But  for  her  love  to  me. 

Whan  wealth  and  pride  disown'd  me, 
A'  views  were  dark  around  me. 
And  sad  and  laigh  she  found  me, 

As  friendless  worth  could  be; 
Whan  ithcr  hope  gaed  frae  me, 
Her  pity  kind  did  stay  me, 
And  love  for  love  .she  ga'e  me; 

And  that's  the  love  for  me. 

And,  till  this  heart  is  cald,  I 
That  charm  o'  life  will  hald  by: 
And,  though  my  wife  grow  auld,  my 

Leal  love  aye  young  will  be; 
For  she's  my  winsome  wee  thing, 
My  canty,  blythesome  wee  thing, 
My  tender,  constant  wee  thing, 

And  evermair  sail  be. 


CHARLES   GRAY. 


41 


CHARLES    GRAY. 


Born  1782  — Died  1851. 


Charles  Gray,  long  known  as  a  succcissful 
song-writer,  was  born  at  Anstruther,  Fifeshire, 
March  10,  1782.  He  was  the  schoolfellow  of 
Dr.  Chalmers,  and  Tennant  the  author  of 
"Anster  Fair,"  who  were  natives  of  the  same 
town.  In  1805  he  obtained  a  commission  in 
the  Woolwich  division  of  the  Royal  Marines, 
and  continued  in  the  service  for  over  thirty-six 
years,  when  he  retired  on  full  pay.  In  1811 
he  published  a  small  volume  of  "Poems  and 
Songs,"  which  was  well  received,  and  a  second 
edition  of  these  was  issued  in  1815.  In  1841, 
on  retiring  from  the  service,  he  took  up  his 
residence  in  Edinburgh,  where  he  soon  became 
a  favourite  in  society,  and  was  well  known 
throughout  the  country  for  his  extensive  know- 
ledge of  Scottish  song,  his  enthusiasm  for 
everything  connected  with  it,  and  his  tasteful, 


genial,  and  spirited  contributions  to  it.  In 
the  same  year,  in  compliance  with  the  wish  of 
some  of  his  much-valued  friends,  conveyed  in 
the  form  of  a  "Round -robin,"  he  published 
his  collected  pieces  in  an  elegant  volume, 
entitled  "Lays  and  Lyrics,  by  Charles  Gray, 
F.A.S.E.,  Captain,  Royal  Marines."  This  vol- 
ume is  dedicated  to  his  friend  Professor  Ten- 
nant, and  contains  a  curious  facsimile  of  the 
round-robin  presented  to  him  bearing  the  auto- 
graphs of  many  of  his  brother  poets.  A  Scot- 
tish reviewer,  in  criticizing  the  book,  says, 
"Captain  Gray  strikes  the  Scottish  harp  with 
a  bold  and  skilful  hand,  producing  tones  in 
accordance  with  the  universal  song  of  nature 
which  will  not  readily  be  forgotten."  He  died 
after  a  long  illness,  April  13,  1851,  leaving  an 
only  son,  now  a  captain  of  marines. 


THE   LASS   OF   PITTEXWEEM. 

The  sun  looked  through  an  evening  cloud. 

His  golden  rays  glanced  o'er  the  plain; 
The  lark  upsfnimg,  and  caroll'd  loud 

Her  vesper  hymn  of  sweetest  strain. 
Far  in  the  east  the  rainbow  glow'd 

In  painted  lines  of  liquid  light; 
Now  all  its  vivid  colours  show'd — 

Wax'd  faint — then  vanish'd  from  the  sight. 

As  forth  I  walked,  in  pensive  mood, 

Down  by  yon  ancient  abbey  wall. 
Gay  spring  her  vesture  had  renew'd, 

And  loud  was  heard  the  partridge'  call: 
The  blackbird's  song  rang  through  the  wood. 

Rich  in  the  red  sun's  parting  gleam; 
When  fair  before  me,  smiling,  stood 

The  lovely  lass  of  Pittenweem. 

0,  I  have  wandered  far  and  vnde. 

And  ladies  seen  'neath  brighter  skies, 
Where  trees  shoot  up  in  palmj^  pride, 

And  golden  domes  and  spires  arise: — 
But  here  is  one,  to  my  surprise. 

Sweet  as  a  j^outhful  poet's  dream ; 
With  love  enthroned  in  her  dark  eyes- 

The  lovely  lass  of  Pittenweem! 


"Where  dost  thou  wander,  charming  maid. 
Now  evening's  shades  begin  to  fall?" — • 
"To  \'iew  fair  nature's  face,"  she  said, 

"  For  nature's  charms  are  free  to  all ! " — 
"  Speak  ever  thus  in  nature's  praise; 
Thou  giv'st  to  me  a  darling  theme; 
On  thee  I'll  lavish  all  my  lays, 
Thou  lovely  lass  of  Pittenweem ! " 

There  is  a  magic  charm  in  youth. 

By  which  the  heart  of  age  is  won: 
That  chaiTii  is  innocence  and  truth, 

And  beauty  is  its  summer  sun ! 
Long  may  it  shine  on  that  fair  face, 

Where  rosy  health  and  pleasvn-e  beam; 
Long  lend  its  magic  spell  to  grace 

The  lovely  lass  of  Pittenweem. 


WHEX  AUTUMN. 

^\^len  autumn  has  laid  her  sickle  by. 

And  the  stacks  are  theekit  to  baud  them  dry; 

And  the  sapless  leaves  come  down  frae  the  trees. 

And  dance  about  in  the  fitfu'  breeze; 

And  the  robin  again  sits  burd-alane. 

And  sings  his  sang  on  the  auld  peat  stane; 


42 


CHAELES   GRAY. 


When  come  is  the  hour  o'  gloamin'  gray, 
Oh!  sweet  is  to  me  the  minstrel's  lay. 

When  winter  is  driving  his  cloud  on  the  gale, 
And  spairgin'  about  his  snaw  and  his  hail, 
And  the  door  is  steekit  against  the  blast, 
And  the  winnocks  wi'  wedges  are  firm  and  fast, 
And  the  ribs  are  rypet,  the  cannal  a-light. 
And  the  fire  on  the  hearth  is  bleozin'  bright, 
And  the  bicker  is  reamin'  with  pithy  brown  ale; 
Oh  1  dear  is  to  me  a  sang  or  a  tale. 

Then  I  tove  awa'  by  the  ingle  side, 
And  tell  o'  the  blasts  I  was  wont  to  bide, 
When  the  nichts  were  lang  and  the  sea  ran  high, 
And  the  moon  hid  her  face  in  the  depths  of  the 

sky. 
And  the  mast  was  strained,  and  the  canvas  rent. 
By  some  demon  on  message  of  mischief  sent; 
O!  I  bless  my  stars  that  at  hame  I  can  bide, 
For  dear,  dear  t  j  me  is  my  aiu  ingle-side. 


SEQUEL  TO  MAGGIE  LAUDER. 

The  cantie  spring  scarce  rear'd  her  head, 

And  winter  yet  did  blaud  her, 
When  the  Kanter  cam'  to  Anster  Fair, 

And  spier' d  for  Maggie  Lauder; 
A  snug  wee  house  in  the  East  Green 

Its  slielter  kindly  lent  lier; 
Wi'  canty  ingle,  clean  hearth-stane, 

Meg  welcomed  Rob  the  Ranterl 

Then  Rob  made  Itonnie  Meg  his  bride. 

An'  to  tiie  kirk  they  ranted; 
He  play'd  the  auld  "  East  Nook  o'  Fife," 

And  merry  Maggie  vaunted. 
That  Ilab  liimself  ne'er  played  a  spring, 

Nor  blew  sae  weel  liis  chanter. 
For  lie  made  Anster  town  to  ring — 

An'  Avha's  like  Rob  the  Ranter] 

For  a'  tlic  talk  an'  loud  reports 

That  ever  gaed  against  her, 
5Icg  proves  a  true  and  carefu'  wife 

As  ever  was  in  Anster; 
An'  since  tlie  marriage  knot  was  tied 

Rob  swears  he  couldna  want  her. 
For  he  lo'es  Maggie  as  iiis  life, 

An'  Meg  lo'es  Rob  the  Ranter. 


LOUISA'S  BUT  A  LASSIE  YET. 

Louisa's  but  a  lassie  yet, 
Her  age  is  no  twice  nine; 


She  lang  has  been  her  mammie's  pet, 
I  wish  that  she  were  mine! 

She's  licht  o"  heart  and  licht  o'  foot — 
She's  blythe  as  blythe  can  be; 

She's  dear  to  a'  her  friends  about, 
But  dearer  far  to  me! 

A  fairer  face  I  may  ha'e  seen, 

And  passed  it  lightly  by; — 
Louisa's  in  her  tartan  sheen 

Has  fixed  my  wandering  eye: 
A  thousand  beauties  there  I  trace 

That  ithers  canna  see; 
My  blessings  on  that  bonnie  face — 

She's  a'  the  world  to  me! 

Oh,  love  has  wiles  at  his  command! 

Whene'er  we  chance  to  meet, 
The  slightest  pressure  o'  her  hand 

Mak's  my  fond  bosom  beat; 
I  hear  the  throbbing  o'  my  lieart 

While  nought  but  her  I  see; — 
Wiien  shall  I  meet,  nae  mair  to  part, 

Louisa,  dear,  wi'  thee  ? 


THE   MINSTREL.i 

Keen  blaws  the  wind  o'er  Donocht-head. 

The  snaw  drives  snelly  through  the  dale, 
The  gaberlunzie  tirls  my  sneck. 

And,  shivering,  tells  his  waefu'  tale: 
"Cauld  is  the  night,  0  let  me  in. 

And  dinna  let  your  minstrel  fa'. 
And  dinna  let  his  winding  sheet 

Be  naething  but  a  wreath  o'  snaw. 

"Full  ninety  winters  ha'e  I  seen. 

And  piped  whare  gorcocks  whirring  flew. 
And  mony  a  day  ye've  danced,  I  ween, 

To  lilts  whicii  frae  my  drone  I  l)lew." 
]\Iy  Eppie  wak'd,  and  soon  she  cried, 

'"  Get  up,  gudeman,  and  let  him  in; 
For  weel  ye  ken  tlie  winter  night 

Was  short  when  he  began  his  din." 

My  Eppie's  voice,  0  wow!  it's  sweet! 

E'en  thougli  slic  bans  and  scaulds  a  wee; 
But  wiien  it's  tuned  to  sorrow's  tale, 

0,  haith,  it's  doubly  dear  to  me! 


'  This  song,  with  the  exception  of  the  concluding 
twelve  lines  added  by  Gray,  has  by  some  aiithorities 
been  attributed  to  George  Pickering  of  Newcastle.  It 
appeared  first  in  the  EOhibunih  Ihrakl  in  1794.  "  Do- 
nocht-hea.l  is  not  mine,"  said  Burns;  "  I  would  give 
ten  pounds  it  were." — Ed. 


WILLIAM   NICHOLSON. 


43 


"Come  in,  auld  carle!  Til  steer  my  fire, 
And  mak'  it  bleeze  a  bonnie  flame; 
Your  blude  is  thin,  ve've  tint  the  gate, 
Ye  should  nae  stray  sae  far  frae  hamc." 

"Kae  hame  ha'e  I,"  tlie  minstrel  said, 
"Sad  party  strife  o'erturned  my  ha'; 
And,  weeping,  at  the  eve  o'  life, 

1  wander  through  a  wreath  o'  sr.aw." 

"  Waes  me,  auld  cariel  sad  is  your  tale — 
Your  wallet's  toom,  your  deeding  thin; 


Mine's  no  the  hand  to  steek  the  door 
When  want  and  wae  would  fain  be  in." 

We  took  him  ben — we  set  him  doun, 

And  soon  the  ingle  bleez'd  fu'  hie: 
The  auld  man  thought  himself  at  hame, 

And  dried  the  teardrap  frae  his  e'e. 
He  took  his  pipes  and  play'd  a  spring — ■ 

Sad  was  the  strain,  and  full  of  woe; 
In  fancy's  ear  it  seemed  to  wail 

A  free-born  nation's  overtiirow. 


WILLIAM    NICHOLSON 


Born  1782  — Died  1849. 


William  Nicholson,  the  Galloway  poet, 
was  born  at  Tanimaus,  parish  of  Borgue,  Gal- 
loway, August  15,  1782.  In  his  youth  weak 
eyesight  prevented  his  progress  at  school,  and 
afterwards  unfitted  him  for  the  occupations  of 
shepherd  or  ploughman.  He  therefore  began 
life  as  a  pedlar  or  packman,  and  wandered  up 
and  down  his  native  district  for  thirty  years 
singing  his  own  verses,  which  soon  became 
popular.  In  1814  he  issued  a  small  12mo 
volume  entitled,  "  Tales  in  Yerse  and  Miscel- 
laneous Poems  descriptive  of  Eural  Life  and 
Manners,"  by  which  he  cleared  £100.  In  1828 
a  second  edition  of  his  poems  appeared,  with  a 
memoir  of  Xicholson  by  Mr.  Macdiarmid  of 
Dumfries.  Latterly  the  poet  fell  into  sadly 
dissipated  habits,  playing  at  fairs  and  markets 
with  his  bagpipes  as  a  gaberlunzie  or  beggar- 
man;  and  at  last  the  grave  closed  in  gloom 
over  the  ruins  of  a  man  of  true  genius.  He 
died  at  Kildarroch  in  Borgue,  May  16,  1849, 
aged  sixty-seven. 

Dr.  John  Brown  says  of  Nicholson  and  his 
poems — "They  are  worth  the  knowing;  none 
of  them  have  the  concentration  and  nerve  of 
the  'Brownie,'  but  they  are  from  the  same 
brain  and  heart.  'The  Country  Lass,'  a  long 
poem,  is  excellent;  with  much  of  Crabbe's 
power  and  compression  .  .  .  Poor  Nicholson, 
besides  his  turn  for  verse,  was  an  exquisite 
musician,  and  sang  with  a  powerful  and  sweet 
voice.     One   may  imagine   the  delight   of  a 


lonely  town-end,  when  Willie  the  packman 
and  the  piper  made  his  appearance,  with  his 
stories,  and  jokes,  and  ballads,  his  songs,  and 
reels,  and  'wanton  wiles.'  There  is  one  story 
about  him  which  has  always  appeared  to  me 
quite  perfect.  A  farmer  in  a  remote  part  of 
Galloway,  one  June  morning  before  sunrise, 
was  awakened  by  music;  he  had  been  dream- 
ing of  heaven,  and  when  he  found  himself 
awake  he  still  heard  tlie  strains.  He  looked 
out,  and  saw  no  one,  but  at  the  corner  of  a 
grass  field  he  saw  his  cattle,  and  young  colts 
and  fillies,  huddled  together,  and  looking  in- 
tently down  into  what  he  knew  was  an  old 
quarry.  He  put  on  his  clothes  and  walked 
across  the  field,  everytiiing  but  that  strange 
wild  melody  still  and  silent  in  this  'the  sweet 
hour  of  prime.'  As  he  got  nearer  the  'beasts,' 
the  sound  was  louder;  the  colts  with  their  long 
manes,  and  the  nowt  with  their  wondering 
stare,  took  no  notice  of  him,  straining  their 
necks  forward  entranced.  There,  in  the  old 
quarry,  the  young  sun  'glintin'  on  his  face, 
and  resting  on  his  pack,  which  had  been  his 
pillow,  was  our  Wandering  Willie,  playing  and 
singing  like  an  angel — 'an  Orpheus;  an  Or- 
pheus.' AVhat  a  picture!  When  reproved  for 
wasting  his  health  and  time  by  the  prosaic 
farmer,  the  poor  fellow  said:  'Me  and  this 
quarry  are  lang  acquant,  and  I've  mair  pleesure 
in  pipin'  to  thae  daft  cowts,  than  if  the  best 
leddies  in  the  land  were  figurin'  away  afore  me." 


44 


WILLIAM  NICHOLSON. 


THE    BROWNIE    OF    BLEDNOCH.^ 


There  cam'  a  stransre  wii,'lit  to  our  to\vn-cn', 
An'  the  fient  a  body  did  him  ken; 
He  tirled  na  lang,  but  he  ghded  ben 
Wi'  a  weary,  dreary  hum. 

His  face  did  glow  like  the  glow  o'  the  west, 
When  the  drumly  cloud  has  it  half  o'ercast; 
Or  the  struggling  moon  when  she's  sair  distrest, 
0,  sirs!  'twas  Aiken-(b-um. 

I  trow  the  bauldest  stood  aback, 
Wi'  a  gape  an'  a  glower  till  their  lugs  did  crack, 
As  the  shapeless  phantom  miunblin'  spak — 
Hae  ye  wai'k  for  Aiken -drum .' 

0 1  had  ye  seen  the  bairns'  fright. 
As  they  stared  at  this  wild  and  unyirthly  wight; 
As  they  skulkit  in  'tween  the  dark  and  the  light. 
And  graned  out  Aiken-drumI 

"  Sauf  us!"  quoth  Jock,  "  d'ye  see  sic  een?" 
Cries  Kate,  "  There's  a  hole  where  a  nose  should 

ha'  been; 
An'  the  mouth's  like  a  gash  that  a  horn  bad  ri'en : 
Wow!  keep's  frae  Aiken-drum!" 

The  black  dog  growling  cowered  his  tail, 
The  lassie  swai-fed,  loot  fa'  the  pail; 
Rob's  lingle  brak  as  he  men't  the  flail, 
At  the  sight  o'  Aiken-drum. 

His  matted  head  on  his  breast  did  rest, 
A  lang  blue  beard  wan'ered  down  like  a  vest; 
But  the  glare  o'  his  e'e  hath  nae  bard  exprest, 
Nor  the  skimes  o'  Aiken-drum. 

Roun'  his  hairy  form  there  was  naething  seen 
But  a  philabeg  o'  the  rashes  green, 
An'  his  knottu<l  knees  ])laycil  aye  knoit  between — 
What  a  sight  was  Aiken-drum! 

On  his  wauchie  arms  three  claws  did  meet. 
As  they  trailed  on  the  grun'  by  his  taeless  feet; 
E'en  the  auld  gudeman  himsel'  did  sweat, 
To  look  at  Aiken-drum. 

But  he  drew  a  score,  himsel'  did  sain. 
The  auld  wife  tried,  but  her  tongue  was  gane; 
While  the  yoting  ane  closer  clasped  her  wean. 
And  turned  frae  Aiken-drum. 

'"We  woul"!  rather  liave  written  these  lines  than 
any  amount  of  Aurora  Leighs,  Festuses,  or  such  like, 
with  all  their  mighty  ' soniethiiigness,'  as  Mr.  Bailey 
would  say.  Fortliey,  are  they  not  the  'native  wood notes 
wild'  of  one  of  nature's  darlings?  Here  is  the  indescrib- 
able, inestimable,  unmist.ikable  impress  of  genius. 
Chaucer,  had  he  been  a  Galloway  man,  might  have 
written  it,  only  he  would  have  been  more  garrulous, 


But  the  cantie  auld  wife  cam  till  her  breath. 
And  she  thocht  the  Bible  might  ward  off  scaith. 
Be  it  benshee,  bogle,  ghaist,  or  wraith — 
But  it  feared  na  Aiken-  diaim. 

"His   presence    protect  us!"   quoth   the    auld 

gudeman ; 
"What  wad  ye,  whare  won  ye,  Viy  sea  or  by  Ian'? 
I  conjure  ye— speak— by  the  beuk  in  my  han'!" 
What  a  grane  ga'e  Aiken-drum! 

"  I  lived  in  a  Ian'  whare  we  saw  nae  sky, 
I  dwalt  in  a  spot  whare  a  bum  rins  na  by; 
But  I'se  dwall  now  wi'  you  if  ye  like  to  try— 
Hae  ye  wark  for  Aiken-di-um  ? 

"  I'll  shiel  a'  your  sheep  i'  the  momin'  sune, 
I'll  berry  your  crap  by  the  light  o'  the  moon, 
An'  ba'  the  baims  wi'  an  unkenncd  tune. 
If  ye'U  keep  puii-  Aiken-dnnn. 

"  I'll  loup  the  linn  when  ye  canna  wade, 
I'll  kirn  the  kirn,  and  I'll  tuni  the  bread; 
An'  the  wildest  tilly  that  ever  can  rede, 
I'se  tame't,  quoth  Aiken-drum. 

"To  wear  the  tod  frae  the  flock  on  the  fell. 
To  gather  the  dew  frae  the  heather  bell. 
An'  to  look  at  my  face  in  your  clear  crystal  well, 
Might  gi'e  pleasure  to  Aiken-drum. 

"I'se  seek  nae  guids,  gear,  bond,  nor  mark; 
I  use  nae  beddin',  shoon,  nor  sark; 
But  a  cogfu'  o'  brose  'tween  the  light  an'  the  dar!:. 
Is  the  wage  o'  Aiken-drum." 

Quoth  the  wylie  auld  wife,  "The  thing  speaks 

weel ; 
Our  workers  are  scaTit — we  hae  routh  o'  meal ; 
Gif  he'll  do  as  he  .says— V>e  he  man,  l>e  he  deil — 
Wow!  we'll  try  this  Aiken-dnim." 

But  the  wenches  skirled,  "  He's  no  be  here! 
His  eldritch  look  gars  us  swai-f  wi'  fear; 
An'  the  feint  a  ane  will  tha  house  come  near, 
If  they  think  but  o'  Aiken-drum. 

"  For  a  foul  and  a  stalwart  ghaist  is  he. 
Despair  sits  broodin'  aboon  his  e'e-bree. 


and  less  compact  and  stern.  It  is  like  'Tam  o'  Shanter' 
in  its  living  union  of  the  comic,  the  pathetic,  and  the 
terrible.  Shrewdness,  tenderness,  imagination,  fancy, 
humour,  word  music,  dramatic  power,  even  wit— all 
are  here.  I  have  often  reiid  it  aloud  tochildien,  and  it 
is  worth  any  one's  while  to  do  it.  You  will  find  them 
repeiiting  all  over  the  house  for  days  such  lines  :is  take 
their  heart  and  tongue."— iJ.-.  John  liroicn. 


WILLIAM   NICHOLSON. 


45 


And  unchancie  to  light  o'  a  maiden's  e'c, 
Is  the  glower  o'  Aikon-dinim." 

"  Pair  clipmalahorsl  ye  hae  little  wit; 
Is'tna  Hallowmas  now,  an'  the  crap  out  yet?" 
Sae  she  silenced  them  a'  wi'  a  stamp  o'  her  fit — 
"Sit  yer  wa's  down,  Aiken-drum  I" 

Roun"  a'  that  side  what  wark  was  dune 

By  the  streamer's  gleam,  or  the  glance  o'  the 

moon; 
A  word,  or  a  wish,  an'  the  brownie  cam  sune, 
Sae  helpfu'  was  Aiken-drum. 

But  he  slade  aye  awa'  or  the  sun  was  up, 
He  ne'er  could  look  straught  on  Macniillan'scup;! 
They  watch'd — but  nane  saw  him  his  brose  ever 
sup, 

Nor  a  spune  sought  Aiken-drum. 

On  Blednoch  banks,  an'  on  crystal  Cree, 
For  mony  a  day  a  toiled  wight  was  he; 
And  the  bairns  they  played  harmless  roun'  his 
knee, 

Sae  social  was  Aiken-di-um. 

But  a  new-made  wife,  fu'  o'  frippish  freaks. 
Fond  o'  a'  things  feat  for  the  five  first  weeks. 
Laid  a  moul<ly  pair  o'  her  ain  man's  breeks 
By  the  brose  o'  Aiken-drum. 

Let  the  learned  decide  when  they  convene, 
What  spell  was  him  an'  the  breeks  between ; 
For  frae  that  day  forth  he  was  nae  mair  seen. 
An'  sair-missed  was  Aiken-drum. 

He  was  heard  l>y  a  herd  gaun  by  the  Thrieve, 
Crying,  "Lang,  lang  now  may  I  greet  an'  grieve; 
For  alas!  I  ha'e  gotten  baith  fee  an'  Icavc^ 
0!  luckless  Aiken-drum!" 

Awa',  ye  wrangling  sceptic  tribe, 
Wi'  your  pro's  an'  your  con's  wad  ye  decide 
'Gain  the  sponsible  voice  o'  a  hale  country  side. 
On  the  facts  'bout  Aiken-drum  .' 

Though  the  "Brownie  o'  Blednoch  "  lang  be  gane. 
The  mark  o'  his  feet's  left  on  mony  a  stane; 
An'  mony  a  wife  an'  mony  a  wean 

Tell  the  feats  o'  Aiken-drum. 

E'en  now,  light  loons  that  jibe  an'  sneer 
At  spiritual  guests  an'  a'  sic  gear, 
At  the  Glashnoch  Mill  hae  swat  wi'  fear. 
An'  looked  roun'  for  Aiken-drum. 


1  A  communion  cup  belonging  to  the  Rev.  Mr.  M'llil- 
lan,  founder  of  a  sect  of  Covenanters  known  by  liis 
name.  Tlie  oiip  was  long  jneserveJ  by  a  disciple  in  tlie 
))ari8h  of  Kirkcowan,  and  used  as  a  test  by  which  to 
ascertain  the  orthodoxy  of  suspected  pei'sons. — En. 


An'  guidly  folks  hae  gotten  a  fright. 

When  the  moon  was  set,  an'  the  stars  gied  nae 

light; 
At  the  roaring  linn,  in  the  howe  o'  the  night, 
Wi'  sughs  like  Aiken-drum. 


THE  BR.\.ES  OF  GALLOWAY. 

0  lassie,  wilt  thou  gang  wi'  mc, 
And  leave  tliy  friens  i'  the  south  countric— 
Thy  former  friens  and  sweetliearts  a', 
And  gang  wi'  mc  to  Gallowa'? 

0  Gallowa'  braes  tliey  wave  wi'  broom, 

And  heatiier-bells  in  bonnie  bloom; 

There's  lordly  seats,  and  livin's  braw, 

Amang  the  braes  o'  Gallowa'! 

There's  stately  woods  on  mony  a  brae, 
Where  burns  and  birds  in  concert  play; 
The  waukrife  echo  answers  a', 
.\mang  the  braes  o'  Gallowa'. 

0  Gallowa'  braes,  &e. 

* 

The  simmer  shicl  I'll  build  for  thee 
Alang  the  bonnie  banks  o'  Dec, 
Half  circlin'  roun'  my  father's  ha', 
Amang  tlic  braes  o'  Gallowa'. 

O  Gallowa'  braes,  &c'. 

When  autumn  waves  her  flowin'  horn. 
And  fields  o'  gowden  grain  arc  shorn, 
I'll  busk  thee  fine  in  pcarlins  braw. 
To  join  the  dance  in  (iallowa'. 
O  Gallowa'  braes,  &c. 

At  e'en,  whan  darkness  shrouds  the  sight, 
And  lanely,  langsomc  is  the  night, 
Wi'  tentie  care  my  pipes  I'll  thraw, 
Play  "A'  the  Avay  to  Gallowa'." 
O  Gallowa'  braes,  &c. 

Should  fickle  fortune  on  us  frown, 
Kac  lack  o'  gear  our  love  should  drown; 
Content  should  shield  our  haddin'  sma', 
Amang  the  braes  o'  Gallowa'. 

Come  wiiile  the  blossom's  on  the  broom, 

And  hcathcr-bclls  sae  bonnie  bloom; 

Come  let  us  be  the  happiest  twa 

On  a'  the  braes  o'  Gallowa' 


MY  AIX  BONNIE  MAY. 

0  will  ye  go  to  yon  burn  side, 
Amang  the  new-made  hay, 

And  sport  upon  the  flowery  swaird, 
Mv  ain  bonnie  Jlav? 


46 


JOHN   FINLAY. 


The  sun  blinks  blithe  on  yon  bnrn  side, 
Whare  lambkins  liglitly  play; 

The  wild  bird  whistles  to  his  mate, 
My  ain  bonnie  May. 

The  waving  woods,  wi"  mantle  green, 

Shall  shield  us  in  the  bower, 
AVhare  I'll  pu'  a  posie  for  my  May, 

U'  mony  a  bonnie  flower. 
!SIy  father  maws  ayont  the  burn, 

To  spin  my  mammy's  gane; 
And  should  they  see  thee  here  wi'  me, 

I'd  better  been  my  lane. 

The  lightsome  lammie  little  kens 

What  troubles  it  await; 
When  ance  the  flush  o'  spring  is  o'er, 

The  fause  bird  lea'es  its  mate. 
The  flow'rs  will  fade,  the  woods  decay, 

And  lose  their  bonnie  green; 


The  sun  wi'  clouds  may  bo  o'crcast, 
Before  that  it  be  e'en. 

Ilk  thing  is  in  its  season  sweet; 

So  love  is,  in  its  noon ; 
But  cank'ring  time  may  soil  the  flower. 

And  spoil  its  bonnie  bloom. 
0,  come  then  while  the  summer  shines. 

And  love  is  young  and  gay; 
Ere  age  his  with'ring,  wintry  blast 

Blaws  o'er  me  and  my  ilay. 

For  thee  I'll  tend  the  fleecy  flocks, 

Or  hand  the  halesome  plough. 
And  nightly  clasp  thee  to  my  breast, 

And  prove  aye  leal  and  true. 
The  blush  o'erspread  her  bonnie  face. 

She  had  nae  mair  to  say. 
But  ga'e  her  hand,  and  walk'd  ahuig, 

The  youthfu',  bloomin'  ]\Iay. 


JOHN    FINLAY 


Born  17S2  — Died  ISIO. 


JoHX  FiXL.vY,  a  man  of  f.AC  genius  and 
extensive  scholarship,  cut  off  prematurely,  was 
born  of  parents  in  humble  circumstances  at 
Glasgow,  December,  17S2.  After  receiving  a 
good  education  at  one  of  the  schools  in  his 
native  city,  be  entered  the  university  at  the 
age  of  fourteen,  and  had  for  a  classmate  John 
WiKson,  afterwards  the  renowned  "  Christopher 
North."  At  college  young  Finlay  was  highly 
di.stinguishcd  for  proficiency  in  his  classes,  for 
the  elegance  of  his  essays  on  the  subjects  pre- 
scribed to  the  students,  as  Avell  as  the  talent 
shown  in  the  poetical  odes  which  he  wrote  on 
classical  subjects.  In  1802,  while  only  about 
nineteen  and  still  at  college,  he  published 
"  Wallace,  or  the  Vale  of  Ellcrslie,  with  other 
Poems,"  of  which  a  second  edition  with  some 
additions  appeared  two  years  later,  and  a  third 
was  issued  in  1817.  Of  the  chief  poem  in  this 
volume  Professor  Wilson  says:  "  It  is  doubt- 
less an  imperfect  composition,  but  it  displavs  a 
wonderful  power  of  versification,  and  contains 
many  splendid  descriptions  of  external  nature. 
It  possesses  ])oth  the  merits  and  defects  which 
v.'e  look  for  in  the  early  compositions  of  true 


genius."  In  1S07  Finlay  went  to  London  in 
.search  of  employment,  and  whilst  there  he  con- 
tributed to  the  magazines  many  articles  on 
antiquarian  subjects.  He  returned  to  Glasgow 
in  1803,  and  in  that  year  published  a  short 
collection  of  "Scottish  Historical  and  Roman- 
tic Ballads,"  which  secured  the  favourable 
notice  of  Sir  Walter  Scott.  "The  beauty  of 
some  imitations  of  the  old  Scotti.sh  ballad," 
he  writes,  "with  the  good  sense,  learning,  and 
modesty  of  the  jtreliminary  dissertations,  must 
make  all  admirers  of  ancient  lore  regret  the 
early  loss  of  this  accomplished  young  man." 
^Ir.  Finlay  again  left  Glasgow  in  1810  on  a 
visit  to  his  friend  Wilson  at  Elleray,  in  Cum- 
berland, but  on  the  way  he  was  .seized  with 
illness  at  MoflTat,  where  he  died  December  8, 
1810,  aged  only  twenty -eight.  Besides  the 
works  above-mentioned,  he  edited  an  edition  of 
Blair's  "Grave,"  with  excellent  notes,  wrote  a 
Life  of  Cervanfes,  and  superintended  a  new 
edition  of  Smith's  Wcallh  of  Xations.  X\\ 
aflfectionate  and  elegant  tribute  to  Finlay's 
memory,  written  by  Prof.  AVilson,  appeared  in 
Blackwood' s  Magazine  for  November,  1817. 


JOHN   FINLAY. 


47 


ARCHY    0'    KILSPINDIE. 


Wae  worth  the  heart  that  can  be  glad, 
Wae  worth  the  tear  that  wimia  fa', 

For  justice  is  fleemyt  frae  the  land, 
An'  the  faith  o'  auld  times  is  clean  awa'. 

Our  nobles  they  ha'e  sworn  an  aith, 

An'  they  gart  our  young  king  swear  the  same. 
That  as  lang  as  the  crown  was  on  his  head 

He  wad  speak  to  naue  o'  the  Douglas  name. 

An'  wasna  this  a  wearifou  aith; 

For  the  crown  frae  his  head  had  been  tint  and 
gane. 
Gin  the  Douglas  hand  hadna  held  it  on. 

Whan  anither  to  help  him  there  was  nane. 

An'  the  king  frae  that  day  grew  dowie  and  wae, 
For  he  liked  in  his  heart  the  Douglas  weel; 

For  his  foster-brither  was  Jamie  o'  Farkhead, 
An'  Archy  o'  Kilspindie  was  his  Gray  Steel. 

But  Jamie  was  banisht  an'  Archy  baith. 
An'  they  lived  lang,  lang  ayont  the  sea. 

Till  a'  had  forgotten  them  but  the  king; 
An'  he  whiles  said,  wi'  a  watery  e'e, — 

"  Gin  they  think  on  me  as  I  think  on  them, 
I  wot  then-  life  is  but  cb-eerie."— 

It  chanced  he  rode  wi'  hound  and  horn 
To  hunt  the  dun  and  the  red  deer  doun, 

An'  wi'  him  was  mony  a  gallant  earl. 
And  laird,  and  knight,  and  hold  baron. 

But  nane  was  wi'  him  wad  ever  compare 

Wi'  the  Douglas  so  proud  in  tower  and  town, 

That  were  courtUest  all  in  bower  and  hall, 
And  the  highest  ever  in  renown. — 

It  was  dawn  when  the  hunters  sounded  the  horn. 

By  Stirlin's  walls,  sae  fair  to  see; 
But  the  sun  was  far  gane  doun  i'  the  west 

When  they  brittled  the  deer  on  Torwood-lee. 

And  wi'  jovial  din  they  rode  hame  to  the  tovm, 
Where  Snawdon  tower  stands  dark  an'  hie; 

Frae  least  to  best  they  were  plyin'  the  jest, 
An'  the  laugh  was  gaun  round  richt  merrily : 

When  Murray  cried  loud, — "  \\lia's  yon  I  see? 

Like  a  Douglas  he  looks,  baith  dark  and  grim; 
And  for  a'  his  sad  and  weary  pace. 

Like  them  he's  richt  stark  o'  arm  an'  hmb." 

The  king's  heart  lap,  and  he  shouted  ■wi'  glee, — 
"  Yon  stalworth  makedom  I  ken  richt  weel; 

And  I'se  wad  in  pawn  the  hawk  on  my  han', 
It's  Archy  Kilspindie,  my  ain  Gray  Steel; 


We  maun  gi'e  him  grace  o'  a'  his  race, 
For  Kilspindie  was  trusty  aye,  and  leal. 

But  Lindsay  spak'  in  waefou  mood, — 

"Alas!  my  liege,  that  mauna  be." 
And  stout  Kilmaurs  cries, — "  He  that  dares 

Is  a  traitor  to  his  ain  countrie." 

And  Glencaim,  that  aye  was  dowre  and  stern, 
Says, — "  Where's  the  aith  you  sware  to  me  ? 

Gin  ye  speak  to  a  man  o'  the  Douglas  clan, 
A  gray  groat  for  thy  crown  and  thee." — 

When  Kilspindie  took  haud  o'  the  king's  bridle 
reins, 

He  louted  low  doun  on  his  knee; 
The  king  a  word  he  durstna  speak. 

But  he  looked  on  him  wistfuUie. 

He  thocht  on  days  that  lang  were  gane, 
Till  his  heart  was  yearnin'  and  like  to  brast: 

As  he  turned  him  round  his  barons  frowned; 
But  Lindsay  was  dichtin  his  een  fu'  fast. 

When  he  saw  their  looks  his  proud  heart  rose, 
An'  he  tried  to  speak  richt  hauchtillie; — 

"  Gae  tak'  my  bridle  frae  that  auld  man's  grip; 
What  sorrow  gars  him  haud  it  sae  sickerlie.'" 

An'  he  spurred  his  horse  wi'  gallant  speed. 
But  Ai-chy  followed  him  manfullie, 

And,  though  cased  in  steel  frae  shoulder  to  heel, 
He  was  first  o'  a'  his  companie. 

As  they  passed  he  sat  down  on  a  stane  in  the 
yett. 

For  a'  his  gray  hair  there  was  nae  ither  biel; 
The  king  staid  the  hindmost  o'  the  train, 

And  he  aft  looked  back  to  his  auld  Gray  Steel. 

Ai-chy  wi'  grief  was  quite  foredone, 

An'  his  arm  fell  weak  that  was  ance  like  aim, 
And  he  sought  for  some  cauld  water  to  drink, 

But  they  durstna  for  that  dowre  Glencami. 

When  this  was  tauld  to  our  gracious  king, 

A  redwood  furious  man  woxe  he; 
He  has  ta'en  the  mazer  cup  in  his  han', 

And  in  flinders  a'  he  gart  it  flee: — 
"  Had  I  kend  my  (^ray  Steel  wanted  a  drink, 

He  should  hae  had  o'  the  red  wine  free.'' 

An'  fu'  sad  at  the  table  he  sat  him  down, 
An'  he  spak'  but  ae  word  at  the  dine: — 

"  0  !  I  wish  my  warst  f ae  were  but  a  king, 
Wi'  as  cruel  counsellours  as  mine." 


48 


WILLIAM  TENNANT. 


I   HEARD   THE   EVENING   LINNET'S 
VOICE. 

I  heard  the  evening  Hnnet's  voice  the  woodland 
tufts  among, 

Yet  sweeter  were  the  tender  notes  of  Isabella's 
song! 

So  soft  into  the  ear  they  steal,  so  soft  into  the  soul, 

The  deep'ning  pain  of  love  they  soothe,  and  sor- 
row's pang  control. 

I  look'd  upon   the  pure  brook  that  murmur'd 

through  the  glade. 
And  mingled  in  the  melody  that  Isabella  made; 
Yet  purer  was  the  residence  of  Isabella's  heart! 
Above  the  reach  of  pride  and  guile,  above  the 

reach  of  art. 

I  look'd  upon  the  azure  of  the  deep  unclouded  sky, 
Yet  clearer  was  the  blue  serene  of  Isabella's  eye ! 
Ne'er  softer  fell  the  rain-drop  of  the  first  relent- 
ing year, 
Than  falls  from  Isabella's  eye  the  pity -melted  tear. 

All  this  my  fancy  prompted,  ere  a  sigh  of  sorrow 

prov'd 
How  hopelessly,  yet  faithfully,  and  tenderly  I 

lov'd ! 
Yet  though  bereft  of  hope  I  love,  still  will  I  love 

the  more, 
As  distance  binds  the  exile's  heart  to  his  dear 

native  shore. 


0!   COME    WITH    ME. 

0!  come  with  me,  for  the  queen  of  night 
Is  thron'd  on  high  in  her  beauty  bright; 
'Tis  now  the  silent  hour  of  even, 
When  all  is  still  in  earth  and  heaven; 
The  cold  flowers  whicli  the  valleys  strew, 
Are  sparkling  bright  wi'  pearly  dew, 
And  hush'd  is  e'en  the  bee's  saft  hum. 
Then  come  with  me,  sweet  Mary,  come. 

The  opening  blue-bell — Scotland's  pride — 
In  heaven's  pure  azure  deeply  dyed; 
The  daisy  meek  frae  the  dewy  dale. 
The  wild  thyme,  and  the  primrose  pale, 
Wi'  the  lily  frae  the  glassy  lake, 
Of  these  a  fragrant  wreath  I'll  make, 
And  bind  them  mid'  the  locks  that  flow 
In  rich  luxuriance  from  thy  brow. 

0  !  love,  without  thee  what  were  life? 
A  bustling  scene  of  care  and  strife; 
A  waste,  where  no  green  flowery  glade 
Is  found,  for  shelter  or  for  sliade. 
But,  cheer'd  by  thee,  the  griefs  we  share 
We  can  with  calm  composure  bear: 
For  tiie  darkest  nicht  o'  care  and  toil 
Is  bricht  when  blest  by  woman's  smile. 


WILLIAM    TENNANT. 


Born  1784  — Died  184S. 


William  Texnant,  LL.D.,  an  accomplished 
linguist  and  poet,  was  born  at  Anstruther,  in 
Fifesiiire,  May  15,  1784.  Although  born  with- 
out any  personal  malformation,  in  infancy 
tlie  future  poet  and  professor  lost  the  use  of 
both  his  feet,  and  was  obliged  to  move  upon 
crutches  for  the  rest  of  his  life.  The  lame 
boy  was  educated  at  the  burgh  school  of  An- 
struther, and  was  sent  afterwards  to  tiie  Uni- 
versity of  St.  Andrews.  In  ids  twentieth  year 
he  went  to  Glasgow,  where  he  was  employed 
as  clerk  to  his  brother,  a  corn-factor  in  that 
city.  His  business  was  afterwards  removed  to 
Anstruther,  but  proving  unsuccessful,  ho  sud- 
denly disappeared,  leaving  William  to  endure 
incarceration  as  if  he  liad  been  the  real  debtor. 


Tiic  introductory  stanzas  of  "  Anstcr  Fair" 
are  said  to  have  been  written  whilst  lie  was  in 
durance.  After  sustaining  unmerited  reproach 
lie  was  set  free,  M'hen  he  returned  to  liis  father's 
roof,  and  devoted  himself  in  earnest  to  author- 
ship. The  result  was  "  Anster  Fair,"  which 
was  issued  from  the  obscure  piess  of  an  An- 
struther publisiier  in  1812.  Another  little 
production  deserves  to  be  mentioned,  as  sliow- 
ing  the  cheerfulness  with  which  he  bore  the 
calamity  of  his  lameness—"  The  Anster  Con- 
cert," a  brochure  of  twelve  pages,  Avritten  in 
1810,  and  published  at  Cupar  in  January,  1811, 
purporting  to  be  by  W.  Crookley.  In  a  few 
years  "Anster  Fair"  found  its  way  to  Edin- 
burgh, and  attracted  the  notice  of  Lord  Wood- 


WILLIAM  TENNANT. 


49 


houselee,  who  wrote  to  the  publisher  for  the 
name  of  the  author,  which  he  said  could  not 
long  remain  concealed ;  and  Lord  Jeffrey*,  in 
a  criticism  in  the  Edinbur(jh  Rev'ieio,  declared 
the  poem  one  of  tiie  most  talented  and  re- 
markable productions  of  its  kind  that  had  yet 
appeared. 

As  it  was  not  by  literature  that  Tennant 
meant  to  maintain  himself,  he  became  a  school- 
master, the  occupation  for  which  he  was  edu- 
cated. His  first  school  was  in  the  parish  of 
Denino,  a  few  miles  from  St.  Andrews.  It 
speaks  not  a  little  for  his  contented  spirit  and 
moderate  wishes,  that  he  accepted  a  situation 
yielding  but  £40  per  annum  at  a  time  when 
he  had  obtained  celebrity  as  a  poet,  and  was 
known  as  one  of  the  ablest  linguists  of  the  land. 
But,  for  the  time  being,  he  was  content  with 
his  humble  cottage,  and  access  to  the  library 
of  St.  Andrews  College;  and  here,  without  any 
other  teacher  than  books,  he  made  himself 
master  of  the  Arabic,  Persian,  and  Syriac 
languages.  His  next  situation  was  the  inore 
lucrative  one  of  parish  schoolmaster  at  Lass- 
wade,  where  he  remained  until  January,  1819, 
Avhen  he  was  appointed  a  teacher  of  the  classi- 
cal and  oriental  languages  in  the  newly  estab- 
lished and  richly  endowed  institution  of  Dollar. 

Tennant's  next  publication  was  a  poem  called 
"  Papistry  Storm'd,  or  the  Dingin'  Doun  o'  the 
Cathedral,"  followed  in  1822  by  an  epic  under 
the  title  of  the  "Thane  of  Fife,"  having  for 
its  theme  the  invasion  of  the  east  coast  of  Fife 
by  the  Danes  in  the  ninth  century.  The  year 
after  appeared  "  Cardinal  Beaton,  a  Tragedy 
in  five  acts,"  and  in  1825  he  published  another 
poem  entitled  "John  Baliol."  Kone  of  these 
publications  met  with  success,  nor  did  they 
add  anything  to  the  author's  reputation.  In 
1831  the  chair  of  oriental  languages  in  St. 
Mary's  College,  St.  Andrews,  became  vacant, 
and  Tennant  offered  himself  as  a  candidate, 
but  Dr.  Scott  of  Corstorphine,  a  rival  candi- 
date, was  preferred.  He  remained  three  years 
longer  at  Dollar,  when  the  professorship  again 
becoming  vacant  by  the  death  of  Dr.  Scott,  he 
was  appointed  to  it.  In  this  way,  by  a  series 
of  steps,  he  ascended  from  the  lowest  to  one 
of  the  highest  grades  of  Scottish  academical 
distinction.  Tennant's  last  work,  published  in 
1845,  was  entitled  "Hebrew  Dramas,  founded 
on  Incidents  in  Bible  History,"  and  consisted 
Vol.  II.— D 


of  three  dramatic  compositions.  He  was  also 
the  author  of  a  Syriac  and  Chaldee  grammar, 
and  of  a  memoir  of  Allan  IJamsay,  published 
with  his  works,  which  he  put  forth  as  the 
pioneer  of  an  edition  of  the  Scottish  poets.  As 
a  prose  Avriter  he  never  attained  any  distinction. 
He  contributed  numerous  articles  to  the  Edin- 
burgh Literary  Journal,  none  of  which,  how- 
ever, exhibit  any  peculiar  excellence.  Tennant 
usually  spent  his  summer  months  at  his  own 
villa  of  Devongrove,  near  Dollar,  and  here  he 
breathed  his  last,  October  15,  1848,  in  his 
sixty-fourth  year.  A  memoir  of  his  life  and 
writings  by  Matthew  Foster  Conolly  appeared 
in  1861. 

The  following  unpublished  letters,  addressed 
to  Airs.  Grant  of  Laggan,  will  be  read  with 
interest,  as  they  refer  to  a  new  metrical  trans- 
lation of  the  Psalms,  in  regard  to  which  Ten- 
nant had  a  spirited  correspondence  with  the 
Ettrick  Shepherd,  afterwards  collected  and 
issued  in  a  volume  by  Constable  &  Co. : — 

"  Devongrove,  Dollar,  2Sth  Sept.  1S31. 
"My  dear  Mrs.  Grant, — I  beg  leave  to  send 
you  herewith,  according  to  promise,  the  cor- 
rected copy  of  our  Scottish  version  of  the 
Psalms,  of  which  I  spoke  to  you  while  I  was 
in  Edinburgh.  I  should  be  happy  if  you  took 
the  trouble  to  glance  into  it  at  your  leisure 
moments.  You  will  find  the  emendations 
made  only  on  a  few  passages,  and  these,  I 
think,  the  most  objectionable  and  indefensible 
as  relates  either  to  the  bad  grammar  or  the 
false  or  double  rhymes  in  the  Scotticisms  to  be 
found  in  our  psalmody.  I  have  not  ventured 
to  touch  any  passage  which  I  deemed  not  in 
some  respect  blameworthy ;  and  very  probably 
you  may  mark  off  some  few  slight  passages 
which  may  admit  of  some  gentle  healing,  but 
which  by  me  have  not  been  observed,  or  have 
not  come  Avithin  that  scope  of  emendation 
which  I  prescribed  to  myself.  If  our  present 
version,  which  is  assuredly  the  best,  is  ever  to 
be  at  all  purified  or  emended,  it  should  be 
done  by  gentle  means  and  by  making  the 
smallest  possible  alterations,  so  that  its  present 
readers  and  admirers  may  read  and  admire  on 
without  being  conscious  of  any  violence  com- 
mitted— without  having  their  attention  dis- 
tracted, and  their  time -confirmed  respect 
shocked  by  any  modern  botches  of  superfluous 


50 


WILLIAM  TENNANT. 


or  glaring  emendation.  AVhether  I  have  done 
according  to  my  own  design  and  conception  I 
do  not  know;  but  if  correction  is  to  be  tried 
at  all,  assuredly  it  should  proceed  in  this 
gentle  manner.  I  should  be  glad  not  only  to 
have  your  written  opinion  so  soon  as  you  have 
perused  my  attempted  corrections,  but  that 
you  yourself  as  an  amusement  (which  I  found 
a  delightful  one)  should  try  your  hand  at  cor- 
recting any  false  rhyme  or  return  stanza,  for 
instance  in  Psalms  xviii.  and  xix.,  or  any  other 
you  may  deem  deserving  of  it.  .  .  . 

"The  volume  of  corrected  Psalms  you  will 
please  retain  till  I  revisit  Edinburgh,  which 
perhaps,  if  weather  be  favourable,  may  be  at 
Christmas. — I  have  the  honour  to  be,  my  dear 
!Mrs.  Grant,  your  very  faithful  servant, 

"Wm.   Texnant," 

"  DevQugrove,  Dollar,  15th  Dec.  1831. 

"  ^ly  dear  Mrs.  Grant, — It  was  with  the 
utmost  pleasure  I  received  your  esteemed  letter 
of  28th  ult.,  which  I  perused  with  much  de- 
light. I  am  glad  indeed  to  iind  that  you  enjoy 
the  same  good  health  in  which  I  left  you  in 
September.     I  shall  be  now  fain  to  see  your 


remarks  on  the  attempted  emendations  of  our 
much-revered  old  Scottish  Psalm-ver.sion.   .  .  . 

"Since  I  had  the  pleasure  of  seeing  you  I 
have  been  bereaved  of  my  good  old  mother, 
who  died  at  my  house  about  four  weeks  ago. 
She  lived  with  me  after  my  father's  death  for 
the  space  of  about  three  and  a  half  years.  She 
had  enjoyed  for  several  years  very  good  health, 
and  we  were  all  happy  together.  "What  a 
blank  has  been  created  in  our  happy  house- 
hold by  her  departure!  It  will  be  a  long  time 
ere  I  become  reconciled  to  it. 

"Attached  to  this,  I  beg  leave  to  send  you 
a  few  lines  written  after  her  decease, — '  To  her 
Spinning -wheel' — an  exercise  in  which  she 
took  great  delight.  I  was  much  affected  by 
the  circumstance  of  her  leaving  the  '  task  of 
flax'  unspun.  I  should  be  glad  if  you  were 
pleased  with  the  few  stanzas  written  upon  this 
familiar  household  subject. 

"  Should  I  be  in  Edinburgh  at  the  Christmas 
holidays,  I  shall  avail  myself  of  that  oppor- 
tunity again  to  enjoy  the  pleasure  of  your 
conversation.  —  And  believe  me  to  be  at  all 
times,  my  dear  ]\Irs.  Grant,  very  sincerely  your 
faithful  servant,  Wm.  Tennant." 


ANSTER    FAIR.i 


CAXTO   I. 

While  some  of  Troy  and  pettish  heroes  sing, 
And  some  of  Rome  and  chiefs  of  pious  fame, 

And  some  of  men  that  thought  it  harmless  thing 
To  smite  off  heads  in  Mars'  bloody  game, 

And  some  of  Eden's  [garden  gay  with  spring, 
And  Hell's  dominions,  ternblo  to  name, — 

I  sing  a  theme  far  livelier,  happier,  gladder, 

I  sing  of  Anster  Fair,  and  bonny  Maggie  Lauder. 

What  time  from  east,  from  west,  from  south, 
from  north, 
From  every  hamlet,  town,  and  smoky  city. 
Laird,  clown,  and  beau   to   Anster   Fair   came 
forth— 
The  young,  the  gay,  the  handsome,  and  the 
witty, 
To  trj-  in  various  sport  and  game  their  worth. 
Whilst  prize  before  them  Maggie  sat,the  pretty, 

1  Allan  Cunningli.im  e-nya  of  this  charming  poem, 
written  in  the  Mava  i-ima  of  the  Italians  :—"  William 
Tennant,  in  his  very  original  poem  of  'Anster  Fair,' 
gave  Frere  and  Byrou  more  tliau  a  hint  for  '  Whistle 


And  after  many  a  feat,  and  joke,  and  banter, 
Fair  Maggie's  hand  was  won  by  mighty  Rob  the 
Ranter. 

Muse,  that  from  top  of  thine  old  Greekish  hill, 
Didst    the    harp  -  fing'ring    Theban    younker 
view, 
And  on  his  lips  bid  bees  their  sweets  distil, 
And  gav'st  the  chariot  that  the  white  swans 
drew — 
0  let  me  scoop,  from  thine  ethereal  rill. 

Some  little  palmfnls  of  the  blessed  dew, 
And  lend  the  swan-drawn  car,  that  .safely  I, 
Like  him,  may  scorn  the  earth,  and  burst  into 
the  sky. 

Our  themes  are  like;  for  he  the  games  extoll'd 
Held  in  the  chariot-shaken  Grecian  plains, 

W'hcre  the  vain  victor,  aiTogant  and  bold, 
Parsley  or  laurel  got  for  all  his  pains. 

Craft'  and  'Beppo;'  nor  is  it  nnjust  to  say  that  the 
imitators  have  not  at  all  equalled  the  life,  the  naivele, 
the  ludicrous  dashed  with  the  solemn,  and  the  witty 
with  both,  which  characterize  the  poet  of  Dollar."— Ed. 


WILLIAM   TENNAXT. 


51 


I  sing  of  sports  more  worthy  to  be  told, 

Where  better  prize  the  Scottish  \'ietor  gains; 
What  were  the  crowns  of  Greece  but  wind  and 

bladder, 
Compared  with  marriage-bed  of  bonnie  INIaggie 
Lauder  ? 

And  0  that  King  Apollo  would  but  grant 
A  little  spark  of  that  transcendent  flame, 

That  fir'd  the  Chian  rhapsodist  to  chant 
How  vied  the  bowmen  for  Ulj'sses'  dame; 

And  him  of  Rome  to  sing  how  Atalant 

PUed,    dart  in   hand,   the   suitor-slaught'ring 
game, 

Till  the  bright  gold,  bowl'd  forth  along  the  grass, 

Betray'd  her  to  a  spouse,  and  stopp'd  the  bound- 
ing lass. 

But  lo!  fro  n  bosom  of  yon  southern  cloud, 

I  see  the  chariot  come  which  Pindar  bore; 
I   see  the   swans,   whose   white   necks,  arching 
proud. 
Glitter  with  golden  j'oke,  approach  my  shore: 
For  me  they  come! — 0  Phoebus,  potent  god! 
Spare,  spare  me  now — Enough,  good  king — no 
more — 
A  little  spark  I  ask'd  in  moderation, 
Why  scorch  me  ev'n  to  death  with  fiery  inspu-a- 
tion  1 

My  pulse  beats  fire — my  pericranium  glows, 
Like  baker's  oven,  with  poetic  heat; 

A  thousand  bright  ideas,  spurning  prose, 
Are  in  a  twinkling  hatch'd  in  Fancy's  seat; 

Zjunds!  they  will  fly  out  at  my  ears  and  nose. 
If  through  my  mouth  they  find  not  passage 
fleet; 

1  hear  them  buzzing  deep  within  my  noddle, 

Like  bees  that  in  their  hives  confus'dly  hum  and 
huddle. 

How  now  ? — what's  this  ? — my  very  eyes,  I  trow, 
Drop  on  my  hands  their  base  prosaic  scales; 

My  ^^sual  orbs  are  purg'd  from  film,  and  lo! 
Instead  of  Anster's  turnip-bearing  vales, 

I  see  old  Fairyland's  mirac'lous  show — 
Her  trees  of  tinsel  kiss'd  by  freakish  gales, 

Her  ouphes,  that  cloak'd  in  leaf-gold  skim  the 
breeze, 

And  fairies  swarming  thick  as  mites  in  rotten 
cheese. 

I  see  the  puny  fair-chinn'd  goblin  rise 
Suddenly  glorious  from  his  mustard-pot; 

I  see  him  wave  his  hand  in  seemly  wise. 
And  button  round  him  tight  his  fulgent  coat; 

While  Maggie  Lauder,  in  a  great  surprise, 
Sits  startled  on  her  chair,  yet  fearing  not; 

I  see  him  ope  his  dewy  lips;  I  hear 

The  strange  and  strict  command   address'd   to 
Maggie's  ear. 


I  see  the  Ranter  with  bagpipe  on  back, 
As  to  the  fair  he  rides  jocmidly  on; 

I  see  the  crowds  that  press  with  speed  not  slack 
Along  each  road  that  leads  to  Anstcr  Loan ; 

I  see  the  suitors,  that,  deep-sheathed  in  sack. 
Hobble   and    tumble,   bawl   and    swear,    and 
groan; 

I  see — but  fie,  thou  brainish  Muse!  what  mean 

These  vapourings,  and  brags  of  what  by  thee  is 
seen  ? 

Go  to! — be  cooler,  and  in  order  tell 

To  all  my  good  co-townsmen  list'ning  round. 

How  every  merry  incident  befel, 
W^hereby  our  loan  shall  ever  be  renown'd; 

Say  first,  what  elf  or  fairy  could  impel 

Fair  Mag,  with  wit,  and  wealth,  and  beauty 
crowu'd, 

To  put  her  suitors  to  such  waggish  test, 

And  give  her  happy  bed  to  him  that  jumped  best? 

'Twas  on  a  keen  December  night;  John  Frost 
Drove  through  mid  air  his  chariot,  icy-wheel'd. 

And  from  the  sky's  crisp  ceiling  star-enibost. 
Whiff 'd  off  the  clouds  that  the  pure  blue  coii- 
ceal'd; 

The  hornless  moon  amid  her  brilliant  host 
Shone,  and  with  silver- sheeted  lake  and  field. 

'Twas  cutting  cold ;  I'm  sure  each  trav'ler's  nose 

Was  pinch'd  rigfit  red  that  night,  and  numb'd 
were  all  his  toes. 

Not  so  were  Maggie  Lauder's  toes,  as  she 
In  her  warm  chamber  at  her  supper  sate 

(For  'twas  that  hour  when  burgesses  agree 
To  eat  their  suppers  ere  the  night  grows  late). 

Alone  she  sat,  and  pensive  as  may  be 
A  young  fair  lady,  wishful  of  a  mate; 

Yet  with  her  teeth  held  now  and  then  a  pick'ng. 

Her  stomach  to  refresh,   the   breast-bone  of  a 
chicken. 

She  thought  upon  her  suitors,  that  with  love 
Besiege  her  chamber  all  the  livelong  day, 

Aspii'ing  each  her  virgin  heart  to  move. 
With  courtship's  every  troublesome  essay; 

Calling  her  angel,  sweeting,  fondling,  dove. 
And  other  nicknames  in  love's  friv'lous  waj*; 

While  she,  though  their  addresses  still  slie  heard, 

Held  back  from  all  her  heart,  and  still  no  beau 
preferr'd. 

AVhat,  what!  quo'  Mag,  must  thus  it  be  my  doom 
To  spend  my  prime  in  maidhood's  joyless  state, 

And  waste  away  my  sprightly  body's  bloom 
In  spouseless  solitude  without  a  mate, 

Still  toying  with  my  suitors,  as  thej^  come 
Cringing  in  lowly  courtship  to  my  gate  ? 

Fool  that  I  am,  to  live  unwed  so  long ! 

More  fool,  since  I  am  woo'd  by  such  a  clam'rous 
throng ! 


52 


WILLIAM  TENNANT. 


For  was  e'er  heiress  with  much  gold  in  chest, 
And  dower'd  with  acres  of  wheat-bearing  land, 

By  such  a  pack  of  men,  in  am'rous  quest, 
Fawningly  spaniel'd  to  bestow  her  hand? 

Where'er  I  walk,  the  air  that  feeds  my  breast 
Is  by  the  gusty  sighs  of  lovers  fann'd; 

Each  wind  that  blows  wafts  love-cards  to  my  lap, 

"Whilst  I— ah,  stupid  Mag !— avoid  each  am'rous 
trap! 

Then  come,  let  me  my  suitors'  merits  weigh. 
And  in  the  worthiest  lad  my  spouse  select: — 

First,  there's  our  Anster  merchant,  Norman  Ray, 
A  powder'd  wight  with  golden  buttons  deck'd. 

That  stinks  with  scent,  and  chats  like  popinjay, 
And  struts  with  phiz  tremendously  erect: 

Four  brigs  has  he,  that  on  the  broad  sea  swim, — 

He  is  a  pompous  fool — I  cannot  tliink  of  him. 

Next  is  the  maltster  Andrew  Strang,  that  takes 
His  seat  i'  the  bailies'  loft  on  Sabbath-day, 

"With  paltry  visage  white  as  oaten-cakes. 
As  if  no  blood  runs  gurgling  in  his  clay; 

Heav'ns !  what  an  awkward   hunch   the  fellow 
makes. 
As  to  the  priest  he  does  the  bow  repay! 

Yet  he  is  rich — a  very  wealthy  man,  true — 

But,  by  the  holy  rood,  I  will   have   none  of 
Andrew. 

Then  for  the  lairds — there's  IMelvil  of  Canibce, 
A  handsome  gallant,  and  a  beau  of  spirit ; 

AVho  can  go  down  the  dance  so  well  as  he  ? 
And  who  can  fiddle  with  siich  manly  merit? 

Ay,  but  he  is  too  much  the  debauchee — 

His  cheeks  seem  sponges  oozing  port  and  claret; 

In  marrying  him  I  should  bestow  myself  ill. 

And  so  I'll  not  have  you,  thou  fuddler,  Hany 
I^Ielvil ! 

There's  Cunningham  of  Bams,  that  still  assails 
With  verse  and  billet-doux  my  gentle  heart, 
A  bookish  squire,  and  good  at  telling  tales. 
That  rhymes  and  whines  of  Cupid,  flame,  and 
dart; 
But,  oh  I  his  mouth  a  sorry  smell  exhales, 

Anil  on  his  nose  sjirouts  horribly  the  wart; 
What  though  tliere  be  a  fund  of  lore  and  fun  in 

Iiira  ? 
He  has  a  rotten  breath — I  cannot  think  of  Cun- 
ningham. 

Why  then,  there's  AUardyce,  that  plies  his  suit 
And  Iwittcry  of  courtship  more  and  more; 

Spruce  Lochmalonie,  that  with  booted  foot 
Each  moniing  wears  the  threshold  of  my  door; 

Auclimoutie  too,  and  Bruce,  that  persecute 
My  tender  heart  with  am'rous  buffets  sore: — ■ 

AVhom  to  my  hand  and  bed  should  I  promote? 

Eh-la!  what  sight  is  tliis  ?— what  ails  my  mustard- 
pot? 


Here  broke  the  lady  her  soliloquy; 

For  in  a  twink  her  jiot  of  mustard,  lo! 
Self-moved,  like  Jove's  wheel'd  stool  that  rolls 
on  high, 
'Gan  caper  on  her  table  to  and  fro. 
And  hopp'd  and  fidgeted  before  her  eye. 

Spontaneous,    here    and    there,   a  wond'rous 
show : 
As  leaps,  instinct  with  mercury,  a  bladder. 
So  leaps    the   mustard-pot   of    bonnie    Maggie 
Lauder. 

Soon  stopp'd  its  dance  th'  ignoble  utensil, 

When  from  its  round  and  small  recess  there 
came 
Thin  curling  wreaths  of  paly  smoke,  that  still. 

Fed  by  some  magic  unapparent  tlame, 
Moimt  to  the  chamber's  stucco'd  roof,  and  fill 
Each  nook   with  fragrance,  and    refresh   the 
dame : 
Ne'er  smelt  a  Phoenix-nest  so  sweet,  I  wot. 
As  smelt  the  luscious  fumes  of  Maggie's  mustard- 
pot. 

It  reeked  censer-like;  then,  strange  to  tell! 
Forth  from  the  smoke,  that  thick  and  thicker 
grows, 
A  fairy  of  the  height  of  half  an  ell. 

In  dwarfish  pomp,  majestically  rose: 
His  feet,  upon  the  table  'stablished  well. 

Stood  trim  and  splendid  in  their  snake-skin 
hose; 
Gleam'd  topaz-like  the  breeches  he  liad  on. 
Whose  waistband  like  the  bend  of  summer  rain- 
bow shone. 

His  coat  seem'd  fashion'd  of  the  threads  of  gold, 
That  intertwine  the  clouds  at  sunset  hour; 

And,  certes.  Iris  with  her  shuttle  bold 

AVove  the  rich  garment  in  her  lofty  bower; 

To  form  its  buttons  were  the  Pleiads  old 

Pluck'd  from  their  sockets,sure  by  genie-power, 

And  sew'd  upon  the  coat's  resplendent  hem ; 

Its  neck  was  lovely  green,  each  cuff  a  sapi)hire 
gem. 

As  when  tlie  churlish  spirit  of  the  Cape 
To  Gama,  voyaging  to  Mozambiijue, 

Up-popp'd  from  sea,  a  tangle-tassel'd  shape. 
With  mussels  sticking  inch-thick  on  his  cheek, 

And  'gan  with  tortoise-shell  his  limbs  to  scrape. 
And  yawn'd  his  monstrotis  bloblicrlips  to  speak; 

Brave  Gama's  hairs  stood  bristled  at  the  sight. 

And  on  the  tarry  deck  sunk  down  his  men  with 
fright. 

So  sudden  (not  so  huge  and  gi-imly  dire) 

Uprose  to  Maggie's  stoinided  ejiie  the  sprite. 

As  fair  a  fairy  as  you  could  desire. 

With  ruddy  cheek,  and  chin  and  temjiles  white; 

His  eyes  seem'd  little  points  of  sparkling  fire. 
That,  as  ho  look'd,  charm'd  with  inviting  Ught; 


WILLIAM  TENNANT. 


53 


He  was,  indeed,  as  bonny  a  fay  and  brisk, 
As  e'er  on  long  moonbeam  was  seen  to  ride  and 
frisk. 

Around  his  bosom,  by  a  silken  zone, 
A  little  bagpipe  gracefully  was  bound. 

Whose  pipes  like  hollow  stalks  of  silver  shone, 
The  glist'ring  tiny  avenues  of  sound ; 

Beneath  his  arm  the  windy  bag,  full-blown, 
Heaved  up  its  purple  like  an  orange  round. 

And  only  waited  orders  to  discharge 

Its  blast  with  charming  groan  into  the  sky  at  large. 

He  wav'd  his  hand  to  Maggie,  as  she  sat 
Amaz'd  and  startled  on  her  carved  chair; 

Then  took  his  petty  feather-garnish'd  hat 
In  honour  to  the  lady  from  his  hair. 

And  made  a  bow  so  dignitiedly  flat. 

That  Mag  was  witched  with  his  beauish  air. 

At  last  he  spoke,  with  voice  so  soft,  so  kind. 

So  sweet,  as  if  his  throat  with  fidille-strings  was 
hu'd:— 

Lady  !  be  not  offended  that  I  dare. 
Thus  forward  and  unpertinently  rude. 

Emerge,  uncall'd,  into  the  upper  air. 
Intruding  on  a  maiden's  solitude. 

Nay,  do  not  be  alarm'd,  thou  lady  fair! 
Why  startle  so?— I  am  a  fairy  good; 

Not  one  of  those  that,  envying  beauteous  maids. 

Speckle  their  skins   with   moles,   and  fill  with 
spleens  their  heads. 

For,  as  conceal'd  in  this  clay-house  of  mine, 

I  overheard  thee  in  a  lowly  voice, 
Weighing  thy  lovers'  merits,  with  design 

Now  on  the  \vorthiest  lad  to  fix  thy  choice, 
I  have  up-bolted  from  my  paltry  shrine. 

To  give  thee,  sweet-ey'd  lass,  my  best  advice; 
For  by  the  life  of  Oberon  my  king ! 
To  pick  good  husband  out  is,  sure,  a  ticklish 
thing. 

And  never  shall  good  Tommy  Puck  pemiit 
Such  an  assemblage  of  unwonted  charms 

To  cool  some  lecher's  lewd  licentious  fit. 

And  sleep  imbounded  by  his  boisterous  amis: 

What  though  his  fields  by  twenty  ploughs  be  split, 
And  golden  wheat  wave  riches  on  his  farms  ? 

His  house  is  shame — it  cainiot,  shall  not  be; 

A  greater,  happier  doom,  0  Mag,  awaiteth  thee. 

Strange  are  indeed  the  steps  by  which  thou  must 
Thy  glory's  happy  eminence  attain; 

But  fate  hath  fix'd  them,  and  'tis  fate's  t'  adjust 
The  mighty  links  that  ends  to  means  enchain; 

Nor  may  poor  Puck  his  little  fingers  thiiist 
Into  the  links  to  break  Jove's  steel  in  twain: 

Then,  Maggie,  hear,  and  let  my  words  descend 

Into  thy  soul,  for  much  it  boots  thee  to  attend. 

To-morrow,  when  o'er  th'  Isle  of  May  the  sun 
Lifts  up  his  forehead  bright  with  golden  crown, 


Call  to  thine  house  the  light-hccl'd  men,  that  run 

Afar  on  messages  for  Anster  Town, — 
Fellows  of  sp'rit,  by  none  in  speed  outdone, 
Of  lofty  voice,  enough  a  drum  to  drown, 
And  bid  them  hie,  post-haste,  through  all  the 

nation. 
And  publish,  far  and  near,  this  famous  procla- 
mation : — 

Let  them  proclaim,  with  voice's  loudest  tone. 
That  on  your  next  api^roaching  market-day. 

Shall  merry  sports  be  held  in  Anster  Loan, 
With  celebi-ation  notable  and  gay; 

And  that  a  prize,  than  gold  or  precious  stone 
More  precious,  shall  the  victor's  toils  repay, 

Ev'n  thy  own  fomi  with  beauties  so  replete, — 

Nay,  Maggie,  stai-t  not  thus!— thy  marriage-bed, 
my  sweet. 

First,  on  the  loan  shall  ride  full  many  an  ass, 
With  stout  whip-wielding  rider  on  his  back. 

Intent  with  twinkling  hoof  to  pelt  the  grass. 
And  pricking  up  his  long  ears  at  the  crack ; 

Next  o'er  the  ground  the  daring  men  shall  pass, 
Half-coffin'd  in  their  cumbranccs  of  sack. 

With  heads  just  peeping  from  their  shrines  of 
bag. 

Horribly  hobbling  round,  and  straining  hard  for 
Mag. 

Then  shall  the  pipers  groaningly  begin 
In  squeaking  rivalry  their  merry  strain. 

Till  Billyness  shall  echo  back  the  din. 
And  Innergelly  woods  shall  ring  again ; 

Last,  let  each  man  that  hopes  thy  hand  to  win 
By  witty  product  of  prolific  brain, 

Approach,  and,  confident  of  Pallas'  aid. 

Claim  by  an  hum'rous  tale  possession  of  thy  bed. 

Such  are  the  wondrous  tests,  by  which,  my  love! 

The  merits  of  thy  husband  must  be  tried, 
And  he  that  shall  in  these  superior  jjrove 

(One  proper  husband  shall  the  Fates  provide), 
Shall  from  the  loan  with  thee  triumphant  move 

Homeward,  the  jolly  bridegroom  and  the  bride. 
And  at  thy  house  shall  eat  the  marriage-feast, 
When  I'll  pop  up  again! — Here  Tommy  Puck 
surceast. 

He  ceas'd,  and  to  his  wee  mouth,  dewy  wet, 
His  bagpipe's  tube  of  silver  up  he  held. 

And  underneath  his  down-press'd  arm  he  set 
His  purple  bag,  that  with  a  tempest  swell'd; 

He  play'd  and  pip'd  so  sweet,  that  never  yet 
Mag  had  a  piper  heard  that  Puck  excell'd; 

Had  Midas  heard  a  tune  so  exquisite. 

By  Heav'n!  bis  long  base  ears  had  quiver'd  with 
delight. 

Tingle  the  fire-ir'ns,  poker,  tongs,  and  grate, 
Responsive  to  the  blithesome  melody; 


54 


WILLIAM  TENNANT. 


The  tables  and  the  chairs  inanimate 

Wish  they  had  muscles  now  to  trip  it  high; 

Wave  back  and  forwards  at  a  wondrous  rate, 
The  window-curtains,  toxich'd  with  sympathy; 

Fork,  knife,  and  trencher  almost  break  their  sloth. 

And  caper  on  their  ends  upon  the  table-cloth. 

How  then  could  Maggie,  sprightly,  smart,  and 
young. 
Withstand  that  bagpipe's  blithe  awak'ning  air? 
She, as  her  ear-drum  caught  the  sounds, up-sprung 

Like  lightning,  and  desj^is'd  her  idle  chair. 
And  into  all  the  dance's  graces  flung 

The  bounding  members  of  her  body  fair; 
From  nook  to  nook  through  all  her  room  she 

tript. 
And  whirl'd  like  whirligig,  and  reel'd,  and  bobb'd, 
and  skipt. 

At  last  the  little  piper  ceas'd  to  play. 
And  deftly  bow'd,  and  said,  "  My  dear,  good- 
night;" 

Then  in  a  smoke  evanish'd  clean  away, 
With  all  his  gaudy  apparatus  bright; 

As  breaks  soap-bubble  which  a  boy  in  play 
Blows  from  his  short  tobacco-pipe  aright. 

So  broke  poor  Puck  from  view,  and  on  the  spot 

Y-smoking  aloes-reek  he  left  his  mustard-pot. 

Whereat  the  furious  lady's  wriggling  feet 
Forgot  to  patter  in  such  pelting  ^vise, 

And  down  she  gladly  sunk  upon  her  seat, 
Fatigu'd  and  panting  from  her  exercise; 

She  sat  and  mus'd  awhile,  as  it  was  meet, 
On  what  so  late  had  occupied  her  ej'es; 

Then  to  her  bedroom  went,  and  doff"d  her  gown. 

And  laid  upon  her  couch  her  charming  person 
down. 

Some  say  that  Maggie  slept  so  sound  that  night. 
As  never  she  had  slept  since  she  was  born; 

But  sure  am  I,  that,  thoughtful  of  the  sprite, 
She  twenty  times  upon  her  bed  did  turn; 

For  still  appear'd  to  stand  before  her  sight 
The  gaudy  goblin,  glorious  from  his  urn. 

And  still,  within  the  cavern  of  her  ear, 

Th'  injunction  echoing  rung,  so  strict  and  strange 
to  hear. 

But  when  the  silver-hamess'd  steeds,  that  draw 
The  car  of  morning  up  th'  empyreal  height. 

Had  snorted  day  upon  North  Berwick  Law, 
And  from  then-  gUst'ring  loose  manes  toss'd 
the  light. 

Immediately  from  bed  she  rose,  (such  awe 
Of  Tommy  press'd  her  soul  with  anxious  weight, ) 

And  donn'd  her  tissued  fragrant  morning  vest. 

And  to  fulfil  his  charge  her  earliest  care  addrest. 

Straight  to  her  house  she  tarried  not  to  call 
Her  messengers  and  heralds  swift  of  foot, — 


Men  skill'd  to  hop  o'er  dikes  and  ditches;  all 
Gifted  with  sturdy  brazen  lungs  to  boot; 

She  bade  them  halt  at  every  town,  and  bawl 
Her  proclamation  out  with  mighty  bruit. 

Inviting  loud,  to  Anster  Loan  and  Fair, 

The  Scottish  beau  to  jump  for  her  sweet  person 
there. 

They  took  each  man  his  staff  into  his  hand ; 
They  buttou'd  round  their  bellies  close  their 
coats; 
They  flew  divided  through  the  frozen  land ; — 

Were  never  seen  such  swiftly-trav'ling  Scots  I 
Nor  ford,  slough,  mountain,  could  their  speed 
withstand ; 
Such  fleetness  have  the  men  that  feed  on  oats! 
They  skirr'd,  they  floundcr'd  through  the  sleets 

and  snows. 
And  puff'd  against  the  winds,  that  bit  m  spite 
each  nose. 

They  halted  at  each  wall-fenc'd  town  renown'd. 
And  ev'ry  lesser  borough  of  the  nation ; 

And  with  the  trumpet's  welkin-rifting  sound. 
And  tuck  of  dnmi  of  loud  reverberation, 

Tow'rds  the  four  wings  of  heav'n,  they,  round 
and  round, 
Proclaim'd  in  Stentor-like  vociferation. 

That,  on  th'  approaching  day  of  Anster  market. 

Should  merry  sports  be  held: — Hush!  listen  now, 
and  hark  it! — • 

"  Ho!  beau  and  pipers,  wits  and  jumpers,  ho! 

Ye  buxom  blades  that  like  to  kiss  the  las.ses; 
Ye  that  are  skill'd  sew'd  up  in  sacks  to  go; 

Ye  that  excel  in  horsemanship  of  asses; 
Ye  that  are  smart  at  telling  tales,  and  know 

On  Rhyme's  two  stilts  to  cnitch  it  up  Parnassus; 
Ho  I  lads,  your  sacks,  pipes,  asses,  tales,  prepare 
To  jump,  play,  ride,  and  rhyme  at  Anster  Loan 
and  Fair! 

' '  First,  on  the  green  turf  shall  each  ass  draw  nigh, 
Caparison'd  or  clouted  for  the  race, 

With  mounted  rider,  sedulous  to  ply 

Cudgel  or  whip,  and  win  the  foremost  place; 

Next,  shall  th'  advent 'rous  men,  that  dare  to  try 
Their  bodies'  springiness  in  hempen  ease, 

Put  on  their  bags,  and,  with  ridic'lous  bound. 

And  sweat  and  huge  tunnoil,  pass  lab'ring  o'er 
the  ground. 

"Then  shall  the  pipers,  gentlemen  o'  the  drone, 
Their  pijies  in  gleesome  competition  screw. 

And  grace,  with  loud  solemnity  of  groan. 
Each  his  invented  tune  to  th'  audience  new ; 

Last  shall  each  witty  bard,  to  whom  is  known 
The  craft  of  Helicon's  rhjTiie-jingling  crew. 

His  story  tell  in  good  poetic  strains, 

And  make  his  learned  tongue  the  midwife  to  his 
brains. 


WILLIAM  TENNANT. 


Oo 


"And  he  whose  tongue  the  wittiest  tale  shall  tell, 

Whose  bagpipe  shall  the  sweetest  tune  resound, 

Whose  heels,  the'  cloggd  with  sack,  shall  jump 

it  well, 
Whose  ass  shall  foot  with  fleetest  hoof  the  ground, 
He  who  from  all  the  rest  shall  bear  the  bell. 

With  victory  in  every  trial  crown'd, 
He  (mark  it,  lads!)  to  Maggie  Lauder's  house 
That  self-same  night  shall  go,  and  take  her  for 
his  spouse." 

Here  ceas'd  the  criers  of  the  sturdy  lungs; 

But  here  the  gossip  Fame  (whose  body's  pores 
Are  nought  but  open  ears  and  babbhng  tongues, 

That  gape  and  wriggle  on  her  hide  in  scores), 
Began  to  jabber  o'er  each  city's  throngs, 
Blaz'ning  the  news  through  all  the  Scottish  shores; 
Nor  had°she  blabb'd,  methinks,  so  stoutly  since 
Queen  Dido's  peace  was  broke  by  Troy's  love- 
truaat  prince. 

In  every  lowland  vale  and  Highland  glen 

She  nois'd  the  approaching  fun  of  Anster  Fair; 

Ev'n  when  in  sleep  were  laid  the  sons  of  men, 
Snoring  away  on  good  chaff  beds  their  care, 

You  might  have  heard  her  faintly  murm'ring  then, 
For  lack  of  audience,  to  the  midnight  air. 

That  from  Fife's  East  Nook  up  to  farthest  Stor- 
noway. 

Fair  Maggie's  loud  report  most  rapidly  was  borne 
away. 

And  soon  the  mortals  that  design  to  strive 
By  meritorious  jumping  for  the  prize. 

Train  up  their  bodies,  ere  the  day  arrive. 
To  th'  lumpish  sack-encumbei-'d  exercise; 

You  might  have  seen  no  less  than  four  or  five 
Hobbling  in  each  town  loan  in  awkward  giiise; 

E'en  little  boys,  when  from  the  school  let  out, 

Mimick'd  the' bigger  beaux,  and  leap'd  in  pokes 
about. 


Through  cots  and  gi-anges  with  industrious  foot. 
By  laird  and  knight  were  light-hcel'd  asses 
sought. 
So  that  no  ass  of  any  gi-cat  repute 

For  twenty  Scots  marks  could  have  then  been 
bought; 
Nor  e'er,  before  or  since,  the  long-ear'd  brute 

Was  such  a  goodly  acquisition  thought. 
The  pipers  vex'd  their  ears  and  pipes,  t'  invent 
Some  tune  that  might  the  taste  of  Anster  Mag 
content. 

Each  poet,  too,  whose  lore-manured  brain 
Is  hot  of  soil,  and  sprouts  up  mushroom  wit, 

Ponder'd  his  noddle  into  extreme  pain 
T'  excogitate  some  storj^  nice  and  fit: 

^\^len  rack'd  had  been  his  skull  some  hours  in 
vain, 
He,  to  relax  his  mind  a  Uttle  bit, 


Plung'd  deep  into  a  sack  his  precious  body, 
And  school'd  it  for  the  race,  and  hopp'd  around 
his  study. 

Such  was  the  sore  preparatory  care 
Of  all  th'  ambitious  that  for  April  sigh: 

Nor  sigh  the  young  alone  for  Anster  Fair; 
Old  men  and  wives,  erewhile  content  to  die. 

Who  hardly  can  forsake  their  easy-chair. 
To  take,  abroad,  farewell  of  sun  and  sky. 

With  new  desu-e  of  life  now  glowing,  pray 

That  they  may  just  o'erlive  our  famous  market- 
day. 


TAMMY  LITTLE. 

Wee  Tammy  Little,  honest  man  ! 

I  kent  the  body  weel, 
As  round  the  kintra-side  he  gaed, 

Careerin'  wi'  his  creel. 

He  was  sae  slender  and  sae  wee. 
That  aye  when  blasts  did  blaw, 

He  ballasted  himself  wi'  staues 
'Gainst  bein'  blawn  awa. 

A  meikle  stane  the  wee  bit  man 
In  ilka  coat-pouch  clappit, 

That  by  the  michty  gowlin'  wind 
He  miohtna  doun  be  swappit. 

When  he  did  chance  within  a  wood, 

On  simmer  days  to  be, 
Aye  he  was  friclited  lest  the  craws 
"^ Should  heise  him  up  on  hie; 

And  aye  he,  wi'  an  aiken  cud. 
The  air  did  thump  and  beat, 

To  stap  the  craws  frae  liftin'  him 
Up  to  their  nests  for  meat. 

Ae  day,  when  in  a  barn  he  lay. 
And  thrashers  thrang  were  thair, 

He  in  a  moment  vanish'd  aff. 
And  nae  man  could  tell  whair. 

They  lookit  till  the  riggin'  up. 
And  round  and  round  they  lookit, 

At  last  they  fand  him  underneath 
A  firlot  cruyled  and  crookit. 

Ance  as  big  Samuel  passed  him  by, 
Big  Samuel  gave  a  sneeze. 

And  wi'  the  sough  o't  he  was  cast 
Clean  doun  upon  his  knees. 

His  wife  and  he  upon  ane  day 
Did  chance  to  disagree. 


56 


WILLIAM   TENNANT. 


And  up  she  took  the  bellowses, 
As  wild  as  wife  could  be; 

She  gave  ane  pufF  intill  his  face, 
And  made  him,  like  a  feather, 

Flee  frae  the  tac  side  o'  the  house, 
Eesoundiu'  till  the  tither! 

Ae  simmer  e'en,  when  as  he  through 

Pitkirie  forest  past. 
By  tliree  braid  leaves,  blawn  aff  the  trees. 

He  doun  to  yird  was  cast; 

A  tirl  o'  wind  the  three  braid  leaves 

Doun  frae  the  forest  dang: 
Ane  frae  an  ash,  ane  frae  an  elm, 

Ane  frae  an  aik-tree  Strang; 

Ane  strack  him  sair  on  the  back-neck, 

Ane  on  the  nose  him  rappit, 
Ane  smote  him  on  tlie  vera  heart, 

And  doun  as  dead  he  drappil. 

But  ah!  but  ah!  a  drearier  dool 
Ance  hap'd  at  Ounston-dammy, 

That  heised  him  a'  thegither  up. 
And  maist  extinguished  Tammy; 

For,  as  he  cam  slow-daunderin'  doun, 
In's  hand  his  basket  hingin', 

And  staiver'd  ower  the  hei-road's  breidth, 
Frae  side  to  side  a-swingin'; 

There  cam  a  blast  frae  Kelly-laAv, 

As  bald  a  blast  as  ever 
Auld  snivelin'  Boreas  blew  abraid, 

To  mak'  the  warkl  shiver; 

It  liftit  Tammy  aff  his  feet, 

]\Iair  easy  than  a  sliavin', 
And  liurl'd  him  half-a-mile  complete 

Hie  up  'tween  earth  and  heaven. 

That  day  puir  Tammy  had  wi'  stanes 

No  ballasted  his  body, 
So  that  he  flew,  maist  like  a  shot, 

Ower  corn-land  and  ower  cloddy. 

You've  seen  ane  tumbler  on  a  stage, 
Tumble  sax  times  and  mair, 

But  Tammy  Aveel  sax  hundred  times 
Gaed  tumblin'  through  the  air. 

And  whan  the  whirly-wind  gave  ower 

He  frae  the  lift  fell  plumb, 
And  in  a  blink  stood  stickin'  fast 

In  Gaffer  Glowr-weel's  lum. 

Ay — there  his  legs  and  body  stack 
Amang  the  smotherin'  soot, 


But,  by  a  wonderfu'  good  luck. 
His  head  kept  peepin'  out. 

But  Gaffer  Glowr-weel,  when  he  saw 

A  man  stuck  in  his  lum. 
He  swarf 'd  wi'  drithcr  clean  awa. 

And  sat  some  seconds  dumb. 

It  took  five  masons  near  an  hour 

A'  riving  at  the  lum 
Wi'  picks,  (he  was  sae  jamm'd  therein,) 

Ere  Tammy  out  could  come. 

As  for  his  basket— weel  I  wat, 

His  basket's  fate  and  fa' 
AVas,  as  I've  heard  douce  neighbors  tell, 

The  queerest  thing  of  a'. 

The  blast  took  up  the  body's  creel 

xVnd  laid  it  on  a  cloud. 
That  bare  it,  sailin'  through  the  sky, 

liicht  ower  the  Firth's  braid  flood. 

And  whan  the  cloud  did  melt  awa. 
Then,  then  the  creel  cam'  doun. 

And  fell'd  the  toun-clerk  o'  Dunbar 
E'en  in  his  ain  gude  toun; 

The  clerk  stood  yelpin'  on  the  street. 
At  some  bit  strife  that  stirr'd  him, 

Doun  cam'  the  creel,  and  to  the  yird 
It  dang  him  wi'  a  dirdora  ! 


THE   EPITAPH   FOR  TAMMY. 

0  Earth!  0  Earth!  if  thou  hast  but 

A  rabbit-hole  to  spair, 
0  grant  the  graff  to  Tammy's  corp. 

That  it  may  nestle  thair! 

And  press  thou  light  on  him,  now  dead. 

That  was  sae  slim  and  wee. 
For  wcel  I  wat,  when  ho  was  quick, 

He  lightly  pressed  on  thee! 


ODE   TO   PEACE. 

Daughter  of  God !  that  sits  on  high. 
Amid  the  dances  of  the  sky, 
And  guidest  with  thy  gentle  sway 
The  planets  on  their  tuneful  way; 

Sweet  Peace!  shall  ne'er  again 
The  smile  of  thy  most  holy  face, 
From  thine  ethereal  dwelling-place 
llejoice  the  wretched  weary  race 
Of  discord-breathing  men? 


ALEXANDER  EODGER. 


57 


Too  long,  0  gladness  giving  queen! 
Thy  tanking  in  heaven  has  been; 
Too  long  o'er  tiiis  fair  blooming  world 
The  flag  of  blood  has  been  unfurled, 

Polluting  God's  pure  day; 
"Whilst,  as  each  maddening  people  reels, 
War  onward  drives  his  scythed  wheels. 
And  at  his  horse's  bloody  heels 
Shriek  murder  and  dismay. 

Oft  have  I  wept  to  hear  the  cry 

Of  widow  wailing  bitterly; 

To  see  the  parent's  silent  tear 

For  children  fallen  beneath  the  spear; 

And  I  have  felt  so  sore 
The  sense  of  human  guilt  and  woe, 
That  1,  in  virtue's  passioned  glow, 
Have  cursed  (my  soul  was  wounded  so) 
The  shape  of  man  I  bore! 
Then  come  from  thy  serene  abode. 
Thou  gladness-giving  child  of  God! 
And  cease  the  world's  ensanguined  strife, 
And  reconcile  my  soul  to  life; 

For  much  I  long  to  see, 
Ere  to  the  grave  I  down  descend. 
Thy  hand  her  blessed  branch  extend, 
And  to  the  Avorld's  remotest  end 

Wave  love  and  harmony! 


TO  MY  MOTHER'S  SPIXNING-WHEEL. 

(written  a  few  days  after  her  death.) 

Lo!  silent  now  and  motionless, 

Within  the  corner  stands 
The  busy  little  engine  once 

Mov'd  by  my  mother's  hands. 


I  bought  it  for  her,  low  and  light, 

To  turn  in  easy  wise. 
Thereby  t'invite  her  aged  foot 

To  gentle  exercise. 

How  gladsomely  she  sat  her  down 

Her  self-set  task  to  ply! 
How  lightsomely,  beside  the  hearth, 

Did  winter  evenings  fly ! 
I  question'd  her  of  Thrift,  and  all 

Her  linen-making  toils; 
And  she  informed  my  ignorance 

All  readily  with  smiles. 

Idle  awhile  the  engine  stood 

In  autumn's  jolly  reign; 
She  chid  herself  for  idleness. 

And  sought  her  wheel  again. 
She  spread  the  flax  all  smooth;  she  warp'd 

It  round  the  distaff  fair; — 
Alas!  her  hand  ne'er  touch'd  the  work — 

She  died — and  left  it  there! 

And  now  another  hand  must  spin 

The  flaxen  remnant  out; 
A  foot  of  greater  energy 

Must  force  the  wheel  about. 
No  more  my  chamber  with  its  hum. 

At  eve,  shall  shaken  be; 
A  house-wife's  thrift,  a  house-wife's  toils, 

No  more  have  charms  for  me ! 

Yet,  little  engine!  though  thy  sound 

No  more  shall  please  mine  ear. 
Yet  ever  to  mine  eye  thou  shalt 

Be  a  memorial  dear. 
Ev'n  for  her  sake  that  exercis'd 

Her  aged  foot  on  thee, 
I'll  look  on  thee  with  love;  and  thou 

Shalt  never  part  from  me. 


ALEXANDER    EODGEE. 


Born  1784— Died  1846. 


Alexander  Eodger,  some  of  whose  songs 
have  been  \evy  popular,  was  born  at  East- 
Calder,  Mid-Lothian,  July  16,1784.  His  father, 
at  first  a  farmer,  afterwards  became  tenant  of 
an  inn  at  Mid-Calder,  where  Alexander  was 
sent  to  school.  Five  years  later  he  removed 
to  Edinburgh,  and  apprenticed  his  son  to  a 
silversmith  there.     In  1797  his  affliirs  became 


so  much  embarrassed  that  he  removed  to  Ham- 
burg, and  Alexander  was  sent  to  reside  with 
relations  in  Glasgow,  by  whom  he  was  appren- 
ticed to  a  weaver.  In  1803  he  was  induced 
to  join  the  Glasgow  Highland  Volunteers,  a 
corps  principally  composed  of  Highlanders,  and 
it  became  a  favourite  amusement  with  him  to 
hit   off  the   peculiarities  of  his  Celtic   com- 


58 


ALEXANDER   EODGER. 


panions-in-arms.  In  180G  he  married  Agnes 
Turner,  by  whom  lie  had  a  large  family,  some 
of  whom  removed  to  theUnited  States.  Adding 
a  little  to  his  income  by  giving  lessons  in 
music,  the  peaceful  tenor  of  the  poet's  life  con- 
tinued unbroken  nntil  the  year  1819,  when  he 
was  led  to  connect  himself  with  a  Radical 
journal  called  the  Spirit  of  the  Union,  ori- 
ginated with  the  design  of  creating  disaffection 
to  the  government.  The  editor  was  trans- 
ported for  life;  the  poet  was  convicted  of  re- 
volutionary practices,  and  sent  to  prison  for  a 
short  time.  Here  his  indignant  spirit  used  to 
solace  itself  by  singing  aloud  his  own  political 
compositions,  which,  being  well  spiced  with 
Eadicalism,  were  exceedingly  distasteful  to  his 
jailers.  Soon  after  his  release  he  obtained  a 
situation  in  the  Barrowfield  Works  as  an  in- 
spector of  the  cloths,  which  he  retained  for 
eleven  years,  and  during  this  period  he  pro- 
duced some  of  his  best  poems.  In  1832  he 
left  this  excellent  position  to  engage  with  a 
friend  in  the  pawnbroking  business — avocation 
not  at  all  suitable  for  the  kind-hearted  poet, 


who  afterwards  abandoned  it,  and  obtained  a 
situation  in  the  Glasgow  Chronicle  office.  In 
1836  he  removed  to  the  Reformers  Gazette 
office,  where  he  remained  until  his  death, 
highly  esteemed  by  his  employers  and  a  wide 
circle  of  friends.  Mr.  Rodger's  health  began 
to  fail  during  the  summer  of  1846,  and  he  died 
on  the  26th  September  of  that  year.  A  hand- 
some monument  was  erected  over  his  remains 
in  the  Necropolis  of  Glasgow. 

Rodger's  first  appearance  as  an  avowed  author 
was  in  1827,  when  a  volume  of  his  poems  was 
published  in  Glasgow:  and  in  1838  a  new  and 
complete  edition  was  issued.  His  poetry  is  a 
combination  of  humour  and  satire,  and  it  is 
perhaps  not  too  much  to  say  that  in  his  day 
he  was  the  favourite  lyric  poet  of  the  West  of 
Scotland.  In  1836  some  two  hundred  of  his 
admirers  and  fellow-citizens  entertained  him 
at  a  public  dinner-  in  Glasgow,  and  handed 
him  a  small  silver  box  of  sovereigns,  "a  fruit 
not  often  found  in  much  profusion  on  the 
barren  though  sunny  sides  and  slopes  of  Par- 
nassus." 


SHON    M'NAB. 


Kainsel  pe  Maister  Shon  M'Xab, 

Pe  auld's  ta  forty-five,  man. 
And  mony  troll  affiiirs  she's  seen, 

Since  she  was  born  alive,  man; 
She's  seen  the  waiT  turn  upside  doun, 

Ta  shentleman  turn  poor  man, 
And  him  was  ance  ta  beggar  loon. 

Get  knocker  'pon  him's  door,  man. 

She's  seen  ta  stane  bow't  owre  ta  purn, 

And  syne  be  ca'd  ta  prig,  man; 
She's  seen  ta  whig  ta  tory  turn, 

Ta  tory  turn  ta  whig,  man; 
But  a'  ta  troll  things  she  pe  seen 

Wad  teuk  twa  days  to  tell,  man, 
So.  gin  you  likes,  she'll  told  you  .shust 

Ta  story  'bout  hersel',  man: — 

Nainsel  was  first  ta  herd  ta  kyes, 

'Pon  jMorven's  ponnie  praes,  man, 
Whar  tousand  pleasant  days  she'll  spent, 

Pe  pu  ta  nits  and  slaes,  man; 
An'  ten  she'll  pe  ta  herring-poat, 

An'  syne  she'll  pe  fish-cod,  man, 
Ta  place  tey'U  call  Newfoundhims-land, 

Pe  far  peyont  ta  proad,  man. 


But,  och-hon-ce!  one  misty  night 

Nainsel  will  lost  her  way,  man, 
Her  poat  was  trown'd,  hersel  got  fright. 

She'll  mind  till  dying  day,  man. 
So  fait!  she'll  pe  fish-cod  no  more, 

But  back  to  Morven  cam',  man, 
An*  tere  she'll  turn  ta  whisky  still, 

Pe  prew  ta  wee  trafj  tram,  man. 

But  foul  befa'  ta  ganger  loon, 

Pe  put  her  in  ta  shall,  man, 
AVhar  she  wad  stood  for  mony  a  day, 

Shust  'cause  she  no  got  bail,  man; 
But  out  she'll  got — nae  matters  hoo. 

And  came  to  Glasgow  toun,  man, 
Whar  tousand  wonders  mhor  she'll  saw. 

As  she  went  up  and  doun,  man. 

Te  first  thing  she  pe  wonder  at. 

As  she  cam'  doun  ta  street,  man, 
Was  man's  pe  traw  ta  cart  himsel, 

Shust  'pon  him's  nain  twa  feet,  man. 
Och  on!  och  on!  her  nainsel  thought. 

As  she  wad  stood  and  glower,  man, 
Puir  man!  if  they  mak  you  ta  horse — 

Should  gang  'pon  a'  your/ozo',  man. 


ALEXANDER  RODGER. 


59 


And  when  she  turned  ta  corner  round. 

Ta  black  man  tere  she  see,  man, 
Pe  grund  ta  music  in  ta  kist, 

And  sell  him  for  pawbee,  man; 
And  aye  she'll  grund,  and  grund,  and 
grund. 

And  turn  her  mill  about,  man, 
Pe  strange!  she  will  put  nothing  in, 

Yet  aye  teuk  music  out,  man. 

And  when  she'll  saw  ta  people's  walk 

In  crowds  alang  ta  street,  man. 
She'll  wonder  whar  tey  a'  got  spoons 

To  sup  teir  pick  o  meat,  man; 
For  in  ta  place  whar  she  was  porn, 

And  tat  right  far  awa,  man, 
Ta  teil  a  spoon  in  a'  ta  house. 

But  only  ane  or  twa,  man. 

She  glower  to  see  ta  mattams,  too, 

AVi'  plack  clout  on  teir  face,  man, 
Tey  surely  tid  some  graceless  teed, 

Pe  in  sic  black  discrace,  man; 
Or  else  what  for  tey'U  hing  ta  clout 

Owre  prow,  and  cheek,  and  chin,  man, 
If  no  for  shame  to  show  teir  face. 

For  some  ungodly  sin,  man? 

Pe  strange  to  see  ta  wee  bit  kirn 

Pe  jaw  the  waters  out,  man. 
And  ne'er  rin  dry,  though  she  wad  rin 

A'  tay,  like  mountain  spout,  man: 
Pe  stranger  far  to  see  ta  lamps. 

Like  spunkies  in  a  raw,  man, 
A'  pruntin'  pright  for  want  o'  oil, 

And  teil  a  wick  ava,  man. 

Ta  Glasgow  folk  be  unco  folk, 

Hae  tealings  wi'  ta  teil,  man, — 
Wi'  fire  tey  grund  ta  tait  o'  woo, 

Wi'  fire  tey  card  ta  meal,  man, 
\\"i  fire  tey  spin,  Avi'  fire  tey  weave, 

AVi'  fire  do  ilka  turn,  man; 
Xa,  some  of  tern  will  eat  ta  fire, 

And  no  him's  pelly  purn,  man. 

Wi'  fire  tey  mak"  ta  coach  be  rin, 

Upon  ta  railman's  raw,  man, 
Kainsel  will  saw  him  teuk  ta  road. 

An'  teil  a  horse  to  traw,  man; 
Anither  coach  to  Paisley  rin, 

Tey'U  call  him  Lauchie's  motion. 
But  oich!  she  was  plawn  a'  to  bits, 

By  rascal  rogue  M-Splosion. 

Wi'  fire  tey  mak'  ta  vessels  rin 
Upon  ta  river  Clyde,  man, 

She  saw't  hersel,  as  sure's  a  gun, 
As  she  stood  on  ta  side,  man: 


But  gin  you'll  no  pelieve  her  word. 
Gang  to  ta  Proomielaw,  man. 

You'll  saw  ta  ship  wi'  twa  mill-wheels 
Pe  grund  ta  water  sma',  man. 

Oich!  sic  a  toun  as  Glasgow  toun, 

She  never  see  pefore,  man, 
Te  houses  tere  pe  mile  and  mair, 

Wi'  names  'pon  ilka  toor,  man. 
An"  in  teir  muckle  windows  tere, 

She'll  saw't,  sure's  teath,  for  sale,  man, 
Praw  shentlemans  pe  want  ta  head, 

An'  leddies  want  ta  tail,  man. 

She  wonders  what  ta  peoples  do, 

Wi'  a'  ta  praw  things  tere,  man, 
Gie  her  ta  prose,  ta  kilt,  an'  hose. 

For  tem  she  wadna  care,  man. 
And  aye  gie  her  ta  pickle  sneesh, 

And  wee  drap  barley  pree,  man, 
For  a'  ta  praws  in  Glasgow  toun, 

She  no  gie  paw-prown-pee,  man. 


BEHAVE  YOURSEL'  BEFORE  FOLK. 

Behave  yourseV  before  folk, 
Behave  yoursel'  before  folk. 
And  dinna  be  sae  rude  to  me. 
As  kiss  me  sae  before  folk. 

It  wadna  gie  me  meikle  pain, 
Gin  we  were  seen  and  heard  by  nane, 
To  tak'  a  kiss,  or  grant  you  ane. 
But,  guidsake!  no  before  folk. 
Behave  yoursel'  before  folk, 
Behave  yoursel'  before  folk, 
Whate'er  you  do  when  out  o'  view, 
Be  cautious  aye  before  folk. 

Consider,  lad,  how  folk  will  crack,  ^ 
And  what  a  great  affair  they'll  mak' 
0'  naething  but  a  simple  smack. 
That's  gi'en  or  ta'en  before  folk. 
Behave  yoursel'  before  folk, 
Behave  yoursel'  before  folk, 
Nor  gi'e  the  tongue  o'  auld  or  young, 
Occasion  to  come  o'er  folk. 

It's  no  through  hatred  o'  a  kiss 
That  1  sae  plainly  tell  you  this; 
But,  losh:  I  tak'  it  sair  amiss 
To  be  sae  teazed  before  folk. 
Behave  yoursel'  before  folk. 
Behave  yoursel'  before  folk; 
When  we're  our  lane  ye  may  tak'  ane. 
But  fient  a  ane  before  folk. 


60 


ALEXANDEE  EODGER. 


I'm  sure  wi'  you  I've  been  as  free 
As  ony  modest  lass  should  be; 
But  yet  it  docsna  do  to  see 
Sic  freedom  used  before  folk. 
Behave  yoursel'  before  folk, 
Behave  yoursel'  before  folk, 
I'll  ne'er  submit  again  to  it — 
So  mind  you  that — before  folk. 

Ye  tell  mo  that  my  face  is  fair; 
It  may  be  sae — I  dinna  care — 
But  ne'er  again  gar't  blush  sae  sair 
As  ye  ha'e  done  before  folk. 
Behave  yoursel'  before  folk. 
Behave  yoursel'  before  folk; 
Nor  heat  my  cheeks  wi'  your  mad  freaks. 
But  aye  be  douce  before  folk. 

Ye  tell  me  that  my  lips  are  sweet, 
Sic  tales,  I  doubt,  are  a'  deceit; 
At  ony  rate,  it's  hardly  meet 
To  pree  their  sweets  before  folk. 
Behave  yoursel'  before  folk. 
Behave  yoursel'  before  folk; 
Gin  that's  the  case,  there's  time  and 
place. 
But  surely  no  before  folk. 

But  gin  you  really  do  insist 
That  I  should  suffer  to  be  kiss'd, 
Gae,  get  a  license  frae  the  priest. 
And  mak'  me  yours  before  folk. 
Behave  yoursel'  before  folk, 
Behave  yoursel'  before  folk. 
And  when  we're  ane,  baith  flesh  and 
bane, 
Ye  may  tak'  ten — before  folk. 

THE  ANSWER. 

Can  I  behave,  can  I  behave. 
Can  I  behave  before  folk, 
"When,  wily  elf,  your  sleeky  self, 
Gars  me  gang  gyte  before  folk? 

In  a'  ye  do,  in  a'  ye  say, 
Ye've  sic  a  pawkie,  coaxing  way, 
That  my  poor  wits  ye  lead  astray, 
An'  ding  me  doilt  before  folk! 
Can  I  behave,  &c., 
Can  I  behave,  &c. ; 
AVhile  ye  ensnare,  can  I  forbear 
To  kiss  you,  though  before  folk? 

Can  T  behold  that  dimpling  cheek, 
Whar  love  'mang   sunny   smiles  might 

beek. 
Yet,  howlet-like,  my  e'e-lids  steek, 
An'  shun  sic  light,  before  folk? 


Can  I  behave,  &c., 
Can  I  behave,  &c., 
■\Vhen  ilka  smile  becomes  a  wile, 
Enticing  me  before  folk? 

That  lip,  like  Eve's  forbidden  fruit. 
Sweet,  plump,  and  ripe,  sae  tempts  me  to't, 
That  I  maun  pree't,  though  I  should  rue't. 
Ay,  twenty  times — before  folk! 
Can  I  behave,  &c., 
Can  1  behave,  &c. , 
When  temptingly  it  offers  me. 
So  rich  a  treat — before  folk? 

That  gowden  hair  sae  sunny  bright; 
That  shapely  neck  o'  snawy  white; 
That  tongue,  even  Avhen  it  tries  to  flyte, 
Provokes  me  till't  before  folk! 
Can  I  behave,  &c.. 
Can  I  behave,  &c.. 
When  ilka  charm,   young,   fresh,  an' 
Avarm, 
Cries,  "  Kiss  me  now" — before  folk] 

An'  oh!  that  pawkie,  rowin'  e'e, 
Sae  roguishly  it  blinks  on  me, 
I  canna,  for  my  saul,  let  be 
Frae  kissing  you  before  folk ! 
Can  I  behave,  &c., 
Can  I  behave,  &c. , 
AYlien  ilka  glint  conveys  a  hint 
To  tak'  a  smack — before  folk  ? 

Ye  own  that,  were  we  baith  our  lane. 
Ye  wadna  grudge  to  grant  me  ane; 
Weel,  gin  there  be  nae  harm  iii't  then. 
What  harm  is  in't  before  folk? 
Can  I  behave,  &c.. 
Can  I  behave,  &c.? 
Sly  hypocrite!  an  anchorite 

Could  scarce  desist — before  folk! 

But  after  a'  that  has  been  said. 
Since  ye  are  willing  to  be  wed, 
AVe'U  hae  a  "  blythesome  bridal  "  made. 
When  ye'll  be  mine  before  folk! 
Then  I'll  behave,  then  I'll  behave. 
Then  I'll  behave  before  folk; 
For  whereas  then  ye'll  aft  get  "  ten,'' 
It  winna  be  before  folk! 


SWEET  BET  OF  ABERDEEN. 

How  brightly  beams  the  bonnie  moon 

Frae  out  the  azure  sky. 
While  ilka  little  star  aboon 

Seems  sparkling  bright  wi'  joy. 


ALLAN   CUNNINGHAM. 


Gl 


How  calm  the  eve!  how  blest  the  hour! 

How  soft  the  sj'lvan  scene! 
How  fit  to  meet  thee,  lovely  flower, 

Sweet  Bet  of  Aberdeen! 

Now  let  us  wander  tlu'ough  the  broom. 

And  o'er  tlie  flowery  lea; 
AVhile  simmer  wafts  her  rich  perfume 

Frae  yonder  hawthorn  tree: 
There  on  yon  mossy  bank  we'll  rest, 

Where  we've  sae  aften  been, 
Clasp'd  to  each  other's  throbbing  breast. 

Sweet  Bet  of  Aberdeen. 

How  sweet  to  view  that  face  so  meek. 

That  dark  expressive  eye; 
To  kiss  that  lovely  blushing  cheek, 

Those  lips  of  coral  dye; 
But  oh!  to  hear  thy  seraph  strains. 

Thy  maiden  sighs  between, 
Makes  rapture  thrill  through  all  my  veins, 

Sweet  Bet  of  Aberdeen. 

Oh!  what  to  us  is  wealth  or  rank? 

Or  what  is  pomp  or  power? 
More  dear  this  velvet  mossy  bank. 

This  blest  ecstatic  hour: 
I'd  covet  not  the  monarch's  throne, 

Kor  diamond-studded  queen, 
AVhile  blest  wi'  thee,  and  thee  alone, 

Sweet  Bet  of  Aberdeen. 


EOBIN   TAMSOX. 

My  mither  men't  my  auld  brocks, 

An'  avow!   but  they  were  duddy. 
And  sent  me  to  get  Mally  shod 

At  Eobin  Tamson's  smiddy; 
The  smiddy  stands  beside  the  burn 

That  wimples  through  the  clachan, — 
I  never  yet  gae  by  the  door 

But  aye  I  fa'  a-laughin! 


For  Eobin  was  a  walthy  carle, 

And  had  ae  bonnie  dochter, 
Yet  ne'er  wad  let  her  tak'  a  man, 

Though  mony  lads  had  souglit  her; 
And  what  think  ye  o'  my  exploit? 

The  time  our  mare  was  shoeing 
I  slippit  up  beside  the  lass. 

An'  briskly  fell  a-wooing. 

An'  aye  she  e'ed  my  auld  breeks 

The  time  that  we  sat  crackin' ; 
Quo'  I,  my  lass,  ne'er  mind  the  clouts, 

Fve  new  anes  for  the  makin'; 
But  gin  you'll  just  come  hame  wi'  me, 

An'  lea'  the  carle  your  father, 
Ye'se  get  my  breeks  to  keep  in  trim, 

Mysel'  an'  a'  thegither. 

Deed,  lad,  quo'  she,  your  offer's  fair, 

I  really  tiiink  I'll  tak'  it, 
Sae  gang  awa',  get  out  the  mare, 

We'll  baith  slip  on  the  back  o't; 
For  gin  I  wait  my  father's  time, 

I'll  wait  till  I  be  fifty; 
But  na,  I'll  marry  in  my  prime. 

An'  mak'  a  wife  most  thrifty. 

Wow !  Eobin  was  an  angry  man 

At  tyning  o'  his  dochter. 
Through  a'  the  kintra-side  he  ran, 

An'  far  an'  near  he  sought  her; 
But  when  he  cam'  to  our  fire-end. 

An'  fand  us  baith  thegither. 
Quo'  I,  gudeman,  I've  ta'en  your  bairn. 

An'  ye  may  tak'  my  mither. 

Auld  Eobin  girn'd,  an'  sheuk  his  pow, 

Guid  sooth!  quo'  he,  you're  merry; 
But  I'll  just  tak'  ye  at  your  word. 

An'  end  tliis  hurry-burry; 
So  Eobin  an'  our  auld  wife 

Agreed  to  creep  thegither; 
Xow  I  hae  Eobin  Tamson's  pet, 

An'  Eobin  has  my  mither. 


ALLAN    CUNNINGHAM. 


Born  1784  — Died  1842. 


Allan  Cunningham,  who  ranks  next  to 
Burns  and  Hogg  as  a  writer  of  Scottish  song, 
was  descended  from  a  long  line  of  ancestors 
who  were  lords  of  that  district  of  Ayrshire 


which  still  bears  their  name,  until  one  of  them 
lost  the  patrimonial  estate  by  siding  with 
Montrose  during  the  wars  of  the  Common- 
wealth.    Allan  Avas  born  at  Blackwood,  near 


62 


ALLAN   CUNNINGHAM. 


Dumfries,  December  7,  1784.  He  was  the 
fourth  son  of  John  Cunningham,  a  shrewd, 
upright,  and  intelligent  man,  and  Elizabeth 
Harley,  a  lady  of  elegant. personal  accomplish- 
ments and  good  family.  After  receiving  an 
ordinary  education  in  the  English  branches  at  a 
school  conducted  by  an  enthusiastic  Cameron- 
ian,  Allan  was  apprenticed  to  his  eldest  brother 
James  as  a  stone-mason;  and  he  still  continued 
to  enjoy  the  benefit  of  his  father's  instruc- 
tions, Avhom  he  describes  as  possessing  "a  warm 
heart,  lively  fancy,  benevolent  humour,  and 
pleasant  happy  wit."  Allan  appears  also,  from 
the  multifarious  knowledge  which  his  earliest 
productions  betoken,  to  have  been  at  this  time 
a  careful  reader  of  every  book  that  came 
within  his  reach.  He  commenced  the  writing 
of  poetry  at  a  very  early  age,  having  been 
inspired  by  the  numerous  songs  and  ballads 
with  which  his  native  district  of  Nithsdale 
is  stored.  In  1790  his  father  became  land- 
steward  to  Jlr.  Millar  of  Dalswinton,  and  as 
Burns'  farm  of  Ellisland  was  on  the  opposite 
side  of  the  river  Nith  the  young  lad  had  oppor- 
tunities of  meeting  the  distinguished  poet, 
Avhose  appearance  and  habits  left  an  indelible 
impression  on  his  mind.  At  the  age  of  eigh- 
teen he  made  the  acquaintance  of  the  Ettrick 
Shepherd,  who  in  his  Reminiscences  of  Former 
Days  gives  a  most  interesting  account  of  their 
first  meeting.  Hogg  afterwards  visited  the 
Cunninghams  at  Dalswinton,  and  was  greatly 
impressed  with  Allan's  genius.  In  later  days 
the  Shephei'd  sung  his  praise  as  a  skilful  Scot- 
tish poet  in  the  "Queen's  Wake:" — 

"  Of  the  old  elm  liis  harp  was  made, 
That  bent  o'er  Cludeu's  loneliest  shade; 
No  gilded  sculpture  round  her  flamed. 
For  his  own  hand  that  harp  had  framed, 
lu  stolen  hours,  when,  labour  done, 
lie  strayed  to  view  the  parting  sun. 


That  harp  could  make  the  matron  stare. 
Bristle  the  peasant's  hoary  liair, 
Make  patriot-breasts  with  ardour  glow, 
And  warrior  pant  to  meet  the  foe; 
And  long  by  Nith  the  maidens  young 
Sliall  chant  the  strains  their  minstrel  sung. 
At  ewe-bucht,  or  at  evening  fold, 
When  resting  on  the  daisied  wold. 
Combing  their  locks  of  waving  gold, 
Oft  the  fair  group,  enrapt,  shall  name 
Their  lost,  their  darling  Cunninghame; 
His  was  a  song  beloved  in  youth, 
A  tale  of  weir,  a  tale  of  truth." 


Allan's  brother  Thomas,  and  his  friend 
James  Hogg,  being  contributors  to  the  Scots 
Magazine,  he  was  led  to  offer  some  poetical 
pieces  to  that  periodical,  which  were  at  once 
accepted  and  published.  When  Cromek  visited 
Dumfries  in  search  of  materials  for  his  Reliques 
of  Burns  young  Cunningham  was  pointed  out 
to  him  as  one  who  could  aid  him  in  the  work, 
and  the  London  engraver  advised  him  to  col- 
lect the  minstrelsy  of  Nithsdale  and  Galloway. 
Soon  after  his  return  liome  he  received  from 
Cunningham  contributions  of  old  songs  which 
greatly  delighted  him,  and  he  strongly  recom- 
mended the  young  poet  to  come  to  London. 
Allan  followed  his  advice,  and  was  intrusted 
with  editing  the  volume  which  appeared  in 
1810,  entitled  Cromek's  Remains  of  Nithsdale 
and  Galloway  Song.  But  the  best  of  these, 
and  especially  the  "  Mermaid  of  Galloway," 
were  the  production  of  Cunningham's  own  pen, 
a  fact  which  the  sagacity  of  the  Ettrick  Shep- 
herd and  Professor  AVilson  soon  detected  and 
demonstrated,  very  much  to  the  advantage  of 
the  young  poet.  Cromek  did  not  survive  to 
learn  the  imposition  which  had  been  practised 
upon  him.  After  the  appearance  of  this  work 
Cunningham  was  employed  writing  for  the 
London  press,  but  this  proving  a  precarious 
source  of  income  he  returned  to  his  original 
vocation,  obtaining  an  engagement  in  the 
establishment  of  Sir  Francis  Chantrey,  over 
which  he  soon  became  the  superintendent.  He 
retained  this  congenial  position,  where  he  was 
brought  in  contact  with  men  of  genius — artists, 
authors,  soldiers,  and  statesmen  —  up  to  the 
date  of  his  death,  a  period  of  nearly  thirty 
years.  His  warm  heart,  his  honest,  upright, 
and  independent  character,  attracted  the  affec- 
tionate esteem  and  respect  of  all  who  enjoyed 
the  acquaintance  of  "honest  Allan/'  as  Sir 
Walter  Scott  commonly  called  him. 

Although  faithfully  devoted  to  business, 
being  not  unfrequently  occupied  at  the  studio 
twelve  hours  a  day,  Cunningham  soon  became 
favourably  knoAvn  as  a  poet  and  man  of  letters. 
In  1813  he  gave  to  the  world  a  volume  of 
lyrics  entitled  Songs  chiefly  in  the  Rural  Lan- 
guage of  Scotland,  followed  in  1822  by  "Sir 
Marmaduke  Maxwell,"  a  dramatic  poem 
founded  on  Border  storj'  and  superstition.  Sir 
Walter  Scott,  to  whom  the  author  had  sent 
the  MS.  of  this  work  for  perusal,  considered  it 


ALLAN   CUNNINGHAM. 


63 


a  beautiful  dramatic  poem  rather  than  a  play, 
and  therefore  better  fitted  for  the  closet  than 
the  stage.     His  next  publication  was  two  vol- 
umes of  Traditional  Tales,  which  he  had  con- 
tributed to  Blackwood's  and  the  London  Maga- 
zines from  1819  to  1824.     This  was  followed 
in  1825  by  his  valuable  work   the  Son</s  of 
Scotland,  Ancient  and  Modern,  with  an  Intro- 
duction and  Notes,   in  four  volumes.     Paul 
Jones,  a  romance  in  three  volumes,  appeared 
in  1826;  and  a  second,  also  in  three  volumes, 
entitled  Sir  Michael  Scott  was  published  in 
1823.    "  The  Maid  of  Elvar,"  an  epic  poem  in 
twelve  parts  written  in  the  Spenserian  stanza, 
followed.     In  1833  the  most  popular  of  his 
prose  works.  Lives  of  the  Most  Eminent  British 
Painters,  Sculptors,  and  Architects,  begun  in 
1829,  was  completed  in  six  volumes.     In  1834 
his  well-known  edition  of  Burns,  to  which  he 
prefixed  a  life  of  the  poet  and  enriched  with 
new  anecdotes  and  information,  Avas  published, 
and  met  with  most  gratifying  success.      In 
1836  he  published  Loi'd  Roldan,  a  romance, 
like   its   predecessors,   somewhat  diffuse  and 
improbable.     Cunningham,  in  addition  to  the 
works  enumerated,  was  a  contributor  to  the 
London  Athenceum,  the  author  of  a  series  of 
prose     descriptions     to     accompany     Major's 
Cabinet  Gallery  of  Pictures,  a  "  History  of  the 
Fine  Arts"  for    the    Popular  Encyclopedia, 
some  contributions  to  Pllklnytons  Painters, 
and  a  memoir  of  James  Thomson  for  an  illus- 
trated edition  of  Tlie  Seasons.     His  last  lite- 
rary work  was  a  Life  of  Sir  David  Wllkle. 
"  Cunningham,  who  knew  the  painter  well," 
says  his  biographer,  "and  loved  him  dearly  as 
a  congenial  Scottish  spirit,  found  in  this  pro- 
duction the  last  of  his  literary  efforts,  as  he 
finished  its  final  corrections  only  two  days  before 
he  died."    At  the  same  time  he  had  made  con- 
siderable progress  in  an  extended  edition  of 
Johnson's  Lives  of  the  Poets,  and  a  life  of 
Chantrey  was  also  expected  from  his  pen;  but 
before  these  could  be  accomplished  both  poet 
and  sculptor,  after  a  close  union  of  twenty- 
nine    years,    had    ended    their    labours    and 
bequeathed  their  memorial    to  other  hands. 
The  last  days  of  Chantrey  were  spent  in  draw- 
ing the  tomb  in  which  he  wished  to  be  buried 
in  the  churchyard  of  Norton  in  Derbyshire, 
the  place  of  his  nativity;  and  while  showing 
the  plans  to  his  assistant  he  observed  with  a 


look  of  anxiety,  "  But  there  will  be  no  room 
for  you."     "  Room  for  me!"  cried  Allan  Cun- 
ningham; "I  would  not  lie  like  a  toad  in  a 
stone,  or  in  a  place  strong  enough  for  another 
to  covet.     Oh!  no;  let  me  lie  where  the  green 
grass  and  the  daisies  grow,  waving  under  the 
winds  of  the  blue  heaven."     The  wish  of  both 
was  satisfied,  for  Chantrey  reposes  under  his 
mausoleum  of  granite,   and  Cunningham  in 
the  picturesque  cemetery  of  Kensall  Green. 
The  artist  by  his  will  left  the  poet  a  legacy  of 
£2000,  but  the  constitution  of  the  latter  was 
so  prematurely  exhausted  that  he  lived  only  a 
year  after  his  employer.     He  was  seized  with 
an  apoplectic  attack,   and   died  October  29, 
1842,  in  the  fifty-seventh  year  of  his  age.    He 
left  a  Avidow  and  five  children,  one  of  whom, 
Peter  Cunningham,  was  well  and  favourably 
known  by  his  agreeable  contributions  to  the 
current  literature  of  the  day.    In  1847  he  pub- 
lished an  edition  of  his  father's  poems  and 
songs,  and  in  1874  a  life  of  Cunningham  ap- 
peared from  the  pen  of  the  Rev.  D.  Hogg. 

Sir  Walter  Scott  said  of  one  of  the  songs  of 
this  tender  and  perhaps  the  most  pathetic  of 
all  the  Scottish  minstrels,  that  "it  was  equal 
to  Burns;"  and  on  another  occasion  remarked, 
'"  It's Hame  and  it'sHame'  and  'A  wet  Sheet 
and  a  flowing  Sea'  are  among  the  best  songs 
going."     An  esteemed  friend,  Mrs.  S.  C.Hall, 
writes  of   Cunningham's  ballads  and  lyrical 
pieces,   that  "they  are  exquisite  in  feeling, 
chaste  and  elegant  in  style,  graceful  in  expres- 
sion,  and    natural    in  conception ;  they  will 
bear  the  strictest  and  most  critical  inspection 
of  those  who  consider  elaborate  finish  to  be,  at 
least,  the  second  requisite  of   the  writers  of 
song."     The  Ettrick  Shepherd,  after  recount- 
ing his  first  meeting  with  Cunningham,  says, 
"  I  never  missed  an  opportunity  of  meeting 
with  Allan  when  it  was  in  my  power  to  do  so. 
I  was  astonished   at  the  luxuriousness  of  his 
fancy.    It  was  boundless,  but  it  was  the  luxury 
of  a  rich  garden  overrun  with  rampant  weeds. 
He  was  likewise  then   a  great  mannerist  in 
expression,   and    no  man  could    mistake  his 
verses  for  those  of  any  other  man.     I  remem- 
ber seeing  some  imitations  of  Ossian  by  him, 
which   I  thought    exceedingly  good;    and  it 
struck  me  that  that  style  of  composition  was 
peculiarly  fitted  for  his  vast  and  fervent  ima- 


gination.' 


His   "style  of  poetry  is  greatly 


64 


ALLAN   CUNNINGHAM. 


changed  of  late  for  the  better.  I  have  never 
seen  any  style  improved  so  much.  It  is  free 
of  all  that  crudeness  and  mannerism  that  once 
marked  it  so  decidedlj'.  He  is  now  uniformly 
lively,  serious,  descriptive,  or  pathetic,  as  he 


changes  his  subject;  but  formerly  he  jumbled 
all  these  together,  as  in  a  boiling  cauldron, 
and  when  once  he  began  it  was  impossible  to 
calculate  where  or  when  he  was  going  to 
end." 


THE    MEEMAID    OF    GALLOWAY. 


There's  a  maid  has  sat  o'  the  green  merse  side, 

Thae  ten  lang  years  and  mair: 
And  every  first  nicht  o'  the  new  mune 

She  kames  her  yellow  hah-. 

And  aye  while  she  sheds  the  yellow  burning 
gowd, 

Fu'  sweet  she  sings  and  hie; 
Till  the  fairest  bird  in  the  greenwood 

Is  charmed  wi'  her  melodic. 

But  wha  e'er  listens  to  that  sweet  sang, 

Or  gangs  the  fair  dame  te, 
Ne'er  hears  the  sang  o'  the  lai-k  again. 

Nor  waukens  an  earthlie  e'e. 

It  fell  in  about  the  sweet  summer  month, 

r  the  first  come  o'  the  mune, 
That  she  sat  o'  the  tap  o'  a  sea-weed  rock, 

A-kaming  her  silk  locks  doun. 

Her  kame  was  o'  the  whitely  pearl, 

Her  hand  like  new-won  milk ; 
Her  bosom  was  like  the  snawy  curd 

In  a  net  o'  sea-green  silk. 

She  kanied  her  locks  o'er  her  white  shoulders, 

A  fleece  baith  wide  and  lang; 
And  ilka  ringlet  she  shed  frae  her  brows. 

She  I'aised  a  lichtsome  sang. 

I'  the  very  first  lilt  o'  that  sweet  sang. 

The  birds  forhood  their  young, 
And  they  flew  i'  the  gate  o'  the  gray  howlet. 

To  hsten  to  the  sweet  maiden. 

I'  the  second  lilt  o'  that  sweet  sang, 

0'  sweetness  it  was  sae  fu', 
The  tod  lap  up  ower  our  fauld-dike, 

And  dichtit  his  red-wat  mou'. 

T  the  very  third  lilt  o'  that  sweet  sang. 

Red  lowed  the  new-woke  moon : 
The  stars  drappit  blude  on  the  yellow  gowan 
tap, 

Sax  miles  round  that  maiden. 

"  I  ha'e  dwalt  on  the  Nith,"  quoth  the  young 
Cowehill, 
"Thae  twenty  years  and  three; 
But  the  sweetest  sang  I  ever  heard 
Comes  through  the  greenwood  to  rae. 


"0,  is  it  a  voice  frae  twa  earthlie  lips, 
That  maks  sic  melodie  ? 
It  wad  wyle  the  lark  frae  the  morning  lift, 
And  weel  may  it  wyle  me!" 

"  I  dreamed  a  dreary  dream,  master, 
Whilk  I  am  rad  ye  rede; 
I  dreamed  ye  kissed  a  pair  o'  sweet  lips, 
That  drapped  o'  red  heart's  blude." 

"  Come,  baud  my  steed,  ye  little  foot-page, 
Shod  wi'  the  red  gowd  roun'; 
Till  I  kiss  the  lips  whilk  sing  sae  sweet:" 
And  lightlie  lap  he  doun. 

"  Kiss  nae  the  singer's  lips,  master. 
Kiss  nae  the  singer's  chin; 
Touch  nae  her  hand,"  quoth  the  little  foot- 
page, 
"  If  skaithless  hame  ye  wad  win. 

"  0,  wha  will  sit  in  your  toom  saddle, 
0  wha  will  bruik  your  gluve ; 
And  wha  will  fauld  your  erled  bride 
In  the  kindlie  clasps  o'  luve?" 

He  took  aff  his  hat,  a'  gowd  i'  the  rim, 

Knot  wi'  a  siller  ban' ; 
He  seem'd  a'  in  lowe  with  his  gowd  raiment. 

As  through  the  greenwood  he  ran. 

"  The  summer  dew  fa's  saft,  fair  maid, 
Aneath  the  siller  mune; 
But  eerie  is  thy  seat  i'  the  rock, 
Wash'd  wi'  the  white  sea  faem. 

"  Come,  wash  me  wi'  thy  lilie-white  hand. 
Below  and  'boon  the  knee; 
And  I'll  kame  thae  links  o'  yellow  burning 
gowd 
Aboon  thy  bonnie  blue  e'e. 

"  How  rosie  are  thy  parting  lips. 
How  lilie-white  thy  skin! 
And,  weel  I  wat,  thae  kissing  ecn 
Wad  tempt  a  saint  to  sin!" 

"  Tak'  aff  thae  bars  and  bobs  o'  gowd, 
Wi'  thy  gared  doublet  fine; 
And  thraw  me  ofi'  thj'  green  mantle. 
Leafed  wi'  the  siller  twine. 


ALLAN  CUNNINGHAM. 


65 


"  And  a'  in  courtesie,  fair  knicht, 
A  maiden's  mind  to  win; 
The  gowd  lacing  o'  thy  green  weeds 
Wad  harm  her  Ulie  skin." 

Syne  cuist  he  aff  his  green  mantle, 
Hemmed  wi'  the  red  gowd  roun'; 

His  costly  doublet  cuist  he  aff, 
Wi'  red  gowd  flowered  doun. 

"  Now  ye  maun  kame  my  yellow  hair, 
Down  wi'  my  pearlie  kame; 
Then  rowe  me  in  thy  green  mantle, 
And  tak'  me  maiden  hame. 

But  first  come  tak  me  'neath  the  chin; 

And,  syne,  come  kiss  my  cheek; 
And  spread  my  hanks  o'  watery  hair 

I'  the  new-moon  beam  to  dreep." 

Sae  first  he  kissed  her  dimpled  chin, 

Syne  kissed  her  rosie  cheek; 
And  lang  he  wooed  her  wiUing  lips, 

Like  heather-hinnie  sweet! 

"  0,  if  ye'll  come  to  bonnie  Cowehill, 
'Mang  primi-ose  banks  to  woo, 
I'll  wash  thee  ilk  day  i'  the  new-milked  milk. 
And  bind  wi'  gowd  your  brow. 

"And,  a'  for  a  drink  o'  the  clear  water, 
Ye'se  hae  the  rosie  ^s-ine; 
And  a'  for  the  water-lilie  white, 
Ye'se  ha'e  thae  arms  o'  mine!" 

"  But  what  will  she  say,  your  bonnie  young 
bride. 
Busked  wi'  the  siller  fine; 
When  the  rich  kisses  ye  keepit  for  her  lips, 
Are  left  wi'  vows  on  mine  ? " 

He  took  his  lips  frae  her  red-rose  mou'. 
His  arm  frae  her  waist  sae  sma' ; 
"  Sweet  maiden,  I'm  in  bridal  speed- 
It's  time  I  were  awa'. 

"  0  gi'e  me  a  token  o'  luve,  sweet  may, 
A  leil  luve  token  true;" 
She  crapped  a  lock  o'  her  yellow  hair, 
And  knotted  it  round  his  brow. 

"  Oh,  tie  it  nae  sae  strait,  sweet  may. 
But  wi'  luve's  rose-knot  kynde: 
My  heid  is  fu'  o'  burning  pain; 
Oh,  saft  ye  maun  it  bind." 

His  skin  turned  a'  o'  the  red-rose  hue, 

Wi'  draps  o'  bludie  sweat; 
And  he  laid  his  head  'mang  the  water  lilies: 

"  Sweet  maiden,  I  maun  sleep." 

She  tyed  ae  link  o'  her  wat  yellow  hair 

Abune  his  burning  bree; 
Amang  his  curling  haffet  locks 

She  knotted  knurles  three. 

Vol.  II.— E 


She  weaved  ower  his  brow  the  white  lilie, 
Wi'  witch-knots  mae  than  nine; 
"  Gif  ye  were  seven  times  bridegroom  ower. 
This  nicht  ye  sail  be  mine." 

0,  twice  he  turned  his  sinking  head, 

And  twice  he  lifted  his  e'e; 
0,  twice  he  socht  to  lift  the  links 

Were  knotted  owre  his  bree. 

"Arise,  sweet  knight;  your  young  bride  waits, 
And  doubts  her  ale  will  soure; 
And  wistlie  looks  at  the  lilie-white  sheets, 
Down-spread  in  ladie-bouir." 

And  she  has  pinned  the  broidered  silk 

About  her  white  hause  bane; 
Her  princely  petticoat  is  on, 

Wi'  gowd  can  stand  its  lane. 

He  faintlie,  slowlie  turned  his  cheek. 

And  faintUe  lift  his  e'e; 
And  he  strave  to  lowse  the  witching  bands 

Aboon  his  burning  bree. 

Then  took  she  up  his  green  mantle. 

Of  lowing  gowd  the  hero ; 
Then  took  she  up  his  silken  cap. 

Rich  wi'  a  siller  stem; 
And  she  threw  them  wi'  her  lilie  hand 

Amang  the  white  sea-faem. 

She  took  the  bride-ring  frae  his  finger, 
And  threw  it  in  the  sea; 
"  That  hand  shall  mense  nae  other  ring 
But  wi'  the  will  o'  me." 

She  faulded  him  in  her  lilie  arms. 

And  left  her  pearlie  kame; 
His  fleecy  locks  trailed  ower  the  sand. 

As  she  took  the  white  sea-faem. 

First  rase  the  star  out  ower  the  hill. 

And  neist  the  lovelier  moon; 
While  the  beauteous  bride  o'  Gallowa' 

Looked  for  her  blythe  bridegroom. 

LythUe  she  sang,  while  the  new  mune  rase, 

Blythe  as  a  young  bride  may, 
When  the  new  mune  lichts  her  lampo'  luve. 

And  blinks  the  bryde  away. 

"Nithsdale,  thou  art  a  gay  garden, 
W^i'  monie  a  winsome  flouir; 
But  the  princeliest  rose  in  that  gay  garden 
Maun  blossom  in  my  bouir. 

"  And  I  will  keep  the  drapping  dew 

Frae  my  red  rose's  tap ; 
And  the  balmy  blobs  o'  ilka  leaf 

I'll  keep  them  drap  by  drap. 
And  I  will  wash  my  white  bosom 

A'  wi'  this  heavenly  sap." 


66 


ALLAN   CUNNINGHAM. 


And  aye  she  sewed  her  silken  snood, 

And  sang  a  bridal  sang: 
But  aft  the  tears  drapt  frae  her  e'e, 

Afore  the  gray  morn  cam'. 

The  sun  lowed  ruddy  'mang  the  dew, 

Sae  thick  on  bank  and  tree; 
The  ploughboy  whistled  at  his  darg, 

The  milkmaid  answered  hie; 
But  the  lovelie  bryde  o'  Gallowa' 

Sat  wi'  a  wat-shod  e'e. 

Ilk  breath  o'  wind  'mang  the  forest  leaves 
She  heard  the  bridegroom's  tongue; 

And  she  heard  the  brydal-coming  hit 
In  every  bh-d  that  sung. 

She  sat  high  on  the  tap  tower  stane; 

Nae  waiting  May  was  there; 
She  lowsed  the  gowd  busk  frae  her  breist, 

The  kame  frae  'mang  her  hair; 
She  wypit  the  tear-blobs  frae  her  e'e, 

And  lookit  lang  and  sair! 

First  sang  to  her  the  blythe  wee  bird, 
Frae  aff  the  hawthorn  green : 
"Lowse  out  the  love-curls  frae  your  hair, 
Ye  plaited  sae  weel  yestreen." 

And  the  speckled  wood -lark  frae  'mang  the 
cluds 
0'  heaven,  came  singing  doun: 
"  Tak'  out  thae  bride-knots  frae  your  hair, 
And  let  the  locks  hang  doun." 

"  Come,  byde  wi'  me,  ye  pair  o'  sweet  birds, 
Come  down  and  byde  wi'  me; 
Ye  sail  peckle  o'  the  bread  and  drink  o'  the 
wine, 
And  gowd  your  cage  sail  be." 

She  laid  the  bride-cake  'neath  her  head, 

And  syne  below  her  feet; 
And  laid  her  doun  'tween  the  lilie-white  sheets. 

And  soundly  did  she  sleep! 

It  was  in  the  mid  hour  o'  the  nicht 

Her  siller  bell  did  ring; 
And  soun't  as  if  nae  earthlie  hand 

Had  pou'd  the  silken  string. 

There  was  a  cheek  touched  that  ladye's, 

Cauld  as  the  marble  stane; 
And  a  hand,  cauld  as  the  drifting  snow. 

Was  laid  on  her  breist-bane. 

"  0,  cauld  is  thy  hand,  my  dear  "Willie; 
0,  cauld,  cauld  is  thy  cheek; 
And  wring  thae  locks  o'  yellow  hair, 
Frae  which  the  cauld  draps  dreip." 

"  0,  seek  another  bridegroom,  Marie, 
On  thae  bosom  faulds  to  sleep; 
My  bride  is  the  yellow  water-lilie. 
It's  leaves  my  bridal  sheet  I" 


THE  POET'S   BRIDAL-DAY   SONG. 

0,  my  love's  like  the  steadfast  sun. 
Or  streams  that  deepen  as  they  run; 
Nor  hoary  hairs,  nor  forty  years, 
Nor  moments  between  sighs  and  tears, 
Nor  nights  of  thought,  nor  days  of  pain. 
Nor  dreams  of  glory  dreamed  in  vain ; 
Nor  mirth,  nor  sweetest  song  that  flows 
To  sober  joys  and  soften  woes. 
Can  make  my  heart  or  fancy  flee, 
One  moment,  my  sweet  wife,  from  thee. 

Even  while  I  muse,  I  see  thee  sit 

In  maiden  bloom  and  matron  wit; 

Fair,  gentle,  as  when  first  I  sued. 

Ye  seem,  but  of  sedater  mood; 

Yet  my  heart  leaps  as  fond  for  thee 

As  when,  beneath  Arbigland  tree. 

We  stayed  and  wooed,  and  thought  the  moon 

Set  on  the  sea  an  hour  too  soon ; 

Or  lingered  'mid  the  falling  dew. 

When  looks  were  fond  and  words  were  few. 

Though  I  see  smiling  at  thy  feet 
Five  sons  and  ae  fair  daughter  sweet, 
And  time,  and  care,  and  birth-time  woes. 
Have  dimmed  thine  eye  and  touched  thy  rose. 
To  thee,  and  thoughts  of  thee,  belong 
Whate'er  charms  me  in  tale  or  song. 
When  words  descend  like  dews,  unsought. 
With  gleams  of  deep,  enthusiast  thought, 
And  Fancy  in  her  heaven  flies  free — 
They  come,  my  love,  they  come  from  thee. 

0,  when  more  thought  we  gave,  of  old. 
To  silver,  than  some  give  to  gold, 
'Twas  sweet  to  sit  and  ponder  o'er 
How  we  should  deck  our  humble  bower; 
'Twas  sweet  to  pull,  in  hope,  with  thee, 
The  golden  fruit  of  Fortune's  tree; 
And  sweeter  still  to  choose  and  twine 
A  garland  for  that  brow  of  thine — 
A  song-wreath  which  may  grace  my  Jean, 
While  rivers  flow  and  woods  grow  green. 

At  times  there  come,  as  come  there  ought, 
Grave  moments  of  sedater  thought. 
When  fortune  frowns,  nor  lends  our  night 
One  gleam  of  her  inconstant  light; 
And  hope,  that  decks  the  peasant's  bower. 
Shines  like  a  rainbow  through  the  shower; 

0  then  I  see,  while  seated  nigh, 

A  mother's  heart  shine  in  thine  eye, 
And  proud  resolve  and  purpose  meek, 
Speak  of  thee  more  than  words  can  speak. 

1  think  this  wedded  wife  of  mine 
The  best  of  all  things  not  divine. 


ALLAN   CUNNINGHAM. 


G7 


THE  DOWNFALL  OF  DALZELL. 

The  wind  is  cold,  the  snow  falls  fast, 

The  night  is  dark  and  late. 
As  I  lift  aloud  my  voice  and  cry 

By  the  oppressor's  gate. 
There  is  a  voice  in  every  hill, 

A  tongue  in  every  stone; 
The  greenwood  sings  a  song  of  joy, 

Since  thou  art  dead  and  gone: 
A  poet's  voice  is  in  each  mouth. 

And  songs  of  triumph  swell, 
Glad  songs  that  tell  the  gladsome  earth 

The  downfall  of  Dalzell. 

As  I  raised  up  my  voice  to  sing, 

I  heard  the  green  earth  say, 
Sweet  am  I  now  to  beast  and  bird, 

Since  tliou  art  past  away; 
I  hear  no  more  the  battle  shout, 

The  martyr's  dying  moans; 
ISIy  cottages  and  cities  sing     '■ 

From  their  foundation  stones; 
The  carbine  and  the  culverin's  mute — 

The  death-shot  and  the  yell 
Are  twin'd  into  a  hymn  of  joy, 

For  thy  downfall,  Dalzell. 

I've  trod  thy  banner  in  tlie  dust, 

And  caused  the  raven  call 
From  thy  bride-chamber,  to  the  owl 

Hatch'd  on  thy  castle  wall; 
I've  made  thy  minstrel's  music  dumb. 

And  silent  now  to  fame 
Art  thou,  save  when  the  orphan  casts 

His  curses  on  thy  name. 
Now  thou  may'st  say  to  good  men's  prayers 

A  long  and  last  farewell: 
There's  hope  for  every  sin  save  thine — 

Adieu,  adieu,  Dalzell! 

The  grim  pit  opes  for  thee  her  gates. 

Where  punish'd  spirits  wail. 
And  ghastly  death  throws  wide  her  door. 

And  hails  thee  with.  All  hail! 
Deep  from  tlie  grave  there  comes  a  voice, 

A  voice  with  hollow  tones, 
Such  as  a  spirit's  tongue  would  have 

That  spoke  through  hollow  bones : — 
Arise,  ye  martyr'd  men,  and  shout 

From  earth  to  howling  bell; 
He  comes,  the  persecutor  comes! 

All  hail  to  thee,  Dalzell! 

O'er  an  old  battle-field  there  rushed 

A  wind,  and  with  a  moan 
The  sever'd  limbs  all  rustling  rose. 

Even  fellow  bone  to  bone. 


Lo!  there  he  goes,  I  heard  them  cry. 

Like  babe  in  swathing  band, 
Who  shook  the  temples  of  the  Lord, 

And  pass'd  them  'neath  his  brand! 
Curs'd  be  the  spot  where  he  was  born. 

There  let  the  adders  dwell; 
And  from  his  father's  hearth-stone  hiss: 

All  hail  to  thee,  Dalzell! 

I  saw  thee  growing  like  a  tree — 

Thy  green  head  touched  the  sky — 
But  birds  far  from  thy  branches  built. 

The  wild  deer  pass'd  thee  by: 
No  golden  dew  dropt  on  thy  bough. 

Glad  summer  scorned  to  grace 
Thee  with  her  flowers,  nor  shepherds  wooed 

Beside  thy  dwelling  place: 
The  axe  has  come  and  hewed  thee  down. 

Nor  left  one  shoot  to  tell 
AVhere  all  thy  stately  glory  grew; 

Adieu,  adieu,  Dalzell! 

An  ancient  man  stands  by  thy  gate. 

His  head  like  thine  is  gray — 
Gray  with  the  woes  of  many  years — 

Years  fourscore  and  a  day. 
Five  brave  and  stately  sons  were  his; 

Two  daughters,  sweet  and  rare; 
An  old  dame  dearer  than  them  all, 

And  lands  both  broad  and  fair: — 
Two  broke  their  hearts  when  two  were  slain, 

And  three  in  battle  fell — 
An  old  man's  curse  shall  cling  to  thee: 

Adieu,  adieu,  Dalzell! 

And  yet  I  sigh  to  think  of  thee, 

A  warrior  tried  and  true, 
As  ever  spurred  a  steed,  wlien  thick 

The  splintering  lances  flew. 
I  saw  thee  in  thy  stirrups  stand. 

And  hew  thy  foes  down  fast. 
When  Grierson  fled,  and  Maxwell  fail'd. 

And  Gordon  stood  aghast; 
And  Graeme,  saved  by  thy  sword,  raged  fierce 

As  one  redeem'd  from  hell. 
I  came  to  curse  thee — and  I  weep: 

So  go  in  peace,  Dalzell. 


SHE'S  GANE  TO  D^VALL  IN  HEAVEN. 

She's  gane  to  dwall  in  heaven,  my  lassie. 

She's  gane  to  dwall  in  heaven; 
"  Ye're  owre  pure,"  quo'  the  voice  of  God, 

"  For  dwalling  out  o'  heaven!" 

Oh,  what'll  she  do  in  heaven,  my  lassie? 
Oh,  what'll  she  do  in  heaven  ? 


68 


ALLAN   CUNNIXGHAM. 


She'll  mix  her  ain  thought  swi'  angels'  sangs, 
And  make  them  mair  meet  for  heaven. 

She  was  beloved  by  a',  my  lassie, 

She  was  beloved  by  a' ; 
But  an  angel  fell  in  love  wi'  her, 

An'  took  her  frae  us  a'. 

Lowly  there  thou  lies,  my  lassie. 

Lowly  there  thou  lies; 
A  bonnier  form  ne'er  went  to  the  yird, 

Nor  frae  it  will  aiise! 

Fu'  soon  I'll  follow  thee,  my  lassie, 

Fu'  soon  I'll  follow  thee; 
Thou  left  me  nought  to  covet  ahin', 

But  took  gudeness'  sell  wi'  thee. 

I  look'd  on  thy  death-cold  face,  my  lassie, 
I  look'd  on  thy  death -cold  face; 

Thou  seem'd  a  Uly  new  cut  i'  the  bud. 
An'  fading  in  its  place. 

I  look'd  on  thy  death-shut  eye,  my  lassie, 
I  look'd  on  thy  death-shut  eye. 

An'  a  lovelier  light  in  the  brow  of  Heaven 
Fell  Time  shall  ne'er  destroy. 

Thy  lips  were  ruddy  and  calm,  my  lassie, 

Thy  lips  were  ruddy  and  calm; 
But  gane  was  the  holy  breath  o'  Heaven, 

That  sang  the  evening  psalm. 

There's  nought  but  dust  now  mine,  lassie, 
There's  nought  but  dust  now  mine; 

My  soul's  wi'  thee  i'  the  cauld  grave, 
An'  why  should  I  stay  behin'  ? 


DE  BRUCE!    DE   BRUCE! 

De  Bruce!  De  Bruce! — with  that  proud  call 

Thy  glens,  green  Galloway, 
Grow  bright  with  helm,  and  axe,  and  glaive, 

And  plumes  in  close  array: 
The  English  shafts  are  loosed,  and  see, 

They  fall  like  winter  sleet; 
The  southern  nobles  urge  their  steeds, 

Earth  shudders  'neath  their  feet. 
Flow  gently  on,  thou  gentle  Orr, 

Down  to  old  Solway's  flood; 
The  ruddy  tide  that  stains  thy  streams 

Is  England's  richest  blood. 

Flow  gently  onwards,  gentle  Orr, 

Along  thy  greenwood  banks; 
King  Robert  raised  his  martial  cry. 

And  broke  the  English  ranks. 
Black  Douglas  smiled  and  wiped  his  blade, 

He  and  the  gallant  Graeme; 


And,  as  the  lightning  from  the  cloud, 

Here  fiery  Randolph  came; 
And  stubborn  Maxwell  too  was  here, 

Who  spared  nor  strength  nor  steel; 
"With  him  who  won  the  winged  spur 

Which  gleams  on  Johnstone's  heel. 

De  Bruce!  De  Bruce! — yon  silver  star, 

Fair  Alice,  it  shines  sweet — 
The  lonely  Orr,  the  good  greenwood. 

The  sod  aneath  our  feet. 
Yon  pasture  mountain  green  and  large, 

The  sea  that  sweeps  its  foot — 
Shall  die — shall  dry — shall  cease  to  be. 

And  earth  and  air  be  mute; 
The  sage's  word,  the  poet's  song. 

And  woman's  love,  shall  be 
Thingscharming  none, when  Scotland's  heart 

Warms  not  with  naming  thee. 

De  Bruce!  De  Bruce! — on  Dee's  wild  banks. 

And  on  Orr's  silver  side. 
Far  other  sounds  are  echoing  now 

Than  war-shouts  answering  wide: 
The  reapers  horn  rings  merrily  now; 

Beneath  the  golden  grain 
The  sickle  shines,  and  maidens'  songs 

Glad  all  the  glens  again. 
But  minstrel-mirth,  and  homely  joy, 

And  heavenly  libertie — 
De  Bruce!  De  Bruce! — we  owe  them  all 

To  thy  good  sword  and  thee. 

Lord  of  the  mighty  heart  and  mind, 

And  theme  of  many  a  song! 
Brave,  mild,  and  meek,  and  merciful, 

I  see  thee  bound  along, — 
Thy  helmet  plume  is  seen  afar. 

That  never  bore  a  stain; 
Thy  mighty  sword  is  flashing  high, 

Which  never  fell  in  vain. 
Shout,  Scotland,  shout— till  Carlisle  wall 

Gives  back  the  sound  agen, — 
De  Bruce!  De  Bruce — less  than  a  god. 

But  noblest  of  all  men! 


A  WET  SHEET  AND  A  FLOWING  SEA. 

A  wet  sheet  and  a  flowing  sea, 

A  wind  that  follows  fast, 
And  fills  the  white  and  rustling  sail. 

And  bends  the  gallant  mast; 
And  bends  the  gallant  mast,  my  boys, 

While,  like  the  eagle  free, 
Away  the  good  ship  flies,  and  leaves 

Old  England  on  the  lee. 


ALLAN  CUNXTN^GHAM. 


69 


Oh  for  a,  soft,  and  gentle  -wmAl 

I  heard  a  fair  one  07; 
Bat  siTC  to  me  the  siwHin^  breeze. 

And  irhite  iraxes  heaTiiig  Mgii; 
And  white  wares  heading  high,  my  boj^ 

The  good  ship  t%ht  and  &ee — 
The  woild  of  vateis  is  oar  home. 

And  meny  men  are  we. 

Tha«'£  temp^.  in  Ton  hocned  niKmn, 

And  lightning  in  yon  dood; 
And  hart:  the  mmdf,  manners^ 

The  wind  is  pi^ng  load ; 
The  wind  is  piping  load,  m j  b>Djs, 

The  Ughtaing  fishing  free — 
While  the  hoUow  oak  owr  palbee  is. 

Out  hoitage  the  sea. 


THE  LOTELT  LASS  OF  PEESTO^T  : : :  L 1 

Tbe  lark  had  left  the  ereniog  clcnid. 

The  dcTs"  fell  saft,  the  -wind  iras  loiinie. 
Its  g-ent]e  l^eaih  amwiTifr  tjje  flotrers 

Scarce  sftnT'd  the  thistle's  tap  of  do^m; 
The  dappled  swallow  left  the  pool. 

The  stare  were  >»'HnVm£r  o'er  the  hin^ 
VrbaQ  I  met,  among:  the  hawthorns  greeai, 

Tite  loTidj  lass  of  PrestoB-mill. 

Hs-  tasked  feet  smssis:  the  grass 

Shane  Hke  two  dewy  EBes  fair; 
Her  brow  beam'd  white  aneath  her  loeks;. 

Black  CTirling:  o'er  h^-  ^>c«alders  bare; 
Her  cheeks  w««  rich  wf  Wocany  youth, 

H^-  lips  had  wcBpds  and  wit  at  wili, 
Ajid  hea^swsn  aeeam'd  looking  tiirongh  ha-  een. 

The  lovdly  lass  of  Preston-milL 

Quoth  I,  Fair  lass,  wDt  thon  gra.ng  wf  me, 

Whes>e  Madk-c>ocks  crow,  and  ploTer?  cry  ? 
Six  hills  are  woolly  wi'  my  ^leep. 

Six  TaJles  are  lowjiig  wf  my  kye. 
I  haxe  look'd  laikg-  for  a  wed-faar'd  ^Si, 

By  Xidasdale's  bohaas,  anrd  maBy  a  ^il^ — 
She  hTOrtg-  h**-  head  hke  a  dew-tent  rose. 

The  loTely  lass  of  Preston-miiL 

I  aid.  Sweet  matden,  look  nae  down. 
Bat  gie's  a  kiss,  and  eorae  with  me; 

A  lowdlier  f  aoe  O  ne'er  look'd  lap, — 
Tbe  tiears  were  dn^niing^  Jbae  her  e'e. 

I  hae  a  Sad  wim  s  iEar  a«m% 
.  mtat  wedl  eoold  win  a  wicHBaffl's  wM; 

My  heart's  alreaidhr  Ml  of  Uve, — 
Quoth  the  lloTeay  Ib^  of  PrestiaiHmllL 

Now  who  is  be  ooold  ieare  ^  a  l^s. 
And  seek  £ar  h>Te  in  a  far  comntnel 


Her  tears  dropp'd  down  like  smmer  dew; 

I  fain  wad  kiss'd  them  frae  her  e'e. 
I  toot  ae  kiss  o'  her  oomelT  cheek — 

For  pity's  sake,  kind  ar,  te  still; 
My  heart  is  full  of  other  lore, 

Quaoi^  the  loTely  lass  erf  Preston-mill. 

She  staieet'd  to  hea^raai  her  twa  white  hands. 

And  lifted  up  ho-  wateiy  e"e — 
Sae  Tang's  my  heart,  kens  aught  o*  God, 

Or  light  is  gladsome  io  my  e'e; 
While  woods  grow  green,  and  bums  ran  clear. 

Tin  my  last  drop  of  blood  be  still, 
Mt  heart  ^aH  haud  nae  other  lore, 

Quoli  the  lorely  lass  of  Pre5t<>n-miIL 

There's  eomelx  maids  on  ]>ee"s  wild  banks. 

And  2viiii"s  romantic  rale  is  fu"; 
I V  Ae  and  Clouden's  hermit  streams 

PweHs  many  a  gentile  dame,  I  trow. 
O!  they  are  lights  of  a  bonnie  kind. 

As  erer  shone  on  Tale  and  hill. 
But  there's  ae  light  puts  them  all  out, — 

The  loTelr  lass  of  Pre5t.on-milL 


rrS  HAME,  AST)  IT'S  HAME. 

It's  hame,  and  it's  hame,  hame  fain  wad  I  be. 
An'  its  itarae,  hame,  harae,  to  my  ain  oountrie! 
When  the  iftowea-  is  f  the  bud,  and  the  leaf  is  on 

^&B  tree. 
The  talk  ^iaffl  siiag  ime  hame  in  my  ain  countrie; 
It's  hame,  and  it's  hame,  hame  fain  wad  I  be. 
An'  it's  hame,  hame,  hame,  to  my  sin  countne3 

The  green  leaf  o'  loyalty's  beginning  fcsr  to  fa% 
Tfee  bonnie  white  rose  it  is  withering  an'  a'; 
But  m  watert  wi'  the  blude  of  usurping  tyrannie. 
An'  green  it  wiH  grow  in  my  ain  countrie. 
It's  hame,  and  it's  hame,  hame  fain  "wad  I  he. 
Am'  it's  laame,  hame,  hame,  to  my  ain  eountiie! 

Theie's  naught  now  frae  rain  my  country  can 

saT^e, 
Bat  the  keys  o'  kind  Heaven  to  open  the  grave. 
That  a"  the  noble  martyrs  who  died  for  loyaltie. 
May  rise  again  and  fight  for  their  ain  eountrie. 
It's  hame,  and  it's  hame.  hame  fain  wad  I  be, 
Amd  it's  hame,  hame,  hame,  to  my  a^  eountrie ' 

TThe  great  now  are  gane,  a'  who  ventured  to  save; 
T5ie  new  grass  is  springing  on  the  tap  0'  their 

grave; 
But  the  sam  through  the  mirk  blinks  blithe  in 

my  e'e: 
" m  dame  on  ye  yet  in  your  ain  countrie.'' 
IPs  laaste,  an'  its  hame,  hame  fain  wad  I  be. 
An'  it's  hanae,  hame,  hame,  to  my  ain  countrie!! 


ro 


ALLAN  CUNNINGHAM. 


MY  XAXIE,  0. 

Pvcd  rows  the  Xith  'tween  bank  and  brae, 

Mirk  is  the  night,  and  rainie,  O, 
Though  heaven  and  earth  should  mix  in 
storm, 

111  gang  and  see  my  Xanie,  0; 
My  Xanie,  0,  my  Xanie,  0; 

My  kind  and  winsome  Xanie,  0, 
She  holds  my  heart  in  love's  dear  bands, 

And  nane  can  do't  but  Nanie,  0. 

In  preaching  time  sae  meek  she  stands, 

Sae  saintly  and  sae  bonnie,  0, 
I  cannot  get  ae  glimpse  of  grace, 

For  thieving  looks  at  Nanie,  0; 
My  Xanie,  0,  my  Xanie,  0 ; 

The  world's  in  love  with  Xanie,  0; 
That  heart  is  hardly  worth  the  wear 

That  wadna  love  my  Xanie,  0. 

My  breast  can  scarce  contain  my  heart. 

When  dancing  she  moves  finely,  0; 
I  guess  what  heaven  is  by  her  eyes. 

They  sparkle  sae  divinely,  0; 
My  Xanie,  0,  my  Xanie,  0; 

The  flower  o'  Xithsdale's  Xanie,  0 ; 
Love  looks  frae  'neath  her  lang  brown  hair, 

And  says,  I  dwell  with  Xanie,  0. 

Tell  not,  thou  star  at  gray  daylight. 

O'er  Tinwald-top  so  bonnie,  0, 
My  footsteps  'mang  the  morning  dew. 

When  coming  frae  my  Xanie,  0; 
My  Xanie,  0,  my  Xanie.  0; 

Xane  ken  o'  me  and  Xanie,  0  ; 
The  stars  and  moon  may  tell't  aboon, 

They  winna  wrang  my  Xanie,  0 ! 


SATURDAY'S  SUX. 

0  Saturday's  sun  sinks  down  with  a  smile 
On  one  who  is  weary  and  worn  with  his  toil! — 
Warmer  is  the  kiss  which  his  kind  wife  receives, 
Fonder  the  look  to  his  bonnie  bairns  be  gives; 
His  gude  mother  is  glad,  though  her  race  is  nigh 

run. 
To  smile  wi'  the  weans  at  the  setting  of  the  sun: 
The  voice  of  prayer  is  heard,  and  the  holy  psalm 

tune, 
■Wha  wadna  be  glad  when  the  sun  gangs  down  ? 

Thy  cheeks,  my  leal  wife,  may  not  keep  the  ripe 

glow 
Of  sweet  seventeen,  when  thy  locks  are  like  snow. 


Though  the  sweet  blinks  of  love  are  most  flown 

frae  thy  e'e. 
Thou  art  faii-er  and  dearer  than  ever  to  me. 
I  mind  when  I  thought  that  the  sun  didna  shine 
On  a  form  half  so  fair  or  a  face  so  divine; 
Thou  wert  woo'd  in  the  parloiu",  and  sought  in 

the  ha'; 
I  came  and  I  won  thee  frae  the  wit  o'  them  a'. 

My  hame  is  my  mailen,  weel  stocket  and  fu'. 
My  bairns  are  the  flocks  and  the  herds  which  I 

lo'e; 
My  wife  is  the  gold  and  delight  of  my  e'e. 
And  worth  a  whole  lordship  of  mailens  to  me. 
0,  who  would  fade  away  Uke  a  flower  in  the  dew, 
Aud  no  leave  a  sprout  for  kind  Heaven  to  pu'  i 
Who  would  rot  'mang  the  mools  like  the  stump 

of  a  tree, 
Wi'  nae  shoots  the  pride  of  the  forest  to  be? 


AWAKE,  MY   LOVE. 

Awake,  my  love!  ere  morning's  ray 
Throws  off  night's  weed  of  pilgrim  gray; 
Ere  yet  the  hare,  cower'd  close  from  view, 
Licks  from  her  fleece  the  clover  dew; 
Or  wild  swan  shakes  her  snowy  wings. 
By  hunters  roused  from  secret  springs; 
Or  birds  upon  the  boughs  awake. 
Till  green  Arbigland's  woodlands  shake! 

She  comb'd  her  cm-ling  ringlets  down, 
Laced  her  green  jupes  and  clasp'd  her  shoon, 
And  from  her  home  by  Preston  bum 
Came  forth,  the  rival  light  of  mom. 
The  lark's  song  dropt,  now  lowne,  now  hush — 
The  gold-spink  answered  from  the  bush — 
The  plover,  fed  on  heather  crop, 
CaU'd  from  the  misty  mountain  top. 

'Tis  sweet,  she  said,  while  thus  the  day 
Grows  into  gold  from  silveiy  gray. 
To  hearken  heaven,  and  bush,  and  brake, 
Instinct  with  soul  of  song  awake — 
To  see  the  smoke,  in  many  a  -wTeath, 
Stream  blue  from  hall  and  bower  beneath. 
Where  yon  bUthe  mower  hastes  along 
With  glittering  scythe  and  rustic  song. 

Yes,  lonely  one!  and  dost  thou  mark 
The  moral  of  yon  caroUng  iark  ? 
Tak'st  thou  from  Nature's  counsellor  tongue 
The  warning  precept  of  her  song  ? 
Each  bird  that  shakes  the  dewy  grove 
Warms  its  wild  note  with  nuptial  love — 
The  bird,  the  bee,  with  various  sound, 
Proclaim  the  sweets  of  wedlock  round. 


ALLAN  CUNNIXGHA]SL 


THE  THISTLE'S  GROWX  ABOOX  THE 
EOSE. 

Full  white  the  Bourbon  lily  blows. 
And  fairer  haughty  England's  rose; 
i^or  shall  unsung  the  symbol  smile. 
Green  Ireland,  of  thy  lovely  isle. 
In  Scotland  grows  a  warlike  flower. 
Too  rough  to  bloom  in  lady's  bower; 
His  crest,  when  high  the  soldier  bears. 
And  spurs  his  courser  on  the  spears, 
O:  there  it  blossoms — there  it  blows, — 
The  thistle's  grown  aboon  the  rose. 

Bright  like  a  steadfast  star  it  smiles 
Aboon  the  battle's  burning  files: 
The  mirkest  cloud,  the  darkest  night, 
Shall  ne'er  make  dim  that  beauteous  light; 
And  the  best  blood  that  warms  my  vein 
Shall  flow  ere  it  shall  catch  a  stain. 
Far  has  it  shone  on  fields  of  fame, 
From  matchless  Bruce  till  dauntless  Grasme, 
From  swarthy  Spain  to  Siber's  snows; — 
The  thistle's  grown  aboon  the  rose. 

"^hat  conquer'd  ay,  what  nobly  spared, 
\Vhat  firm  endured,  and  greatly  dared? 
"What  redden'd  Eg}-pt's  burning  sand? 
What  vanquish'd  on  Corunna's  strand  ? 
What  pipe  on  green  Maida  blew  shrill? 
What  dyed  in  blood  Barossa  hill  ? 
Bade  France's  dearest  life-blood  rue 
Dark  Soignies  and  dread  Waterloo? 
That  spirit  which  no  terror  knows: — 
The  thistle's  grown  aboon  the  rose. 

I  vow — and  let  men  mete  the  grass 
For  his  red  grave  who  dares  say  less — 
Men  kinder  at  the  festive  board, 
;Men  braver  with  the  spear  and  sword, 
Men  higher  famed  for  truth— more  strong 
In  virtue,  sovereign  sense,  and  song, 
Or  maids  more  fair,  or  wives  more  true, 
Than  Scotland's,  ne'er  trode  down  the  dew. 
Round  flies  the  song— the  flagon  flows, — 
The  thistle's  grown  aboon  the  rose. 


0 !  gladness  comes  to  many, 
But  sorrow  comes  to  me. 

As  I  look  o'er  the  wide  ocean 
To  my  ain  countrie. 

0!  it's  nae  my  ain  ruin 

That  saddens  aye  my  e'e, 
But  the  love  I  left  in  Galloway, 

Wi"  bonnie  bairnies  three. 
My  hamely  hearth  burnt  bonnie. 

An'  smiled  my  fair  Marie; 
I've  left  my  heart  behind  me 

In  my  ain  countrie. 

The  bud  comes  back  to  summer. 

And  the  blossom  to  the  bee; 
But  111  win  back— 0  never. 

To  my  ain  countrie. 
I'm  leal  to  the  high  Heaven, 

Which  will  be  leal  to  me. 
An'  there  I'll  meet  ye  a'  sune 

Frae  my  ain  countrie. 


THE  SUX  RISES  BRIGHT  IX  FRANCE. 

The  sun  rises  bright  in  France, 

And  fair  sets  he; 
But  he  has  tint  the  blythe  blink  he  had 

In  my  ain  countrie. 


BOXXIE  LADY  AXX. 

There's  kames  o"  hinnie  'tween  my  luve's  lips. 

And  gowd  amang  her  hair; 
Her  breists  are  lapt  in  a  holy  vail; 

Xae  mortal  een  keek  there. 
What  lips  daur  kiss,  or  what  hand  daur  touch. 

Or  what  arm  o'  luve  daur  span, 
The  hinnie  lips,  the  creamy  lufe. 

Or  the  waist  o'  Lady  Ann? 

She  kisses  the  lips  o'  her  bontiie  red  rose, 

Wat  wi'  the  blobs  o'  dew; 
But  nae  gentle  lip,  nor  semple  lip. 

Maun  touch  her  ladie  mou'. 
But  a  broider'd  belt,  wi'  a  buckle  o'  gowd, 

Her  jimpy  waist  maun  span: 
Oh:  she's  an  armfu'  fit  for  heeven — 

My  bonnie  Lady  Ann. 

Her  bower  casement  is  latticed  wi'  flowers. 

Tied  up  wi'  siller  thread; 
And  comely  sits  she  in  the  midst. 

Men's  langing  een  to  feed: 
She  waves  the  ringlets  frae  her  cheek, 

Wi'  her  milky,  milky  hand; 
An'  her  cheeks  seem  touch'd  wi'  the  finger  of 
God, 

My  bonnie  Lady  Ann. 

The  mornin'  clud  is  tasselt  wi'  gowd. 

Like  my  luve's  broidered  cap; 
And  on  the  mantle  that  my  luve  wears 

Is  mony  a  gowden  drap. 


n 


JOHN  WILSON. 


Her  bonny  e'e-bree's  a  holy  arch, 

Cast  by  nae  earthly  han'! 
And  the  breath  o'  heaven  is  at  ween  the  lips 

0'  my  bonnie  Lady  Ann. 

I  wonderin'  gaze  on  her  stately  steps, 

And  I  beet  a  hopeless  flame! 
To  my  hive,  alas!  she  maunna  stoop: 

It  would  stain  her  honoured  name. 
]\Iy  een  are  bauld,  they  dwall  on  a  place 

Where  I  daurna  mint  my  hand; 


But  T  water,  and  tend,  and  kiss  the  flowers 
U'  my  bonnie  Lady  Ann. 

I'm  but  her  father's  gardener  lad, 

And  puir,  puir  is  my  fa'; 
My  auld  mither  gets  my  wee  wee  fee, 

Wi'  fatlierless  Ijairnies  twa. 
My  lady  comes,  my  lady  gaes, 

VVi'  a  fou  and  kindly  han'; 
0!  their  blessin'  maun  mix  wi'  my  luve. 

And  fa'  on  Lady  Ann. 


JOHN    WILSON, 


Born  1785  — Died  185L 


John  Wilson,  the  distinguished  poet,  novel- 
ist, and  miscellaneous  writer,  was  born  at 
Paisley,  May  18,  1785.  His  father  was  a 
prosperous  gauze  manufacturer  in  that  town, 
and  his  mother,  Margaret  Sym,  belonged  to  a 
wealthy  Glasgow  family.  The  boy's  elemen- 
tary education  was  received  first  at  a  school 
in  Paisley,  and  afterwards  at  the  manse  of 
Mearns,  a  parish  in  Renfrewshire.  In  this 
rural  situation  the  youth  conned  his  lessons 
within  doors;  but  the  chief  training  for  his 
future  sphere  consisted  in  many  a  long  ramble 
among  the  beautiful  scenery  with  which  he 
was  surrounded,  and  the  frolics  or  conversa- 
tion of  the  peasautrj',  among  whom  he  soon 
became  a  general  favourite.  At  the  age  of 
thirteen  he  was  sent  to  the  University  of  Glas- 
gow, where  he  studied  Greek  and  logic  during 
three  sessions  under  Professors  Young  and 
.lardine,  and  to  the  training  especially  of 
the  latter  he  was  indebted  for  those  mental 
impulses  which  he  afterwards  prosecuted  so 
successfully.  In  June,  1803,  he  entered  Mag- 
dalen College,  Oxford,  as  a  gentleman-com- 
moner;, and  there  his  diligence  was  attested 
by  the  knowledge  of  the  best  classical  writei's 
of  antiquity  -which  he  afterwards  displayed, 
and  his  native  genius  by  the  production  of  an 
English  poem  of  fifty  lines,  which  gained  for 
him  the  Newdigate  prize.  In  other  kinds 
of  college  exercises — as  boxing,  leaping,  run- 
ning, rowing,  and  other  athletic  sports — he 
was  also  greatly  distinguished.      Having  at 


the  age  of  twenty-one  succeeded  to  a  consider- 
able fortune  by  the  death  of  his  father,  he 
purchased  the  beautiful  estate  of  EUeray,  in 
Cumberland,  'where  he  went  to  reside  on 
leaving  Oxford  in  1807.  Here  he  was  at 
liberty  to  enjoy  all  the  varied  delights  of 
poetic  meditation,  of  congenial  society,  and  of 
those  endless  out-door  recreations  which  con- 
stituted no  small  part  of  his  life.  Five  years 
after  purchasing  the  Windermere  property  he 
married  Miss  Jane  Penny,  the  daughter  of  a 
wealthy  Liverpool  merchant. 

Wilson  on  leaving  college  resolved  to  become 
a  member  of  the  Scottish  bar,  and  after  the 
usual  studies  he  was  enrolled  an  advocate  in 
1815.  It  must  not,  however,  be  supposed  that 
he  was  either  the  most  anxious  or  industrious 
of  barristers.  In  the  same  year  the  unfaith- 
ful stewardship  of  a  maternal  uncle  deprived 
him  of  his  fortune,  and  obliged  him  to  remove 
from  EUeray  to  Edinburgh.  He  had  before 
this  begun  his  literary  and  poetic  career  by 
the  publication  of  an  elegy  on  the  death  of  the 
Rev.  James  Grahame,  author  of  the  "Sabbath," 
with  which  Joanna  Baillie  Avas  so  much  pleased 
that  she  wrote  to  Sir  Walter  Scott  for  the  name 
of  the  author.  He  also  composed  some  beau-" 
tiful  stanzas  entitled  "The  Magic  Mirror," 
which  appeared  in  the  Annual  Rerjlster  for 
1812.  During  the  same  year  he  produced  The 
Isle  of  Palms,  and  other  Poems,  which  at  once 
stamped  their  author  as  one  of  the  poets  of  the 
Lake  school;  but  much  as  the  "Isle  of  Palms" 


A. Scott  ja-iider.  R.S.A 


Gecrye    :ic2.'; 


JOHN  WILSON. 


was  admired  in  its  day  it  has  failed  to  endure 
the  test  of  time.  In  1816  h&  produced  "  The 
City  of  the  Plague,"  a  dramatic  poem  which 
even  the  envious  Lord  Byron  placed  among 
the  great  works  of  the  age.  But  it  too  has 
failed  to  secure  that  enduring  popularity 
accorded  to  the  poems  of  his  great  contempo- 
raries. Wilson's  next  publications  were  prose 
tales  and  sketches,  entitled  Lights  and  Sha- 
dows of  Scottish  L'/e,  The  Foresters,  and  The 
Trials  of  3Iargai-et  Lindsay.  On  the  estab- 
lishment of  Blackwood's  Magazine  in  1817  a 
new  sphere  of  literary  life,  and  one  for  which 
his  future  career  proved  he  was  as  Avell  fitted 
as  any  author  then  living,  was  opened  to  him. 
The  magazine  was  started  as  the  champion  of 
Tory  principles,  in  opposition  to  the  Edinburgh 
Beview,  and  so  marked  was  the  influence  he 
exercised  on  its  fortunes  for  upwards  of  a 
quarter  of  a  century  that  he  was  universally 
regarded  as  its  editor,  although  Mr.  Blackwood 
the  publisher  performed  the  duties  of  that 
office  himself.  "Christopher  North"  was, 
however,  the  living  soul  and  support  of  the 
magazine,  so  that  in  spite  of  all  denials  he 
continued  to  be  proclaimed  on  both  sides  of 
the  Atlantic  the  editor  of  Maga, 

In  1820  he  offered  himself  as  a  candidate 
for  the  chair  of  moral  philosophy  in  the  Uni- 
versity of  Edinburgh,  made  vacant  by  the 
death  of  Dr.  Thomas  Brown,  and  notwith- 
standing an  amount  of  opposition  unprece- 
dented in  such  an  election,  Wilson,  to  the 
general  surprise  of  all  classes,  was  elected. 
His  competitor  was  no  less  a  person  than  Sir 
William  Hamilton,  who,  it  appears,  was  the 
students'  choice.  The  professor's  first  lecture 
is  thus  described  by  an  eyewitness: — •"  There 
was  a  furious  bitterness  of  feeling  against  him 
(Wilson)  among  the  classes  of  which  probably 
most  of  his  pupils  would  consist,  and  although 
I  had  no  prospect  of  being  among  them  I  went 
to  his  first  lecture,  prepared  to  join  in  a 
cabal  which  I  understood  was  formed  to  put 
him  down.  The  lecture -room  was  crowded  to 
the  ceiling.  Such  a  collection  of  hard-browed 
scowling  Scotchmen,  muttering  OA'er  their 
knobsticks,  I  never  saw.  The  professor 
entered  with  a  bold  step  amid  profound  silence. 
Everyone  expected  some  deprecatory  or  propi- 
tiatory introduction  of  himself  and  his  subject, 
upon  which  the  mass  was  to  decide  against 


him,  reason  or  no  reason;  but  he  began  in  a 
voice  of  thunder  right  into  the  matter  of  his 
lecture,  kept  up  unflinchingly  and  unhesitat- 
ingly, without  a  pause,  a  flow  of  rhetoric  such 
as  Dugald  Stewart  or  Thomas  Brown,  his  pre- 
decessors, never  delivered  in  the  same  place. 
Not  a  word,  not  a  murmur  escaped  his  capti- 
vated, I  ought  to  say  his  conquered  audience, 
and  at  the  end  they  gave  him  a  right-down 
unanimous    burst  of   applause.      Those  who 
came  to  scoff  remained  to  praise."     Wilson 
occupied  this  important  chair  for  thirty  years. 
In  1851  he  received  a  pension  from  the  govern- 
ment of  £300  per  annum,  and  in  the  same 
year   he    resigned   his   professorship  without 
making  the  usual  claim  of  a  retiring  allowance. 
Till  within  a  short  period  preceding  his  death 
he   resided   during   the   summer   months  at 
EUeray,  where  he  dispensed  a  princely  hospi- 
tality, and  his  splendid  regattas  on  Lake  Win- 
dermere won  for  him  the  title  of  "Admiral  of 
the  Lake."    He  died  at  his  residence  in  Glou- 
cester Place,  Edinburgh,  April  3,  1854.     His 
remains  were  interred  in  the  Dean  Cemetery, 
and  the  funeral,  which  was  a  public  one,  was 
attended  by  thousands,  who  thus  testified  their 
respect  for  one  of  the  noblest  Scotchmen  of 
the  nineteenth  century.     In  February,  1865, 
a  noble  statue  of  Wilson,  executed  in  bronze 
by  John  Steell  of  Edinburgh,  was  erected  in 
that  city  on  the  same  day  that  a  marble  statue 
of  Allan  Kamsay,  by  the  same  distinguished 
artist,  was  inaugurated. 

In  1825  Wilson's  entire  poetical  works  were 
published  in  two  volumes,  followed  in  1842  by 
three  volumes  of  prose  contributions  to  Black- 
wood's  Magazine,  under  the  title  o{  Recreations 
of  Christopher  North.  After  his  death  a  com- 
plete edition  of  his  Avorks,  under  the  editorial 
supervision  of  his  son-in-law  Professor  Ferrier, 
was  published ;  and  in  1862  appeared  an 
interesting  memoir  of  his  life  by  his  daughter, 
the  late  Mrs.  Gordon. 

The  poetical  productions  of  John  Wilson,  by 
which  he  commenced  his  career  as  an  aspirant 
for  the  honours  of  authorship,  notwithstand- 
ing their  many  beauties,  will  not  preserve  his 
name;  his  fame  rests  more  securely  upon  those 
matchless  papers  which  appeared  through  a 
long  series  of  years  in  the  pages  of  Blackwood's 
Magazine.  "By  nature,"  says  an  eminent 
writer,  "Wilson  was  Scotland's  brightest  sun 


74 


JOHN   WILSON. 


save  Burns;  and  he,  Scott,  and  Burns  must 
rank  everlastingly  together  as  the  first  three 
of  her  men  of  genius."  "  His  poems,"  writes 
Mrs.  S.  C.  Hall,  "are  full  of  beauty:  they 
have  all  the  freshness  of  the  heather:  a  true 


relish  for  nature  breaks  out  in  all  of  them: 
they  are  the  earnest  breathings  of  a  happy  and 
buoyant  spirit:  a  giving  out,  as  it  were,  of  the 
breath  that  had  been  inhaled  among  the  moun- 
tains." 


A    LAY  OF    FAIRY-LAND. 


It  is  upon  the  Sabbath-day,  at  rising  of  the 
sun. 

That  to  Glenmore's  black  forest-side  a  shep- 
herdess hath  gone. 

From  eagle  and  from  raven  to  guard  her  little 
flock, 

And  read  her  Bible  as  she  sits  on  greensward 
or  on  rock. 

Her  widow-mother  wept  to  hear  her  whispered 

prayer  so  sweet, 
Then  through  the  silence  bless'd  the  sound  of 

her  soft  parting  feet ; 
And  thought,  "  While  thou  art  praising  God 

amid  the  hills  so  calm, 
Far  ofl"  this  broken  voice,  my  child!  will. Join 

the  morning  psalm." 

So  doAvn  upon  her  rushy  couch  her  moisten'd 

cheek  she  laid, 
And  away  into  the  morning  hush  is  flown  her 

Highland  maid ; 
In  heaven  the  stars  are  all  bedim'd,  but  in  its 

dewy  mirth 
A  star  more  beautiful  than  they  is  shining  on 

the  earth. 

In  the  deep  mountain-hollow  the  dreamy  day 

is  done. 
For  close  the  peace  of  Sabbath  brings  the  rise 

and  set  of  sun; 
The  mother  through  her  lowly  door  looks  forth 

unto  the  green. 
Yet  the  shadow  of  her  shepherdess  is  nowhere 

to  be  seen. 

Within  her  loving  bosom  stirs  one  faint  throb 

of  fear— 
"Oh!  why   so  late!" — a   footstep — and   she 

knows  her  child  is  near; 
So  out  into  the  evening  the  gladden'd  mother 

goes. 
And  between  her  and  the  crimson  light  her 

daughter's  beauty  glows. 


The  heather-balm  is  fragrant — the  heather- 
bloom  is  fair. 

But  'tis  neither  heather-balm  nor  bloom  that 
wreathes  round  Mhairi's  hair; 

Round  her  white  brows  so  innocent,  and  her 
blue  quiet  eyes 

That  look  out  bright,  in  smiling  light,  beneath 
the  flowery  dies. 

These  flowers  by  far  too  beautiful  among  our 

hills  to  grow. 
These  gem-crowned  stalks  too  tender  to  bear 

one  flake  of  snow, 
Not  all  the  glens  of  Caledon  could  yield  so 

bright  a  band, 
That  in  its  lustre  breathes  and  blooms  of  some 

warm  foreign  land. 

"  The  hawk  hath  long  been  sleeping  upon  the 
pillar-stone, 

And  what  hath  kept  my  Mhairi  in  the  moor- 
lands all  alone? 

And  where  got  slie  those  lovely  flowers  mine 
old  eyes  dimly  see? 

Where'er  they  grew,  it  must  have  been  upon  a 
lovely  tree." 

"  Sit  down  beneath  our  elder-shade,  and  I  my 
tale  will  tell"— 

And  speaking,  on  her  mother's  lap  the  wond- 
rous chaplet  fell; 

It  seemed  as  if  its  blissful  breath  did  her  worn 
heart  restore. 

Till  the  faded  eyes  of  age  did  beam  as  they 
had  beamed  of  yore. 

"  The  day  was  something  dim— but  the  graci- 
ous sunshine  fell 

On  me,  and  on  my  sheep  and  lambs,  and  our 
own  little  dell, 

Some  lay  down  in  the  warmth,  and  some  began 
to  feed. 

And  I  took  out  the  holy  Book,  and  thereupon 
did  read. 


JOHN  WILSON, 


75 


"And  -while  that  I  was  reading  of  Him  who 

for  us  died, 
And  blood  and  water  shed  for  us  from  out  liis 

blessed  side, 
An  angel's  voice  above  my  head  came  singing 

o'er  and  o'er, 
In  Abenethy-wood  it  sank,  now  rose  in  dark 

Glenmore. 

"  Mid  lonely  hills,  on  Sabbath,  all  by  myself, 

to  hear 
That  voice,  unto  my  beating  heart  did  bring 

a  joyful  fear; 
For  well  I  knew  the  wild  song  that  wavered 

o'er  my  head 
j\Iust  be  from  some  celestial  thing,  or  from  the 

happy  dead. 

"  I  looked  up  from  my  Bible,  and  lo!  before 

me  stood. 
In  her  green  graceful  garments,  the  Lady  of 

the  Wood ; 
Silent  she  was  and  motionless,  but  when  her 

eyes  met  mine, 
I  knew  she  came  to  do  me  good,  her  smile  was 

so  divine. 

"  She  laid  her  hand  as  soft  as  light  upon  your 

daughter's  hair, 
And  up  that  white  arm  flowed  my  heart  into 

her  bosom  fair; 
And  all  at  once  I  loved  her  well  as  she  my 

mate  had  been, 
Though  she  had  come  from  Fairy  Land  and 

was  the  Fairy  Queen." 

Then  started   Mhairi's  mother  at   that   wild 

M'ord  of  fear, 
For  a  daughter  had  been  lost  to  her  for  many 

a  hopeless  year; 
The  child  had  gone  at  sunrise  among  the  hills 

to  roam, 
But  many  a  sunset  since  had  been,  and  none 

hath  brought  her  home. 

Some  thought  that  Fhaum,  the  savage  shape 

that  on  the  mountain  dwells. 
Had  somewhere  left  her  lying  dead  among  the 

heather-bells, 
And  others  said  the  River  red  had  caught  her 

in  her  glee, 
And   her   fair  body   swept   unseen    into   the 

unseen  sea. 

But  thoughts   come  to   a  mother's  breast  a 

mother  only  knows. 
And  grief,  although  it  never  dies,  in  fancy 

finds  repose; 


By  day  she  feels  the  dismal  truth  that  death 
has  ta'en  her  child, 

At  night  she  hears  her  singing  still  and  danc- 
ing o'er  the  wild. 

And  then  her  country's  legends  lend  all  their 

lovely  faith, 
Till  sleep  reveals  a  silent  land,  but  not  a  land 

of  death — 
Where,  happy   in   her  innocence,  her  living 

child  doth  play 
With  those  fair  elves  that  wafted  her  from  her 

own  world  away. 

"Look  not  so  mournful,  mother!   'tis  not  a 

tale  of  woe — 
The  Fairy  Queen  stooped  down  and  left  a  kiss 

upon  my  brow. 
And   faster  than   mine   own   two  doves   e'er 

stoop'd  unto  my  hand. 
Our  flight  was  through  the  ether — then  we 

dropt  on  Fairy -land. 

"Along  a  river-side   that   ran  wide-winding 

thro'  a  wood, 
We  walked,  the  Fairy  Queen  and  I,  in  loving 

solitude; 
And  there,  serenely  on  the  trees,  in  all  their 

rich  attire, 
Sat   crested  birds  whose  plumage  seem'd  to 

burn  with  harmless  fire. 

"No  sound  was  in  our  steps, — as  on  the  ether 
mute — 

For  the  velvet  moss  lay  greenly  deep  beneath 
the  gliding  foot, 

Till  we  came  to  a  waterfall,  and  'mid  the  rain- 
bow, there 

The  mermaids  and  the  fairies  played  in  water 
and  in  air. 

"And  sure  there  was  sweet  singing,  for  it  at 

once  did  breathe 
From  all  the  woods  and  waters,  and  from  the 

caves  beneath ; 
But  when  those  happy  creatures  beheld  their 

lovely  queen, 
The  music  died  away  at  once,  as  if  it  ne'er 

had  been, — 

"And  hovering  in  the  rainbow  and  floating  on 

the  wave. 
Each  little  head  so  beautiful,  some  show  of 

homage  gave. 
And  bending  down  bright  lengths  of  hair  that 

glisten'd  in  its  dew. 
Seemed  as  the  sun  ten  thousand  rays  against 

the  water  threw. 


76 


JOHN  WILSON. 


"  Soft  the  music  rose  again — but  Ave  left  it  far 

behind, 
Though  strains  o'ertook  us  now  and  then,  on 

some  small  breath  of  wind; 
Our  guide  into  that  brightening  bliss  was  aye 

that  brightening  stream, 
Till  lo!  a  palace  silently  unfolded  like  a  dream. 

"Then   thought   I   of  the   lovely   tales,  and 

music  lovelier  still. 
My  elder  sister  used  to  sing  at  evening  on  the 

hill, 
When  I  was  but  a  little  child,  too  young  to 

watch  the  sheep, 
And  on  her  kind  knees  laid  my  head  in  very 

joy  to  sleep. 

"Tales  of  the  silent  people,  and  their  green 
silent  land ! 

—But  the  gates  of  that  bright  Palace  did  sud- 
denly expand. 

And  filled  with  green-robed  Fairies  was  seen 
an  ample  hall. 

Where  she  who  held  my  hand  in  hers  was  the 
loveliest  of  them  all. 

"Eound  her  in  happy  heavings  flowed  that 

bright  glistering  crowd. 
Yet   though  a   thousand   voices    hailed,    the 

murmur  was  not  loud, 
And  o'er  their  plum'd  and  flowery  heads  there 

sang  a  whispering  breeze. 
When  as  before  their  Queen  all  sank,  down 

slowly  on  their  knees. 

"Then  said  the  Queen,  'Seven  years  to-day 

since  mine  own  infant's  birth — ■ 
And  we  must  send  her  Nourice  this  evening 

back  to  earth ; 
Though  sweet  her  home  beneath  the  sun — far 

other  home  than  this — 
So  I  have  brought  her  sister  small,  to  see  hei' 

in  her  bliss. 

"  'Luhana!  bind  thy  frontlet  upon  my  Mhairi's 
brow, 

That  she  on  earth  may  show  the  flowers  that 
in  our  gardens  grow.' 

And  from  the  heavenly  odours  breathed  round 
my  head,  I  knew 

How  delicate  must  be  their  shape,  how  beau- 
tiful their  hue! 

"Then  near  and  nearer  still  I   heard  small 

peals  of  laughter  sweet. 
And  the  infant  Fay  came  dancing  in  with  her 

white  twinkling  feet, 


While  in  green  rows  the  smiling  Elves  fell 
back  on  either  side. 

And  up  that  avenue  the  Fay  did  like  a  sun- 
beam glide. 

"But  who  came  then  into  tlio  \ia\l1  one  long 
since  mourned  as  dead  !  t 

Oh!  never  had  the  mould  been  strewn  o'er 
such  a  star-like  head! 

On  me  alone  she  pour'd  her  voice,  on  me  alone 
her  eyes. 

And,  as  she  gazed,  I  thought  upon  the  deep- 
blue  cloudless  skies. 

"  Well  knew  I  my  fair  siater!  and  her  unfor- 

gotten  face ! 
Strange  meeting   one   so  beautiful    in    that 

bewildering  place! 
And  like  tAvo  solitary  rills  that  by  themselves 

flowed  on, 
And  had  been  long  divided — we  melted  into 

one. 

"When  that  the  shower  Avas  all  Avept  out  of 
our  delightful  tears. 

And  love  rose  in  our  hearts  that  had  been 
buried  there  for  years. 

You  well  may  think  another  shoAver  straight- 
way began  to  fall. 

Even  for  our  mother  and  our  home  to  leave,  to 
leave  that  heaA'cnly  Hall ! 

"I  may  not  tell  the  sobbing  and  Aveeping  that 

was  there. 
And  hoAv  the  mortal  Nourice  left  her  fairy  in 

despair. 
But  promised,  duly  every  year,  to  visit  the 

sad  child. 
As  soon  as  by  our  forest-side  the  first   pale 

primrose  smiled. 

"While  they  two  Avere  embracing,  the  Palace 

it  Avas  gone. 
And  I  and  my  dear  sister  stood  by  the  great 

Burial-stone; 
While  both  of  us  our  river  saAV  in  twilight 

glimmering  by, 
And  kncAV  at  once  the  dark  Cairngorm  in  his 

OAvn  silent  sky." 

The  child  hath  long  been  speaking  to  one  avIio 

may  not  hear. 
For  a  deadly  joy  came  suddenly  upon  a  deadly 

fear. 
And  though  the  mother  fell  not  doAvn,  she  lay 

on  Mhairi's  breast, 
And  her  face  AA'as  Avhite  as  that  of  one  Avhose 

Boul  has  gone  to  rest. 


JOHN  WILSON. 


77 


She  sits  beneath  the  elder-shade  in  that  long 
mortal  swoon. 

And  piteously  on  her  wan  cheek  looks  down 
the  gentle  moon; 

And  when  her  senses  are  restored,  whom  sees 
she  at  her  side, 

But  Her  believed  in  childhood  to  have  wan- 
dered off  and  died ! 

In  these  small  hands,  so  lilj'-white,  is  water 

from  the  spring, 
And  a  grateful  coolness  drops  from  it  as  from 

an  angel's  wing, 
And  to  her  mother's  pale  lips  her  rosy  lips  are 

laid, 
AVhile  these  long  soft  eye-lashes  drop  tears  on 

her  hoary  head. 

She  stirs  not  in  her  child's  embrace,  but  yields 

her  old  gray  hairs 
Unto  the  heavenly  dew  of  tears,  the  heavenly 

breath  of  prayers — 
Ifo  voice  hath  she  to  bless  her  child,  till  that 

strong  fit  go  by. 
But  gazeth  on  the  long-lost  face,   and   then 

upon  the  sky. 

The  Sabbath  morn  was   beautiful  —  and  the 

long  Sabbath-day — 
The  evening-star  rose  beautiful  when  day-light 

died  away; 
Morn,  day,  and  twilight,  this  lone  Glen  flowed 

over  with  delight, 
But  the  fulness  of  all  mortal  joy  hath  blessed 

the  Sabbath  night. 


MY  COTTAGE. 

"  One  small  spot 
Where  my  tired  mind  may  rest  and  call  it  hcnne. 
There  is  a  magic  in  that  little  word ; 
It  is  a  mystic  circle  that  surrounds 
Comforts  and  virtues  never  known  beyond 
The  hallowed  limit." 

Socthet's  Bymn  to  the  Penates. 

Here  have  I  found  at  last  a  home  of  peace 
To  hide  me  from  the  world;  far  from  its  noise, 
To  feed  that  spirit,  which,  though  sprung  from 

earth, 
And  linked  to  human  beings  by  the  bond 
Of  earthly  love,  hath  yet  a  loftier  aim 
Than  perishable  joy,  and  through  the  calm 
That  sleeps  amid  the  mountain-soUtude, 
Can  hear  the  billows  of  eternity, 
And  hear  delighted. 

Many  a  mystic  gleam. 
Lovely  though  faint,  of  imaged  happiness 


Fell  on  my  youthful  heart,  as  oft  her  light 
Smiles  on  a  wandering  cloud,  ere  the  fair  moon 
Hath  risen  in  the  sky.     And  oh!  ye  dreams 
That  to  such  spiritual  happiness  could  shape 
The  lonely  reveries  of  my  boyish  days, 
Are  ye  at  last  fulfilled  ?    Ye  fairy  scenes. 
That  to  the  doubting  gaze  of  prophecy 
Rose  lovely,  with  your  fields  of  sunny  green, 
Your  sparkling  rivulets  and  hanging  groves 
Of  more  than  rainbow  lustre,  where  the  swing 
Of  woods  primeval  darkened  the  still  depth 
Of  lakes  bold-sweeping  round  their  guardian  hills 
Even  like  the  arms  of  Ocean,  where  the  roar 
Sullen  and  far  from  mountain  cataract 
Was  heard  amid  the  silence,  like  a  thought 
Of  solemn  mood  that  tames  the  dancing  soul 
When  swarming  with  delights; — ye  faii-y  scenes! 
Fancied  no  more,  but  bursting  on  my  heart 
In  li^ang  beauty,  ■with  adoring  song 
I  bid  you  hail !  and  with  as  holy  love 
As  ever  beautified  the  eye  of  saint 
Hymning  his  midnight  orisons,  to  you 
I  consecrate  my  life, — till  the  dim  stain 
Left  by  those  worldly  and  unhallowed  thoughts 
That  taint  the  purest  soul,  by  bliss  destroyed, 
My  spirit  travel  Uke  a  summer  sun, 
Itself  all  glory,  and  its  path  all  joy. 

Nor  will  the  musing  penance  of  the  soul, 
Performed  by  moonlight,  or  the  setting  sun, 
To  hymn  of  swinging  oak,  or  the  wild  flow 
Of  mountain  torrent,  ever  lead  her  on 
To  virtue,  but  through  peace.    For  Nature  speaks 
A  parent's  language,  and,  in  tones  as  mild 
As  e'er  hushed  infant  on  its  mother's  breast. 
Wins  us  to  learn  her  lore.     Yea!  even  to  guilt. 
Though  in  her  image  something  terrible 
Weigh  down  his  being  with  a  load  of  awe, 
Love  mingles  with  her  wrath,  like  tender  light 
Streamed  o'er  a  dying  storm.    And  thus  where'er 
]\Ian  feels  as  man,  the  earth  is  beautiful. 
His  blessings  sanctify  even  senseless  things, 
And  the  wide  world  in  cheerful  loveliness  ^ 
Returns  to  him  its  joy.     The  summer  air, 
Wliose  glittering  stillness  sleeps  within  his  soul, 
Stu's  wdth  its  own  delight :  the  verdant  earth, 
Like  beauty  waking  from  a  happy  dream. 
Lies  smiling :  each  fair  cloud  to  him  appears 
A  pilgrim  travelling  to  the  shrine  of  peace; 
And  the  wild  wave,  that  wantons  on  the  sea, 
A  gay  though  homeless  stranger.     Ever  blest 
The  man  who  thus  beholds  the  golden  chain 
Linking  his  soul  to  outward  Nature  fair. 
Full  of  the  hving  God ! 

And  where,  ye  haunts 
Of  grandeur  and  of  beauty!  shall  the  heart, 
That  yearns  for  high  communion  with  its  God, 
Abide,  if  e'er  its  dreams  have  been  of  you  ? 
The  loveliest  sounds,  forms,  hues,  of  all  the  earth 
Linger  delighted  here:  here  guilt  might  come. 


78 


JOHN  WILSON. 


With  sullen  soul  abhorring  Nature's  joy, 
And  in  a  moment  be  restored  to  Heaven. 
Here  sorrow,  with  a  dimness  o'er  his  face, 
Might  be  beguiled  to  smiles,— almost  forget 
His  sufferings,  and,  in  Nature's  living  book, 
Read  characters  so  lovely,  that  his  heart 
Would,  as  it  blessed  them,  feel  a  rising  swell 
Almost  like  joy!— 0  earthly  paradise! 
Of  many  a  secret  anguish  hast  thou  healed 
Him,  who  now  greets  thee  with  a  joyful  strain. 

And  oh!  if  in  those  elevated  hopes 
That  lean  on  virtue,— in  those  high  resolves 
That  bring  the  future  close  upon  the  soul, 
And  nobly  dare  its  dangers; — if  in  joy 
Whose  vital  spring  is  more  than  innocence, 
Yea!  faith  and  adoration! — if  the  soul 
Of  man  may  trust  to  these — and  they  are  strong. 
Strong  as  the  prayer  of  dying  penitent, — 
My  being  shall  be  bhss.     For  witness,  Thou! 
Oh  mighty  One!  whose  saving  love  has  stolen 
On  the  deep  peace  of  moonbeams  to  my  heart, — 
Thou!  who  with  looks  of  mercy  oft  hast  cheered 
The  starry  silence,  when,  at  noon  of  night, 
On  some  wild  mountain  thou  hast  not  declined 
The  homage  of  thy  lonely  worshipper, — 
Bear  witness.  Thou!  that,  both  in  joy  and  grief. 
The  love  of  nature  long  hath  been  with  me 
The  love  of  virtue: — that  the  solitude 
Of  the  remotest  hills  to  me  hath  been 
Thy  temple:— that  the  fountain's  happy  voice 
Hath   sung  thy  goodness,  and   thy  power  has 

stunned 
My  spirit  in  the  roaring  cataract! 

Such  solitude  to  me!    Yet  are  there  hearts, — 
Worthy  of  good  men's  love,  nor  unadorned 
With  sense  of  moral  beauty, — to  the  joy 
That  dwells  within  the  Almighty's  outward  shrine. 
Senseless  and  cold.     Ay,  there  are  men  who  see 
The  broad  sun  sinking  in  a  blaze  of  light. 
Nor  feel  their  disembodied  spirits  hail 
With  adoration  the  departing  God ; 
Who  on  the  night-sky,  when  a  cloudless  moon 
Glides  in  still  beauty  through  unnumbered  stars. 
Can  turn  the  eye  unmoved,  as  if  a  wall 
Of  darkness  screened  the  glory  from  theii-  souls. 
With  humble  pride  I  bless  the  Holy  One 
For  sights  to  these  denied.     And  oh !  how  oft 
In  seasons  of  depression, — when  the  lamp 
Of  life  bunied  dim,  and  all  unpleasant  thoughts 
Subdued  the  proud  aspirings  of  the  soul, — 
When  doubts  and  fears  withheld  the  timid  eye 
From  scanning  scenes  to  come,  and  a  deep  sense 
Of  human  frailty  turned  the  past  to  pain, 
How  oft  have  I  remembered  that  a  world 
Of  gloiy  lay  around  me,  that  a  source 
Of  lofty  solace  lay  in  every  star. 
And  that  no  being  need  behold  the  sun. 
And  grieve,  that  knew  Who  hung  him  in  the  sky. 
Thus  unperceived  I  woke  from  heavy  grief 


To  airy  joy:  and  seeing  that  the  mind 

Of  man,  though  still  the  image  of  his  God, 

Leaned  by  his  will  on  various  happiness, 

I  felt  that  all  was  good;  that  faculties. 

Though  low,  might  constitute,  if  rightly  used. 

True  wisdom ;  and  when  man  hath  here  attained 

The  purpose  of  his  being,  he  will  sit 

Near  mercy's  throne, whether  his  course  hath  been 

Prone  on  the  earth's  dim  sphere,  or,  as  with  wing 

Of  viewless  eagle,  round  the  central  blaze. 

Then  ever  shall  the  day  that  led  me  here 
Be  held  in  blest  remembrance.     I  shall  see, 
Even  at  my  dying  hour,  the  glorious  sun 
That  made  Winander  one  wide  wave  of  gold. 
When  first  in  transport  from  the  mountain-top 
I  hailed  the  heavenly  vision !     Not  a  cloud 
Whose  wreaths  lay  smiling  in  the  lap  of  light. 
Not  one  of  all  those  sister-isles  that  sleep 
Together,  like  a  happy  family 
Of  beauty  and  of  love,  but  will  arise 
To  cheer  my  parting  spirit,  and  to  tell 
That  Nature  gently  leads  unto  the  grave 
All  who  have  read  her  heart,  and  kept  their  own 
In  kindred  holiness. 

But  ere  that  hour 
Of  awful  triumph,  I  do  hope  that  years 
Await  me,  when  the  unconscious  power  of  joy 
Creating  wisdom,  the  bright  dreams  of  soul 
Will  humanize  the  heart,  and  I  shall  be 
More  worthy  to  be  loved  by  those  whose  love 
Is  highest  praise: — that  by  the  living  light 
That  burns  for  ever  in  affection's  breast, 
I  shall  behold  how  fair  and  beautiful 
A  human  form  may  be.  —Oh,  there  are  thoughts 
That  slumber  in  the  soul,  like  sweetest  sounds 
Amid  the  harp's  loose  strings,  till  airs  from  Heaven 
On  earth,  at  dewy  nightfall,  visitant. 
Awake  the  sleeping  melody!     Such  thoughts, 
My  gentle  Mary,  I  have  owed  to  thee. 
And  if  thy  voice  e'er  melt  into  my  soul 
With  a  dear  home-toned  whisper, — if  thy  face 
E'er  brighten  in  the  unsteady  gleams  of  light 
From  our  own  cottage  hearth; — 0  Mary!  then 
My  overpowered  spirit  will  recline 
Upon  thy  inmost  heart,  till  it  become, 
0  sinless  seraph!  almost  worthy  thee. 

Then  will  the  earth — that  ofttimes  to  the  eye 
Of  solitary  lover  seems  o'erhung 
With  too  severe  a  shade,  and  faintly  smiles 
With  ineffectual  beauty  on  his  heart, — 
Be  clothed  with  everlasting  joy;  like  land 
Of  blooming  faery,  or  of  boyhood's  dreams 
Ere  life's  first  flush  is  o'er.     Oft  shall  I  tui-n 
My  vision  from  the  glories  of  the  scene 
To  read  them  in  thine  eyes;  and  hidden  grace. 
That  slumbers  in  the  crimson  clouds  of  even. 
Will  reach  my  spirit  through  their  varying  light, 
Though  viewless  in  the  sky.  Wandering  with  thee, 


JOHN  WILSON. 


79 


A  thousand  beauties  never  seen  before 
Will  glide  with  sweet  surprise  into  my  soul, 
Even  in  those  fields  where  each  particular  tree 
Was  looked  on  as  a  friend, — where  I  had  been 
Fre(iuent,  for  years,  among  the  lonely  glens. 

Nor,  'mid  the  quiet  of  reflecting  bliss, 
Will  the  faint  image  of  the  distant  world 
Ne'er  float  before  us:— Cities  will  arise 
Among  the  clouds  that  circle  round  the  sun. 
Gorgeous  with  tower  and  temple.  The  night- voice 
Of  flood  and  mountain  to  our  ear  will  seem 
Like  life's  loud  stir: — And,  as  the  dream  dissolves, 
With  burning  spirit  we  will  smile  to  see 
Only  the  moon  rejoicing  in  the  sky. 
And  the  still  grandeur  of  the  eternal  hills. 

Yet,  though  the  fulness  of  domestic  joy 
Bless  our  united  beings,  and  the  home 
Be  ever  happy  where  thy  smiles  are  seen, 
Though  human  voice  might  never  touch  our  ear 
From  lip  of  friend  or  brother; — yet,  oh!  think 
What  pure  benevolence  will  warm  our  hearts. 
When  with  the  undelaying  steps  of  love 
Through  yon  o'ershadowing  wood  we  dimly  see 
A  coming  friend,  far  distant  then  believed. 
And  all  unlooked  for.     When  the  short  distrust 
Of  unexpected  joy  no  more  constrains. 
And  the  eye's  welcome  brings  him  to  our  arms, 
With  gladdened  spirit  he  will  quickly  own 
That  true  love  ne'er  was  selfish,  and  that  man 
Ne'er  knew  the  whole  affection  of  his  heart 
Till  resting  on  another's.     If  from  scenes 
Of  noisy  life  he  come,  and  in  his  soul 
The  love  of  Nature,  like  a  long-past  dream. 
If  e'er  it  stir,  yield  but  a  dim  delight. 
Oh!  we  shall  lead  him  where  the  genial  power 
Of  beauty,  working  by  the  wavy  green 
Of  hill-ascending  wood,  the  misty  gleam 
Of  lakes  reposing  in  their  peaceful  vales, 
And,  lovelier  than  the  loveliness  below, 
The  moonlight  heaven,  shall  to  his  blood  restore 
An  undisturbed  flovr,  such  as  he  felt 
Pervade  his  being,  morning,  noon,  and  night. 
When  youth's  bright  years  passed  happily  away 
Among  his  native  hills,  and  all  he  knew 
Of  crowded  cities  was  from  passing  tale 
Of  traveller,  half-believed,  and  soon  forgotten. 

And  fear  not,  Mary!  that,  when  winter  comes, 
These  solitary  mountains  will  resign 
The  beauty  that  pervades  then-  mighty  frames, 
Even  like  a  living  soul.     The  gleams  of  hght 
Hurrying  in  joyful  tumult  o'er  the  cliffs, 
And  giving  to  our  musings  many  a  burst 
Of  sudden  grandeur,  even  as  if  the  eye 
Of  God  were  wandering  o'er  the  lovely  wild. 
Pleased  with  his  own  creation;— the  still  joy 
Of  cloudless  skies;  and  the  dehghted  voice 
Of  hymning  fountains,— these  will  leave  awhile 
The  altered  earth:— But  other  attributes 


Of  nature's  heart  will  rule,  and  in  the  storm 
We  shall  behold  the  same  prevailing  Power 
That  slumbers  in  the  calm,  and  sanctify. 
With  adoration,  the  delight  of  love. 

I  lift  my  eyes  upon  the  radiant  moon. 
That  long  unnoticed  o'er  my  head  has  held 
Her  solitary  walk,  and  as  her  hght 
Recalls  my  wandering  soul,  I  start  to  feel 
That  all  has  been  a  dream.     Alone  I  stand 
Amid  the  silence.     Onward  rolls  the  stream 
Of  time,  while  ta  my  ear  its  waters  sound 
With  a  strange  i-ushing  music.     0  my  soul! 
Whate'er  betide,  for  aye  remember  thou 
These  mystic  warnings,  for  they  are  of  Heaven. 


LINES  WRITTEN  IN  A  HIGHLAND 
BURIAL-GROUND. 

How  mournfully  this  burial-ground 
Sleeps  'mid  old  Ocean's  solemn  sound, 
Who  rolls  his  bright  and  sunny  waves 
All  round  these  deaf  and  silent  graves! 
The  cold  wan  light  that  glimmers  here, 
The  sickly  wild-flowers  may  not  cheer; 
If  here,  with  solitary  hum, 
The  wandering  mountain-bee  doth  come, 
'Mid  the  pale  blossoms  short  his  stay. 
To  brighter  leaves  he  booms  away. 
The  sea-bird,  with  a  wailing  sound, 
Alighteth  softly  on  a  mound, 
And,  like  an  image,  sitting  there 
For  hours  amid  the  doleful  air, 
Seemeth  to  tell  of  some  dim  union. 
Some  wild  and  mystical  communion, 
Connecting  with  his  parent  sea 
This  lonesome,  stoneless  cemetery. 

This  may  not  be  the  burial-place 
Of  some  extinguished  kingly  race, 
Whose  name  on  earth,  no  longer  known, 
Hath  mouldered  with  the  mouldering  stone. 
That  nearest  grave,  yet  brown  with  mould. 
Seems  but  one  summer  twilight  old; 
Both  late  and  frequent  hath  the  bier 
Been  on  its  mournful  visit  here; 
And  yon  green  spot  of  sunny  rest 
Is  waiting  for  its  destined  guest. 

I  see  no  little  kirk — no  bell 

On  Sabbath  twinkleth  through  this  dell; 

How  beautiful  those  graves  and  fair. 

That,  lying  round  the  house  of  prayer. 

Sleep  in  the  shadow  of  its  grace! 

But  death  hath  chosen  this  rueful  place 

For  his  own  undivided  reign! 


80 


JOHN   WILSON. 


And  nothing  tells  that  e'er  again 
The  sleepers  will  forsake  their  bed- 
Now,  and  for  everlasting  dead, 
For  hope  with  memory  seems  fled! 

Wild -screaming  bird!  unto  the  sea 
Winging  thy  flight  reluctantly. 
Slow  floating  o"er  these  grassy  tombs. 
So  ghost-like,  with  thy  snow-white  plumes, 
At  once  from  thy  wild  shriek  I  know 
What  means  tiiis  place  so  steeped  in  woe! 
Here,  they  who  perished  on  the  deep 
Enjoy  at  last  unrocking  sleep; 
For  ocean  from  his  wrathful  breast 
Flung  them  into  this  haven  of  rest. 
Where  shroudless,  cofiinless,  they  lie — 
'Tis  the  shipwrecked  seamen's  cemetery. 

Here  seamen  old,  with  grizzled  locks, 
Shipwrecked  before  on  desert  rocks, 
And  by  some  wandering  vessel  taken 
From  sorrows  that  seem  God-forsaken, 
Home-bound,  here  have  met  the  blast 
That  wrecked  them  on  death's  shore  at  last ! 
Old  friendless  men,  who  had  no  tears 
To  shed,  nor  any  place  for  fears 
In  hearts  by  misery  fortified, — 
And,  without  terror,  sternly  died. 
Here  many  a  creature,  moving  bright 
And  glorious  in  full  manhood's  might. 
Who  dared  with  an  untroubled  eye 
The  tempest  brooding  in  the  sky. 
And  loved  to  hear  that  music  rave. 
And  danced  above  the  mountain  wave. 
Hath  quaked  on  this  terrific  strand, 
All  flung  like  sea-weeds  to  the  land; 
A  whole  crew  lying  side  by  side. 
Death-dashed  at  once,  in  all  their  pride. 
And  here  the  bright-haired,  fair-faced  boy, 
Who  took  with  iiim  all  earthly  joy 
From  one  who  weeps  both  night  and  day. 
For  her  sweet  son  borne  far  away, 
Escaped  at  last  the  cruel  deep, 
In  all  his  beauty  lies  asleep; 
While  she  would  yield  all  hopes  of  grace 
For  one  kiss  of  his  pale  cold  face! 

Oh !  I  could  wail  in  lonely  fear. 
For  many  a  woeful  ghost  sits  here. 
All  weeping  with  their  fixed  eyes! 
And  what  a  dismal  sound  of  sighs 
Is  mingling  with  the  gentle  roar 
Of  small  waves  breaking  on  the  shore; 
While  ocean  seems  to  sport  and  play 
In  mockery  of  its  wretched  prey! 
And  lo!  a  white- winged  vessel  sails 
In  sunshine,  gathering  all  the  gales 
Fast  freshening  from  yon  isle  of  pines. 
That  o'er  the  clear  sea  waves  and  shines.- 


I  turn  me  to  the  ghostly  crowd. 
All  smeared  with  dust,  without  a  shroud, 
And  silent  every  blue-swollen  lip! 
Then  gazing  on  the  sunny  ship. 
And  listening  to  the  gladsome  cheers 
Of  all  her  thoughtless  mariners, 
I  seem  to  hear  in  every  breath 
The  hollow  undertones  of  Death, 
Who,  all  unheard  by  those  who  sing. 
Keeps  tune  with  low  wild  murmuring, 
And  points  with  his  lean  bony  hand 
To  the  pale  ghosts  sitting  on  this  strand, 
Then  dives  beneath  the  rushing  prow, 
Till  on  some  moonless  night  of  woe 
He  drives  her  shivering  from  the  steep 
Down — down  a  thousand  fathoms  deep. 


ADDRESS  TO  A   WILD  DEER. 

(extracts.) 

Magnificent  creature!  so  stately  and  bright! 
In  the  pride  of  thy  spirit  pursuing  thy  flight; 
For  what  hath  the  child  of  the  desert  to  dread. 
Wafting  up  his  own  mountains  that  far-beaming 

head; 
Or  borne  like  a  whirlwind  down  on  the  vale  ? — 
Hail!  king  of  the  wild  and  the  beautiful! — hail! 
Hail!  idol  divine! — whom  nature  hathborae 
O'er  a  hundred  hill-tops  since  the  mists  of  the 

morn, 
Wliom  the  pilgrim  lone  wandering  on  mountain 

and  moor, 
As  the  vision  glides  by  him,  may  blameless  adore: 
For  the  joy  of  the  happy,  the  strength  of  the  free. 
Are  spread  in  a  garment  of  glory  o'er  thee. 
Up,  up  to  yon  cliff !  like  a  king  to  his  throne! 
O'er  the  black  silent  forest  piled  lofty  and  lone — 
A  throne  which  the  eagle  is  glad  to  resign 
Unto  footsteps  so  fleet  and  so  fearless  as  thine. 
There  the  bright  heather  springs  up  in  love  of 

thy  breast, 
Lo!  the  clouds  in  the  depths  of  the  sky  are  at  rest; 
And  the  race  of  the  wild  winds  is  o'er  on  the  hill ! 
In  the  hush  of  the  mountains,  ye  antlers  lie  still! 
Though  your  branches  now  toss  in  the  storm  of 

delight, 
Like  the  arms  of   the  pine  on  yon  shelterless 

height. 
One  moment— thou  bright  apparition! — delay! 
Then  melt  o'er  the  crags,  like  the  sun  from  the 

day. 

His  voyage  is  o'er!— as  if  struck  by  a  spell. 
He  motionless  stands  in  the  brush  of  the  dell; 
There  softly  and  slowly  sinks  down  on  his  breast. 
In  the  midst  of  his  pastime  enamoured  of  rest. 
A  stream  in  a  clear  pool  that  endeth  its  i-ace— 


JOHN   WILSON. 


81 


A  dancing  ray  chained  to  one  sunshiny  place — 
A  cloud  by  the  winds  to  calm  solitude  driven — 
A  hurricane  dead  in  the  silence  of  heaven. 

Fit  couch  of  repose  for  a  pilgrim  like  thee! 
Magnificent  prison  inclosing  the  free ! 
With  rock-wall  encircled,  with  precipice  crowned, 
WTiich,  awoke  by  the  sun,  thou  canst  clear  at  a 

bound. 
'Mid  the  fern  and  the  heather  kind  nature  doth 

keep 
One  bright  spot  of  green  for  her  favourite's  sleep; 
And  close  to  that  covert,  as  clear  as  the  skies 
When  their  blue  depths  are  cloudless,  a  little 

lake  lies. 
Where  the  creature  at  rest  can  his  image  behold. 
Looking  up  through  the  radiance  as  bright  and 

as  bold. 

Yes;  fierce  looks  thy  nature,   even   hushed   in 

repose — 
In  the  depths  of  thy  desert  regardless  of  foes, 
Thy  bold  antlers  call  on  the  hunter  afar. 
With  a  haughty  defiance  to  come  to  the  war. 
No  outrage  is  war  to  a  creature  hke  thee; 
The  bugle-horn  fills  thy  wild  spirit  with  glee. 
As  thou  bearest  thy  neck  on  the  wings  of  the  viand. 
And  the  laggardly  gaze-hound  is  toiling  behind. 
In  the  beams  of  thy  forehead,  that  glitter  with 

death, 
In  feet  that  draw  power  from  the  touch  of  the 

heath — 
In  the  wide-raging  torrent  that  lends  thee  its 

roai", — 
In  the  cliff  that  once  trod  must  be  trodden  no 

more, — 
Thy  trust— 'mid  the  dangers  that  threaten  thy 

reign ! 
— But  what  if  the  stag  on  the  mountain  be  slain  ? 
On  the  brink  of  the  rock— lo  I  he  standeth  at  bay. 
Like  a  victor  that  falls  at  the  close  of  the  day — 
While  hunter  and  hound  in  their  terror  retreat 
From  the  death  that  is  spumed  from  his  furious 

feet; 
And  his  last  ciy  of  anger  comes  back  from  the 

skies. 
As  nature's  fierce  son  in  the  wilderness  dies. 


TO  A  SLEEPING  CHILD. 
(extkacts.  ) 

Art  thou  a  thing  of  mortal  birth, 
Whose  happy  home  is  on  our  earth? 
Does  human  blood  with  life  imbue 
Those  wandering  veins  of  heavenly  blue 
That  stray  along  thy  forehead  fair. 
Lost  'mid  a  gleam  of  golden  hair? 

Vol.  II.— F 


Oh!  can  that  light  and  airy  breath 
Steal  from  a  being  doomed  to  death; 
Those  features  to  the  grave  be  sent 
In  sleep  thus  mutely  eloquent; 
Or  art  thou,  what  thy  form  would  seem, 
The  phantom  of  a  blessed  dream  ? 

Oh!  that  my  spirit's  eye  could  see 
AYhenee  burst  those  gleams  of  ecstacy! 
That  light  of  dreaming  soul  appears 
To  play  from  thoughts  above  thy  years. 
Thou  smil'st  as  if  thy  soul  were  soaring 
To  heaven,  and  heaven's  God  adoring! 
And  who  can  tell  what  visions  high 
Jilay  bless  an  infant's  sleeping  eye? 
What  brighter  throne  can  brightness  find 
To  reign  on  than  an  infant's  mind. 
Ere  sin  destroy  or  error  dim 
The  glory  of  the  seraphim  1 

Oh!  vision  fair!  that  I  could  be 
Again  as  young,  as  pure  as  thee! 
Vain  wish!  the  rainbow's  radiant  form 
May  view,  but  cannot  brave  the  storm; 
Years  can  bedim  the  gorgeous  dyes 
That  paint  the  bird  of  Paradise. 
And  years,  so  fate  hath  ordered,  roll 
Clouds  o'er  the  summer  of  the  soul. 

Fair  was  that  face  as  break  of  dawn. 
When  o'er  its  beauty  sleep  was  draAvn, 
Like  a  thin  veil  that  half-concealed 
The  light  of  soul,  and  half-revealed, 
While  thy  hushed  heart  with  visions  wrought, 
Each  trembling  eyelash  moved  with  thought. 
And  things  we  dream,  but  ne'er  can  speak. 
Like  clouds  came  floating  o'er  thy  cheek, 
Such  summer  clouds  as  travel  light 
When  the  soul's  heaven  lies  calm  and  bright; 
Till  thou  awok'st — then  to  thine  eye 
Thy  whole  heart  leapt  in  ecstacy! 
And  lovely  is  that  heart  of  thine. 
Or  sure  these  eyes  could  never  shine 
With  such  a  wild,  yet  bashful  glee. 
Gay,  half-o'ercome  timidity! 


MARY  GRAY'S  SONG. 

I  walk'd  by  mysel'  owre  the  sweet  braes  o'  Yarrow, 

When  the  earth  wi'  the  gowans  o'  July  was 

dress'd; 

But  the  sang  o'  the  bonnie  bum  sounded  like 

sorrow, 

Bound  ilka  house  cauld  as  a  last-simmer's  nest. 


82 


JOHN   WILSON. 


I  look'd   through  the  lift  o'  the   blue   smiling 
morning, 
But  never  a  wee  cloud  o'  mist  could  I  see, 
On  its  way  up  to  heaven,  the  cottage  adorning, 
Hanging  white  owre  the  green  o'  its  sheltering 
tree. 

By  the  outside  I  kenn'd  that  the  inn  was  forsaken, 
That  nae  tread  o'  footsteps  was  heard  on  the 
floor; 
Oh,  loud  craw'd  the  cock  whare  was  nane   to 
awaken. 
And  the  wild  raven  croak'd  on  the  seat  by  the 
door! 

Sic  silence— sic  lonesomencss,  oh,  were  bewilder- 
ing! 
I  heard  nae  lass  singing  when  herding  her  sheep ; 
I  met  nae  bright  garlands  o'  wee  rosy  children, 
Dancing  on  to  the  school-house,  just  waken'd 
frae  sleep. 

I  pass'd  by  the  school-house,  when  strangers  were 

coming, 

Whose  windows  with  glad  faces  seem'd  all  alive; 

Ae  moment  I  hearken'd,  but  heard  nae  sweet 

humming. 

For  a  night  o'  dark  vapour  can  silence  the  hive. 

I  pass'd  by  the  pool  where  the  lasses  at  dawing 
Used  to  bleach  their  white  garments  wi'  daffin' 
.     and  din; 
But  the  foam  in  the  silence  o'  nature  was  fa'ing. 
And  nae  laughing  rose  loud  through  the  roar 
of  the  linn. 

I  gaed  into  a  small  town,  when  sick  o'  my  roam- 
ing, 
Wliare  ance  play'd  the  viol,  the  tabor,  and  flute; 
'Twas  the  hour  loved  by  labour,  the  saft  smiling 
gloaming. 
Yet  the  green  round  the  cross-stane  was  empty 
and  mute. 

To  the  yellow-flower'd  meadow,  and  scant  rigs  o' 

tillage, 

The  sheep  a'  neglected  had  come  frae  the  glen; 

The  cushat-doo  coo'd  in  the  midst  o'  the  village. 

And  the  swallow  had  flown  to  the  dwellings  o' 

men! 

Sweet  Denholm !  not  thus  when  I  lived  in  thy 
bosom, 
Thy  heart  lay  so  still  the  last  night  o'  the  week; 
Then  nane  was  sae  weary  that  love  would  nae 
rouse  him. 
And  grief  gaed  to  dance  wi'  a  laugh  on  his 
cheek. 

Sic  thoughts  wet  my  een,  as  the  moonshine  was 
beaming 
On  the  kirk  tower  that  rose  up  sae  silent  and 
white; 


The  wan  ghastly  light  on  the  dial  was  streaming, 
But  the  still  finger  tauld  not  the  hour  o'  the 
night. 

The   mirk -time  passed   slowly   in   sighing  and 
weeping; 

I  waken'd,  and  nature  lay  silent  in  mirth; 
Owre  a'  holy  Scotland  the  Sabbath  was  sleeping. 

And  heaven  in  beauty  came  down  on  the  earth. 

The  morning  smiled  on — but  nae  kirk-bell  was 
ringing; 
Nae  plaid  or  blue  bonnet  came  down  frae  the 
hill; 
The  kii-k-door  was  shut,  but  nae  psalm  tune  was 
singing. 
And  I  miss'd  the  wee  voices  sae  sweet  and  sae 
shrill. 

I  look'd  owre  the  quiet  o'  death's  empty  dwelling, 
The  laverock  walk'd  mute  'mid  the  sorrowful 
scene. 
And  fifty  brown  hillocks  wi'  fresh  mould  were 
swelling 
Owre  the  kirk-yard  o'  Denholm,  last  simmer 
sae  green. 

The  infant  had  died  at  the  breast  o'  its  mither; 

The  cradle  stood  still  at  the  mitherless  bed; 
At  play  the  bairn  sunk  in  the  hand  o'  its  brither; 

At  the  fauld  on  the  mountain  the  shepherd 
lay  dead. 

Oh!  in  spring-time  'tis  eerie,  when  winter  is  over, 
And  birds  should  be  glintin'  owre  forest  and 
lea. 
When  the  hnt-white  and  mavis  the  yellow  leaves 
cover. 
And  nae  blackbird  sings  loud  frae  the  tap  o' 
his  tree. 

But  eerier  far,  when  the  spring  land  rejoices. 
And   laughs  back   to  heaven   with  gratitude 
bright. 
To  hearken,   and  naewhere  hear  sweet  human 
voices, 
When  man's  soul  is  dark  in  the  season  o'  light! 


THE  THREE  SEASONS  OF  LOYE. 

With  laughter  swimming  in  thine  eye, 
That  told  youth's  heartfelt  revelry; 
And  motion  changeful  as  the  wing 
Of  swallow  waken'd  by  the  spring; 
With  accents  blithe  as  voice  of  May 
Chanting  glad  nature's  roundelay; 
Circled  by  joy  like  planet  bright 
That  smiles  'mid  wreaths  of  dewy  light, - 
Tiiy  image  such,  in  former  time. 
When  thou,  just  entering  on  thy  prime, 


JOHN  WILSON. 


83 


And  woman's  sense  in  tliec  combined 
Gently  with  childliood's  simplest  mind, 
First  taught'st  my  sighing  soul  to  move 
With  hope  towards  the  heaven  of  love! 

Now  years  have  given  my  Mary's  face 

A  thoughtful  and  a  quiet  grace: — 

Though  happy  still, — yet  chance  distress 

Hath  left  a  pensive  loneliness; 

Fancy  hath  tamed  her  fairy  gleams, 

And  thy  heart  broods  o'er  home-born  dreams! 

Thy  smiles,  slow-kindling  now  and  mild. 

Shower  blessings  on  a  darling  child; 

Thy  motion  slow  and  soft  thy  tread. 

As  if  round  thy  hush'd  infant's  bed! 

And  when  thou  speak'st,  thy  melting  tone, 

That  tells  thy  heart  is  all  my  own, 

Sounds  sweeter  from  the  lapse  of  years, 

With  the  wife's  love,  the  mother's  fears! 

By  thy  glad  youth  and  tranquil  prime 
Assured,  I  smile  at  hoary  time; 
For  thou  art  doom'd  in  age  to  know 
The  calm  that  wisdom  steals  from  woe; 
The  holy  pride  of  high  intent, 
The  glory  of  a  life  well  spent. 
When,  earth's  affections  nearly  o'er. 
With  Peace  behind  and  Faith  before, 
Thou  render'st  up  again  to  God, 
Untarnish'd  by  its  frail  abode. 
Thy  lustrous  soul,  then  harp  and  hymn 
From  bands  of  sister  seraphim. 
Asleep  will  lay  thee,  till  thine  eye 
Open  in  immortality. 


THE  PAST. 

How  wild  and  dim  this  life  appears! 

One  long,  deep,  heavy  sigh! 

When  o'er  our  eyes,  lialf  closed  in  tears, 

The  images  of  former  years 

Are  faintly  glimmering  by! 

And  still  forgotten  while  they  go, 

As  on  the  sea-beach  wave  on  wave 

Dissolves  at  once  in  snow. 

Upon  the  blue  and  silent  sky 

The  amber  clouds  one  moment  lie. 

And  like  a  dream  are  gone! 

Though  beautiful  the  moonbeams  play 

On  the  lake's  bosom  bright  as  they. 

And  the  soul  intensely  loves  their  stay. 

Soon  as  the  radiance  melts  away 

We  scarce  believe  it  shone! 

Heaven-airs  amid  the  harp-strings  dwell. 

And  we  wish  they  ne'er  may  fade — 

They  cease!  and  the  soul  is  a  silent  cell, 


Where  music  never  played. 

Dream  follows  dream  through  the  long  night 

hours. 
Each  lovelier  than  the  last — ■ 
But  ere  the  breath  of  morning  flowers. 
That  gorgeous  world  flies  past. 
And  many  a  sweet  angelic  cheek. 
Whose  smiles  of  love  and  kindness  speak, 
Glides  by  us  on  this  earth — 
While  in  a  day  we  cannot  tell 
Where  shone  the  face  we  loved  so  well 
In  sadness  or  in  mirth. 


THE  EVENING  CLOUD. 

A  cloud  lay  cradled  near  the  setting  sun, 

A  gleam  of  crimson  tinged  its  braided  snow; 
Long  had  I  watched  the  glory  moving  on 

O'er  the  still  radiance  of  the  lake  below. 
Tranquil  its  spirit  seem'd,  and  floated  slow! 

Even  in  its  very  motion  there  was  rest; 
Wliile  every  breath  of  eve  that  chanced  to  blow 

Wafted  the  traveller  to  the  beauteous  west. 
Emblem,  methought,  of  the  departed  soul! 

To  whose  white  robe  the  gleam  of  bhss  is  given ; 
And  by  the  breath  of  mercy  made  to  roll, 

Right  onwards  to  the  golden  gates  of  heaven. 
Where,  to  the  eye  of  faith,  it  peaceful  lies, 

And  teUs  to  man  his  glorious  destinies. 


LOUGHRIG   TARN. 

Thou  guardian  Naiad  of  this  little  lake. 
Whose  banks  in  unprofaned  nature  sleep, 
(.\nd  that  in  waters  lone  and  beautiful 
Dwell  spirits  radiant  as  the  homes  they  love. 
Have  poets  still  believed)  0!  surely  blest 
Beyond  all  genii  or  of  wood  or  wave. 
Or  sylphs  that  in  the  shooting  sunbeams  dwell. 
Art  thou!  yea,  happier  even  than  summer  cloud 
Beloved  by  air  and  sky,  and  floating  slow 
O'er  the  still  bosom  of  upholding  heaven. 

Beauteous  as  blest,  0  Naiad,  thou  must  be! 
For,  since  thy  birth,  have  all  delightful  things, 
Of  form  and  hue,  of  silence  and  of  sound. 
Circled  thy  spirit,  as  the  crowding  stars 
Shine  round  the  placid  moon.     Lov'st  thou  to 

sink 
Into  thy  cell  of  sleep  1    The  water  parts 
With  dimpling  smiles  around  thee,  and  below. 
The  unsunn'd  verdure,  soft  as  cygnet's  down. 
Meets  thy  descending  feet  without  a  sound. 
Lov'st  thou  to  sport  upon  the  watery  gleam  1 
Lucid  as  air  around  thy  head  it  lies 
Bathing  thy  sable  locks  in  pearly  light; 


84 


JOHN   WILSON. 


"While,  all  around,  the  water-lilies  strive 
To  shower  their  blossoms  o'er  the  virgin  queen. 
Or  doth  the  shore  allure  thee?— well  it  may: 
How  soft  these  fields  of  pastoral  beauty  melt 
In  the  clear  water!  neither  sand  nor  stone 
Bars  herb  or  wild-flower  from  the  dewy  sound, 
Like  spring's  own  voice  now  rippling  round  the 

Tarn. 
There  oft  thou  licst  'mid  the  echoing  bleat 
Of  lambs,  that  race  amid  the  sunny  gleams; 
Or  bee's  wide  murmur  as  it  fills  the  broom 
That  yellows  round  thy  bed.    0 !  gentle  glades, 
Amid  the  tremulous  verdure  of  the  woods, 
hi  steadfast  smiles  of  more  essential  light, 
Lying,  like  azure  streaks  of  placid  sky 
Amid  the  moving  clouds,  the  Naiad  loves 
Your  glimmering  alleys,   and    your  rustling 

bowers; 
For  there,  in  peace  reclined,  her  half-closed  eye 
Through  the  long  vista  sees  her  darling  lake 
Even  like  herself,  diffused  in  fair  repose. 

Not  undelightful  to  the  quiet  breast 
Such  solitary  dreams  as  now  have  fiU'd 
My  busy  fancy;  dreams  that  rise  in  peace. 
And  thither  lead,  partaking  in  their  flight 
Of  human  interests  and  earthly  joys. 
Imagination  fondly  leans  on  truth, 
And  sober  scenes  of  dim  reality 
To  her  seem  lovely  as  the  western  sky 
To  the  rapt  Persian  worshipping  the  sun. 
Jlethinks  this  little  lake,  to  whom  my  heart 
Assigned  a  guardian  spirit,  renders  back 
To  me,  in  tenderest  gleams  of  gratitude, 
Pi-ofounder  beauty  to  reward  my  hymn. 

Long  hast  thou  been  a  darling  haunt  of  mine. 
And  still  warm  blessings  gush'd  into  my  heart. 
Meeting  or  parting  with  thy  smiles  of  peace. 
But  now  thy  mild  and  gentle  character. 
More  deeply  felt  than  ever,  seems  to  blend 
Its  essence  pure  with  mine,  like  some  sweet  tune 
Oft  heard  before  with  pleasure,  but  at  last, 
In  one  high  moment  of  inspired  bliss, 
Borne  through  the  spirit  like  an  angel's  song. 

This  is  the  solitude  that  reason  loves! 
Even  he  who  yearns  for  human  sympathies, 
And  hears  a  music  in  the  breath  of  man. 
Dearer  than  voice  of  mountain  or  of  flood, 
Might  live  a  hermit  here,  and  mark  the  sun 
Rising  or  setting  'mid  the  beauteous  calm, 
Devoutly  blending  in  his  happy  soul 
Thoughts  both  of   earth  and    heaven! — Yon 

mountain-side, 
Eejoicing  in  its  clustering  cottages. 
Appears  to  me  a  paradise  preserved 
From  guilt  by  Nature's  hand,  and  every  wreath 


Of  smoke,  that  from  these  hamlets  mounts  to 

heaven. 
In  its  straight  silence,  holy  as  a  spire 
Pear'd  o'er  the  house  of  God. 

Thy  sanctity 
Time  yet  hath  reverenced;  and  I  deeply  feel 
That  innocence  her  shrine  shall  here  preserve 
For  ever.- — The  wild  vale  that  lies  beyond. 
Circled  by  mountains  trod  but  by  the  feet 
Of  venturous  shepherd,  from  all  visitants 
Save  the  free  tempests  and  the  fowls  of  heaven. 
Guards  thee; — and  wooded  knolls  fantastical 
Seclude  thy  image  from  the  gentler  dale, 
That  by  the  Brathay's  often-varied  voice 
Cheer'd  as  it  winds  along,  in  beauty  fades 
'Mid  the  green  banks  of  joyful  Windermere! 

0  gentlest  lake!  from  all  unhallow'd  things 
By  grandeur  guarded  in  thy  loveliness, 
Ne'er  may  thy  poet  with  unwelcome  feet 
Press  thy  soft  moss  embathed  in  flowery  dies, 
And  shadow'd  in  thy  stillness  like  the  heavens. 
May  innocence  for  ever  lead  me  here. 
To  form  amid  the  silence  high  resolves 
For  future  life;  resolves  that,  born  in  peace. 
Shall  live  'mid  tumult,  and  though  haply  mild 
As  infants  in  their  play,  when  brought  to  bear 
On  the  world's  business,  shall  assert  their  power 
And  majesty — and  lead  me  boldly  on 
Like  giants  conquering  in  a  noble  cause. 

This  is  a  holy  faith,  and  full  of  cheer 
To  all  who  worship  nature,  that  the  hours, 
Pass'd  tranquilly  with  her,  fade  not  away 
For  ever  like  the  clouds,  but  in  the  soul 
Possess  a  sacred,  silent  dwelling-place. 
Where  with  a  smiling  visage  memory  sits. 
And  startles  oft  the  virtuous  with  a  show 
Of  unsuspected  treasures.     Yea,  sweet  lake! 
Oft  hast  thou  borne  into  my  grateful  heart 
Thy  lovely  presence,  with  a  thousand  dreams 
Dancing  and  brightening  o'er  thy  sunny  wave. 
Though  many  a  dreary  mile  of  mist  and  snow 
Between  us  interposed.     And  even  now, 
AVhen  yon  bright  star  hath  risen  to  warn  me 

honr.e, 
I  bid  thee  farewell  in  the  certain  hope 
That  thou,  this  night,  wilt  o'er  my  sleeping  eyes 
Shed  cheering  visions  and  with  freshest  joy 
Make  me  salute  the  dawn.    Nor  may  the  hymn 
Now  sung  by  me  unto  thy  listening  woods 
Be  wholly  vain, — but  haply  it  may  yield 
A  gentle  pleasure  to  .some  gentle  heart; 
Who,  blessing  at  its  close  the  unknown  bard, 
May,  for  his  sake,  upon  thy  quiet  banks 
Frame  visions  of  his  own,  and  other  songs 
More  beautiful  to  Nature  and  to  thee! 


EGBERT  GRANT. 


B5 


EOBEET    GPvANT. 


Born  1785  — Died  1838. 


The  Plight  Hon.  Sir  Egbert  Grant,  governor 
of  Bombay,  was  born  in  the  county  of  Inver- 
ness in  1785.  He  was  descended  from  one  of 
the  most  ancient  families  in  Scotland.  With 
liis  elder  brother  Charles,  the  late  Lord  Glen- 
elg,  he  was  entered  a  member  of  Magdalene 
College,  in  the  University  of  Cambridge,  of 
which  they  both  became  fellows.  Here  he 
graduated  with  the  highest  honours  in  1806, 
and  adopting  the  profession  of  the  law  he  was 
called  to  the  bar  at  Lincoln's  Inn  in  1807.  In 
1813  he  published  a  pamphlet  entitled  "The 
Expediency  Maintained  of  Continuing  the  Sys- 
tem by  which  the  Trade  and  Government  of 
India  are  now  Regulated,"  and  also  "A  Sketch 
of  the  History  of  the  East  India  Company  from 
its  First  Foundation  to  the  Passing  of  the 
Regulating  Act  of  1773."  He  held  the  office 
of  King's  Sergeant  in  the  Duchy  Court  of  Lan- 
caster and  was  made  one  of  the  Commissioners 


of  Bankrupts.  In  1826  he  was  elected  to  Par- 
liament for  the  Inverness  district  of  burghs; 
and  he  afterwards  sat  for  Norwich  and  the 
new  borough  of  Finsbur}'.  He  was  appointed 
one  of  the  commissioners  of  the  Board  of  Con- 
trol, was  sworn  a  privy-councillor  in  1831,  and 
the  year  following  was  appointed  Judge- Advo- 
cate-General. In  June,  1834,  he  received  the 
appointment  of  governor  of  Bombay,  and  con- 
tinued to  discharge  the  duties  of  this  impor- 
tant office  till  the  time  of  his  death,  which 
took  place  at  Dapoorie  July  9,  1838,  in  his 
fifty-third  year.  An  elegant  volume,  entitled 
"Sacred  Poems,  by  Sir  Robert  Grant,"  was 
published  by  Lord  Glenelg  in  1839.  In  the 
preface  he  says: — "Many  of  them  have 
already  appeared  in  print,  either  in  periodi- 
cal publications  or  in  collections  of  sacred 
poetry;  but  a  few  are  now  published  for  the 
first  time." 


LITANY. 


Saviour:  when  in  dust  to  thee 
Low  we  bow  the  adoring  knee; 
AVhen,  repentant,  to  the  skies 
Scarce  we  lift  our  weeping  eyes: 
O !  by  all  thy  pains  and  woe. 
Suffered  once  for  man  below. 
Bending  from  thy  throne  on  high. 
Hear  our  solemn  litany. 

By  thy  helpless  infant  years. 
By  thy  life  of  want  and  tears, 
By  thy  days  of  sore  distress 
In  the  savage  wilderness. 
By  the  dread  mysterious  hour 
Of  the  insulting  tempter's  power; 
Turn,  0!  turn  a  favouring  eye, 
Hear  our  solemn  litany. 

By  the  sacred  griefs  that  wept 
O'er  the  grave  where  Lazarus  slept; 
By  the  boding  tears  that  flowed 
Over  Salem's  loved  abode; 


By  the  anguished  sigh  that  told 
Treachery  lurked  within  thy  fold, 
From  thy  seat  above  the  sky 
Hear  our  solemn  litany. 

By  thine  hour  of  dire  despair. 
By  thine  agony  of  prayer, 
By  the  cross,  the  wail,  the  thorn, 
Piercing  spear,  and  torturing  scorn. 
By  the  gloom  that  veiled  the  skies 
O'er  the  dreadful  sacrifice, 
Listen  to  our  humble  cry, 
Hear  our  solemn  litany. 

By  the  deep  expiring  groan. 
By  the  sad  sepulchral  stone, 
By  the  vault  whose  dark  abode 
Held  in  vain  the  rising  God : 
0  !  from  earth  to  heaven  restored. 
Mighty  reascended  Lord, 
Listen,  listen  to  the  cry 
Of  our  solemn  litany. 


86 


EOBEET  GEANT. 


"WHOM  HAVE  I   IN  HEAVEN  BUT 
THEE?" 

Lord  of  earth!  thy  bounteous  hand 
Well  this  glorious  frame  hath  planned; 
AVoods  that  wave,  and  hills  that  tower, 
Ocean  rolling  in  his  power; 
All  that  strikes  tlie  gaze  unsought, 
All  that  charms  tiie  lonely  tliought, 
Friendship — gem  transcending  price, 
Love — a  flower  from  Paradise. 
Yet,  amidst  this  scene  so  fair, 
Should  I  cease  thy  smile  to  share. 
What  were  all  its  joys  to  me! 
AVhom  have  I  in  earth  but  thee? 

Lord  of  heaven!  beyond  our  sight 
EoUs  a  world  of  purer  light: 
There,  in  Love's  unclouded  reign. 
Parted  hands  shall  clasp  again; 
Martyrs  there,  and  prophets  high. 
Blaze — a  glorious  company; 
AVhile  immortal  music  rings 
From  unnumber'd  seraph-strings. 
Oh!  that  world  is  passing  fair; 
Yet,  if  thou  wert  absent  there. 
What  were  all  its  joys  to  me! 
Whom  have  I  in  heaven  but  thee? 

Lord  of  earth  and  heaven  I  my  breast 
Seeks  in  thee  its  only  rest! 
I  was  lost — thy  accents  mild 
Homeward  lur'd  thy  wandering  child: 
I  was  blind — thy  healing  ray 
Charmed  the  long  eclipse  away; 
Source  of  every  joy  I  know. 
Solace  of  my  every  woe. 
Yet  should  once  thy  smile  divine 
Cease  upon  my  soul  to  shine. 
What  were  earth  or  heaven  to  me! 
AVhom  have  I  in  each  but  thee? 


"BLESSED  LS  THE  MAN  AA'HOM  THOU 
CHASTENEST." 

0  Saviour!  whose  mercy,  severe  in  its  kindness. 
Has  chasten'd  my  wanderings  and  guided  my 
way; 
Ador'd  be  the  power  which  illumin'd  my  blind- 
ness, 
And  wean'd  me  from  i>hantoms  that  smil'd  to 
betray. 

Enclianted  with  all  that  was  dazzling  and  fair, 
I  follow'd  the  rainbow — 1  caught  at  the  toy; 


And  still,  in  displeasure,  thy  goodness  was  there. 
Disappointing  the  hope  and  defeating  the  joy. 

The  blossom  blush'd  bright,but  a  worm  was  below ; 

The  moonlight  shone  fair,  there  was  blight  in 

the  beam; — 

Sweet  whisper'd  the  breeze,  but  it  whisper'd  of 

woe ; 

And  bitterness  flow'd  in  the  soft  flowmg  stream. 

So  eur'd  of  my  folly,  yet  cured  but  in  imrt, 
I  turn'd  to  the  refuge  thy  j^ity  displayed; 

And  still  did  this  eager  and  credulous  heart 
Weave  visions  of  promise  that  bloom'd  but  to 
fade. 

I  thought  that  the  course  of  the  pilgrim  to  heaven 
W^ould  be  bright  as  the  summer,  and  glad  as 
the  mom; 
Thou  show'dst  me  the  path — it  was  dark  and 
uneven. 
All  rugged  with  rock,  and  all  tangled  with 
thorn. 

I  dream'd  of  celestial  rewards  and  renown; 
I  grasped  at  the  triumph  which  blesses  the 
brave; 
I  ask'd  for  the  palm-branch,  the  robe,  and  the 
crown ; 
I  asked — and  thou  show'dst  me  a  cross  and  a 
gi'ave. 

Subdued  and  instructed,  at  length  to  thy  will 
My  hopes  and  my  longings  I  fain  would  resign ; 

0!  give  me  the  heart  that  can  wait  and  be  still. 
Nor  know  of  a  wish  or  a  pleasure  but  thine. 

There  are  mansions  exempted  from  sin  and  from 

woe — 

But  they  stand  in  a  region  by  mortals  untrod; 

There  are  rivers  of  joy — but  they  roll  not  below; 

There  is  rest — but  it  dwells  in  the  presence  of 

God. 


COMFORT  UNDER  AFFLICTION. 

AVhen  gathering  clouds  around  I  view. 
And  days  are  dark,  and  friends  are  few. 
On  him  I  lean  who,  not  in  vain, 
Experienced  every  human  pain: 
He  sees  my  wants,  allays  my  fears, 
And  counts  and  treasures  up  my  tears. 

If  aught  should  tempt  my  soul  to  stray 

From  heavenly  wisdom's  narrow  way; 

To  fly  the  good  I  would  pursue. 

Or  do  the  sin  I  would  not  do; 

Still  he  who  felt  temptation's  power 

Shall  guard  me  in  that  dangerous  hour. 


GEOEGE   BEATTIE. 


87 


If  wounded  love  my  bosom  swell, 
Deeeiv'd  by  those  I  prized  too  well, 
He  shall  his  pitying  aid  bestow, 
Who  felt  on  earth  severer  woe; 
At  once  betrayed,  denied,  or  fled, 
By  those  who  shared  his  daily  bread. 

If  vexing  thoughts  within  me  rise, 
And,  sore  dismay'd,  my  spirit  dies; 
Still  he  who  once  vouchsafed  to  bear 
The  sickening  anguish  of  despair. 
Shall  sweetly  soothe,  shall  gently  dry. 
The  throbbing  heart,  the  streaming  eye. 

When  sorrowing  o'er  some  stone  I  bend. 
Which  covers  what  Avas  once  a  friend, 
And  from  his  voice,  his  hand,  his  smile, 
Divides  me — for  a  little  while, 
Thou,  Saviour,  mark'st  the  tears  I  shed. 
For  thou  didst  weep  o'er  Lazarus  dead. 

And  0!  when  I  have  safely  past 
Through  every  conflict — but  the  last. 
Still,  still,  unchanging,  watch  beside 
My  painful  bed — for  thou  hast  died; 
Then  point  to  realms  of  cloudless  day. 
And  wipe  the  latest  tear  away. 


THE   BROOKLET. 

Sweet  brooklet  ever  gliding, 
Now  high  the  mountain  riding, 
The  lone  vale  now  dividing, 

Whither  away? 
"  With  pilgrim  course  I  flow. 
Or  in  summer's  scorching  glow, 
Or  o'er  moonless  wastes  of  snow. 

Nor  stop,  nor  stay; 
For  oh!  by  high  behest. 
To  a  bright  abode  of  rest, 


In  my  parent  ocean's  breast 
I  hasten  away!" 

Many  a  dark  morass. 
Many  a  craggy  pass. 
Thy  feeble  force  must  pass; 

Yet,  yet  delay ! 
"  Tho'  the  marsh  be  dire  and  deep, 
Tho'  the  crag  be  stern  and  steep. 
On,  on  my  course  must  sweep, 

I  may  not  stay; 
For  oh !  be  it  east  or  west. 
To  a  home  of  glorious  rest 
In  the  bright  sea's  boundless  breast, 

1  hasten  away!" 

The  warbling  bowers  beside  thee, 
The  laughing  flowers  that  hide  thee, 
With  soft  accord  they  chide  tiiee. 

Sweet  brooklet,  stay! 
"  I  taste  of  the  fragrant  flowers, 
I  respond  to  the  warbling  bowers, 
And  sweetly  they  charm  the  hours 

Of  my  winding  way; 
But  ceaseless  still,  in  quest 
Of  that  everlasting  rest 
In  my  parent's  boundless  breast, 

I  hasten  away!" 

Know'st  thou  that  dread  abyss? 
Is  it  a  scene  of  bliss? 
Oh!  rather  cling  to  this, 

Sweet  brooklet,  stay! 
"0!  who  shall  fitly  tell 
What  wonders  there  may  dwell? 
That  world  of  mystery  well 

Might  strike  dismay;     ' 
But  I  know  'tis  my  parent's  breast. 
There  held,  I  must  need  be  blest. 
And  with  joy  to  that  promised  rest 

I  hasten  away!" 


GEOEGE    BEATTIE, 


Born  17S6  — Died  1823. 


George  Beattie,  a  man  who,  both  from  the 
value  of  the  poetry  he  left  behind  him,  and 
the  tragic  nature  of  the  closing  years  of  his 
brief  life,  has  claims  on  the  sympathetic  re- 
membrance of  a  generation  other  than  his  own, 
was  born  in  1786  in  the  parish  of  St.  Cyrus, 
in  the  south-east  corner  of  Kincardineshire. 


The  son  of  a  crofter,  who  in  the  season  could 
take  to  salmon-fishing  to  help  him  to  support 
his  family,  he  was  born  and  brought  up  in  a 
small  cottage,  which  boasted  only  of  a  "but 
and  a  ben,"  along  with  his  three  brothers  and 
two  sisters,  who  went  regularly  every  morning 
in  merry  band  to  the  parish  school.     These 


88- 


GEORGE   BEATTIE. 


were  the  days  of  simple  homely  pleasures  and 
rural  festivities,  when  the  more  serious  business 
of  life  was  enlivened  at  stated  periods  by  the 
merrymakings  of  Hallowe'en,  Hogmanay,  Yule, 
Tasch  Saturday,  and  earlin  play  at  harvest- 
home,  and  George's  nature  seems  to  have  been 
considerably  influenced  by  the  frolic  and  sim- 
plicity of  these  rustic  rites.  When  he  was 
about  thirteen  years  of  age  his  father  obtained 
a  situation  in  the  excise,  and  this  led  the 
family  to  remove  to  Montrose,  a  distance  of 
about  five  miles.  It  was  probably  with  some 
sorrow  that  the  children  left  their  pretty 
country  home,  and  it  is  said  that  George 
walked  all  the  distance  to  their  new  abode 
with  a  tame  "kae"  (jackdaw)  on  his  shoulder. 
Some  time  after  the  family  settled  at  Mon- 
trose George  was  sent  to  learn  a  trade,  but 
he  continued  at  it  a  very  short  time.  He 
managed  to  procure  a  situation  as  clerk  in  an 
office  in  Aberdeen.  His  employer  died  six 
weeks  later,  however,  and  left  to  his  clerk  a 
legacy  of  ^50.  This  was  quite  a  little  capital 
to  the  young  man.  He  returned  to  Montrose, 
and  entered  the  office  of  the  procurator-fiscal 
of  the  place.  After  passing  a  year  or  two  in 
Edinburgh  he  commenced  business  for  himself 
in  Montrose  as  a  writer.  In  this  capacity  he 
succeeded  well,  and  attracted  many  friends  by 
the  kindliness  of  his  manner,  the  accuracy  of 
his  official  habits,  and  his  conversational  gifts. 


He  soon  established  for  himself  the  reputation 
of  being  both  a  humorist  and  a  poet  by  his 
poem  of  "John  o'  Arnha',"  the  first  sketch  of 
which  appeared  in  the  columns  of  the  Montrose 
Revieiv  in  1815.  In  this  shape  the  poem  is  bare 
and  meagre  compared  with  its  finished  form.  It 
was  afterwards  extended  to  four  times  its  ori- 
ginal length,  and  made  much  richer  and  fuller. 
Six  years  later  the  tragic  interest  of  Beattie's 
life  begins,  but  we  cannot  more  than  briefly 
outline  the  storj'.  After  successfully  wooing 
a  certain  lady,  she  inherits  a  large  fortune, 
and,  abandoning  the  humble  poet  for  a  more 
aristocratic  suitor,  who  is  suddenly  smitten 
with  her  solid  charms,  the  sensitive  Beattie  is 
so  overwhelmed  with  grief  and  despair  that  he 
provides  himself  with  a  pistol,  walks  out  to  a 
favourite  resort  known  as  the  Auld  Kirkyard, 
and  is  found  the  following  day  lying  dead  by 
the  side  of  his  sister's  grave.  Since  the  time 
of  his  death  (September  29,  1823)  his  poetical 
writings  have  passed  through  several  editions. 
The  latest  collection  is  accompanied  by  an  in- 
teresting memoir  of  the  poet  from  the  pen  of 
A.  S.  M*Cyrus,  M.A.;  also  memoranda  from 
manuscripts  .  left  by  Beattie.  His  principal 
poem,  "John  o'  Arnha',"  is  full  of  wild  rollick- 
inff  fun  and  humour,  and  has  been  well  called 
an  amplified  and  localized  "Tam  o'  Shanter." 
Mingled  with  its  grotesque  imagery  there  is  a 
vein  of  deep  pathos. 


JOHN    0'  ARNHA'. 

(extract.) 


It  was  in  May,  ae  bonny  morn, 
When  dewie  draps  refresh'd  the  corn. 
And  tipt  ilk  stem  wi'  crystal  bead, 
That  glissent  o'er  the  spangelt  mead 
Like  gleam  o'  swords  in  fairy  wars, 
As  thick  and  clear  as  heaven's  stars; 
While  Phoebus  shot  his  gowden  rays 
Asklent  the  lawn — a  dazzling  blaze; 
The  wind  but  gently  kissed  the  trees, 
To  waft  their  balm  upon  the  breeze; 
The  bee  commenced  her  eident  tour, 
Culling  sweets  frae  ilka  flower; 
The  whins  in  yellow  bloom  were  clad, 
And  ilka  bush  a  bridal  bed; 
A'  nature  smil'd  serene  and  fair; 
The  la'rocks  chantit  i'  the  air; 


The  lammies  frisket  o'er  the  lea — 
Wi'  music  rang  ilk  bush  and  tree. 

l^ow  "sighs  and  vows,"  and  kisses  sweet — 
The  sound  of  lightly-tripping  feet — 
Love's  tender  tale — the  sweet  return — 
The  plaints  of  some  still  doomed  to  mourn; 
The  rustic  jest  and  merry  tale 
Came  floating  on  the  balmy  gale; 
For  smiling,  on  the  road  were  seen 
Baith  lads  and  lasses,  trig  and  clean, 
Linkin'  blythely  pair  and  pair, 
To  grace  Montrose's  annual  fairl^ — 
Montrose,  "wham  ne'er  a  town  surpasses" 
For  GroAvling  Guild  and  ruling  Asses! 
For  pedants,  Avith  each  apt  specific 


GEORGE  BEATTIE. 


89 


To  render  barren  brains  prolific; 

For  poetasters,  who  conspire 

To  rob  Apollo  of  his  lyre, 

Although  they  never  laid  a  leg 

Athort  his  godship's  trusty  naig; 

For  preachers,  writers,  and  physicians — 

Parasites  and  politicians: 

And  all  accomplished,  grave,  and  wise, 

Or  sae  appear  in  their  own  eyes! 

To  wit  and  lair,  too,  make  pretence, 

E'en  sometimes  "  deviate  into  sense !" 

A  path  right  kittle,  steep,  and  latent, 

And  only  to  a  few  made  patent. 

So,  lest  it  might  offend  the  sentry, 

I  winna  seek  to  force  an  entry, 

But  leav't  to  bards  inspir'd  and  holy, 

And  tread  the  open  field  of  folly; 

For  certes,  as  the  world  goes, 

Nonsense  in  rhyme's  as  free's  in  pi'ose; 

And  are  we  not  distinctly  told 

By  Hudibras,  in  days  of  old, 

That  "Those  who  write  in  rhyme  still  make 

The  one  verse  for  the  other's  sake; 

And  one  for  sense  and  one  for  rhyme 

Is  quite  sufficient  at  a  time." 

As  for  your  critics,  ruin  seize  them, 
I  ken  I  canna  sing  to  please  them  ; 
A  reason  guid — 1  dinna  try — ■ 
They're  but  a  despicable  fry, 
That  vend  their  venom  and  their  ink, 
Their  praise  and  paper  eke  for  clink. 
Thae  judges  partial,  self-elekit, 
AVliy  should  their  sentence  be  respeckit; 
AVhy  should  the  silly  squeamish  fools 
Think  fouk  will  mind  their  measur'd  rules; 
They  spill  not  ink  for  fame  or  glory, 
Nor  paper  blacken  con  amove; 
'Tis  Mammon  aye  their  pens  inspire, 
They  praise  or  damn  alike  for  hire: 
An',  chapman-like,  their  critic  treasure 
Is  bought  and  sold  again  by  measure; 
Some  barrister  new  ta'en  degrees 
(Whase  purse  is  lank  for  lack  o'  fees), 
Or  churchman  just  come  frae  the  college, 
Wi'  skull  weel  cramm'd  wi'  classic  knowledge, 
Draw  pen  to  land  .some  weary  bard. 
Or  deal  damnation  by  the  yard. 
But  first  they  toss  them  up  a  maik, 
To  learn  what  course  they  ought  to  take; 
If  "tails,"  the  critics  quickly  damn  him. 
If  "  heads,"  wi'  fousome  flattery  cram  him. 
In  either  case  they're  paid  their  wages. 
Just  by  the  number  o'  their  pages. 

How  soon  are  mortals  led  astray — 
Already  I  am  off  my  way; 
I've  left  my  bonny  tale,  to  fesli  in 


A  wicked  scandalous  digression  ; 

By  bards  of  yore  who  sang  of  gods, 

Clep'd  underplots  and  episodes: 

But,  "Muse,  be  kind,  an'  dinna  fash  us 

To  flee  awa'  ayont  Parnassus," 

Or  fill  our  brains  wi'  lies  and  fiction. 

Else  fouk  will  scunner  at  your  diction. 

I  sing  not  of  an  ancient  knight, 
Wi'  polish'd  lance  and  armour  bright; 
Nor,  as  Ave  say,  wi'  book  bedeckit 
In  iron  cap  and  jinglin'  jecket, 
High  mounted  on  a  champion  steed, 
Enough  to  fley  puir  fouk  to  deid^ 
Or  modern  Du.x,  wi'  noddin'  crest. 
An'  starnies  glancin'  on  his  breast — 
Or  garter  wappin'  round  his  knee 
To  celebrate  his  chivalry;  — 
Heroes  fit  for  southern  bardies! 
Mine  walks  a-foot  and  wields  his  gardies; 
Or,  at  the  warst,  his  aiken  rung, 
Wi'  which  he  never  yet  was  dung, 
Unless  by  more  than  mortal  foe — 
By  demons  frae  the  shades  below — 
As  will  be  seen  in  proper  time, 
Provided  I  can  muster  rhyme. 

The  valiant  hero  of  my  story 
Now  rang'd  the  fair  in  all  his  glory, 
A  winsome  strapper  trim  and  fettle, 
Courting  strife,  to  show  his  mettle. 
An'  gain  him  favours  wi'  the  fail' — 
For  dastard  coofs  they  dinna  care. 
Your  snools  in  love,  and  cowards  in  war, 
Frae  maiden  grace  are  banished  far; 
An'  John  had  stak'd  his  life,  I  ween. 
For  favour  frae  a  lassie's  een; 
Stark  love  his  noble  heart  had  fir'd — 
To  deeds  o'  pith  his  soul  aspir'd; 
Tho'  these,  in  distant  climes,  he'd  shown, 
'Twas  meet  to  act  them  in  his  own. 

Now  thrice  he  wav'd  his  hat  in  air — 
Thrice  dar'd  the  bravest  i'  the  fair. 
The  Horner  also  wav'd  his  bonnet, 
But  wish'd  belyve  he  hadna  dune  it; 
For  scarcely  could  ye  counted  sax, 
Before  a  double  round  o'  whacks 
AVere  shower'd  upon  his  bancs  like  hail. 
Eight,  left,  and  centre,  crack  pell-mell — 
Sair  to  bide,  and  terrible  to  tell. 
The  hardest  head  could  ne'er  resist 
The  fury  of  his  pond'rous  fist; 
He  hit  him  on  the  ribs  sic  dirds, 
They  raird  and  roove  like  rotten  girds; 
His  carcass,  too,  for  a'  the  warl', 
Was  like  a  butt  or  porter  barrel. 
Now  John  gaed  round  him  like  a  cooper, 


90 


GEORGE   BEATTIE. 


An'  showed  himsel'  a  smart  tub  hooper; 
\Vi'  mony  a  snell  an'  vengefu'  j^aik, 
He  gar'd  his  sides  an'  midriff  ake; 
Upon  his  head-piece  neist  he  hammert, 
Until  the  Horner  reel'd  and  stammert; 
He  cried  out,  "  Mercy!  phigue  upon  itl" 
Up  gaed  his  heels — aif  flew  his  bonnet, 
An'  raise  to  sic  a  fearfu'  height, 
It  soon  was  lost  to  mortal  sight: 
Some  said,  that  witnessed  the  transaction, 
'Twas  cleckit  by  the  moon's  attraction, 
Or  nabbit  by  the  fairy  legions. 
To  whirl  tiiem  througli  the  airy  regions. 


THE  DREAM. 

Last  night  I  dreamed  a  dream  of  horror.     Me- 

tliought 
That,  at  the  hour  of  midnight,  the  bell  tolled. 
With  slow  and  solemn  peal ;  and  straight,  beneath 
The  pale  cold  moon,  a  thousand  spectres  moved, 
In  "dread  array," along  "the  church-way  path," 
All  swathed  in  winding-sheets  as  white  as  snow — 
A  ghastly  crew!    Methought  I  saw  tlie  graves 
Yawn  and  yield  up  their  charge;  and  I  heard  the 
Coffins  crack,  and  the  deadal  drapery 
Rustic  against  their  hollow  sides,  like  the 
Wing  of  the  renovated  chrysoly. 
As  they  flutter  against  the  ruins  of 
Their  winter  dormitory,  when  the  voice 
Of  spring  awakes  them  from  their  drowsy  conch. 
To  float  aloft  upon  the  buxom  air. 

Although  the  round  full  moon  shone  bright 
and  clear. 
Yet  did  none  of  these  awful  phantoms  cast 
Their  shadows  on  the  wan  and  silent  earth, 
Nor  was  the  passing  breeze  interrupted 
By  their  presence.      Some  skimmed  along  the 

earth, 
And  others  sailed  aloft  on  the  thin  air; 
And  I  observed,  when  they  came  between  me 
And  the  moon,  they  interrupted  not  her 
Pale  rays;  for  I  saw  her  majestic  orb 
Distinct,  round,  and  clear, through  their  indistinct 
And  airy  forms;  and  although  they  moved 
Betwixt  me  and  the  tomb-stones,  yet  I  read 
Their  sculpture  (deeply  shaded  by  the  bright 
And  piercing  beams  of  the  moon)  as  distinctly 
As  if  nought,  dead  or  living,  interposed 
Between  my  eyes  and  the  cold  monuments. 

The  bell  ceased  to  toll;  and  when  the  last  peal 
Died  away  on  the  ear,  these  awful  forms 
Congregated  in  various  groups,  and  seemed 
To  hold  converse.     The  sound  of  their  voices 


Was  solemn  and  low,  and  they  spoke  the  language 
Of  the  "  days  of  other  years."     In  seeming 
Woo,  they  spoke  of  events  long  gone  by;  and 
Marvelled  at  the  changes  that  had  taken 
Place  since  they  left  this  mortal  scene,  to  sleep 
Within  the  dark  and  narrow  house.     Voices 
Issued  from  the  mould,  where  no  fomis  were  seen; 
These  were  still  more  hollow  and  sepulchral; 
They  were  as  the  sound  of  the  cold,  bleak  wind, 
In  the  dark  and  danky  vaults  of  death,  when 
It  moans  low  and  mournful,  through  the  crannies 
Of  tlieir  massive  doors,  shattered  by  the  hand 
Of  time — a  serenade  for  owls  most  meet. 
And  such  the  raven  loves,  and  hoarsely  croaks 
His  hollow  response  from  the  blasted  yew. 
Often  have  I  heard,  when  but  a  stripling, 
'Twas  meet  to  speak  a  troubled  ghost,  to  give 
It  peace  to  sleep  within  the  silent  grave. 
With  clammy  brow,  and  joints  palsied  with  fear, 
I  said,  in  broken  accents,  "  What  means  this 
Awful  congress,  this  wild  and  wan  array 
Of  shadowy  shapes,  gliding  here,  and  moaning 
At  the  silent,  solemn  hour  of  midnight  ? 
Have  the  crying  sins,  and  unwhipt  crimes 
Of  mortals,  in  these  latter  days,  reached  you 
Ev'n  in  the  grave,  where  silence  ever  reigns. 
At  least  as  we  believe?     Or  complain  ye 
Of  holy  rites  unpaid, — or  of  the  crowd 
Whose  careless  steps  those  sacred  haunts  pro- 
fane." 
Straight  a  fleshless  hand,  cold  as  ice,  was  pressed 
Upon  my  lips;  and  the  spectres  vanished 
Like  dew  before  the  morning  sun:  and  as 
They  faded  on  my  sight  a  sound  was  heard 
Like  the  peal  of  many  organs,  solemn. 
Loud,  and  sonorous;  or  like  the  awful 
Voice  of  thunder  in  the  sky, — or  mighty 
Tempest,  roaring  in  a  boundless  forest, 
Uprooting  trees,  razing  habitations. 
And  sweeping  the  earth  with  desolation; 
Or  like  the  voice  of  millions,  raised  in  song; 
Or  the  dark  ocean,  howling  in  its  wrath; 
Or,  rather,  like  all  these  together,  in 
One  wild  concert  joined.     Now  the  mighty  coil 
Died  gradually  away,  till  it  resembled 
The  last  murmur  of  the  blast  on  the  hill; 
Of  storms,  when  it  lulls  itself  to  rest;  and 
The  echo  of  its  wrath  is  faintly  heard 
In  the  valley;  or  the  last  sigh  of  the 
^olian  harp,  when  the  breeze,  that  erewhilo 
Kissed  its  trembling  strings,  is  spent  and  breath- 
less! 
The  next  whisper  was  still  lower;  and  the  last 
Was  so  faint  and  feeble  that  nothing  seemed 
To  live  between  it  and  silence  itself. 
The  awful  stillness  was  more  appalling 
Than  its  dread  precursor;  and  I  awoke 
In  terror!    But  I  never  shall  forget 
What  I  heard  and  saw  in  that  horrid  dream. 


JOHN   DONALD   CAEEICK. 


91 


JOHN    DONALD    CAEEICK. 


Born  1787  — Died  1837. 


John  Donald  Carrick,  a  meritorious  but 
xinsuccessful  literary  man,  and  the  autiior  of 
numerous  songs  and  poems  chiefly  of  a  humor- 
ous character,  was  born  at  Glasgow,  April, 
1787.  His  parents,  being  in  humble  circum- 
stances, could  only  afford  their  son  an  ordinary 
education;  and  at  an  early  age  he  was  placed 
in  the  office  of  an  architect  in  his  native  city. 
In  his  twentieth  year,  unknown  to  his  parents, 
he  left  Glasgow,  and  travelled  to  London  on 
foot,  there  to  seek  his  fortune.  On  his  arrival 
he  offered  his  services  in  various  places  in  vain, 
but  at  last  found  employment  with  a  fellow- 
countryman  who  took  compassion  on  the  friend- 
less lad.  For  some  time  he  was  employed  by 
a  house  in  the  pottery  business,  and  in  1811 
he  returned  to  Glasgow,  and  opened  a  large 
china  and  stonewai-e  establishment,  in  which 
trade  he  continued  for  fourteen  years.  In  1825, 
being  deeply  read  in  old  Scottish  literature, 
he  began  the  preparation  of  a  '•'  Life  of  Sir 
AVilliam  Wallace,"  which  was  written  for  Con- 
stable's Miscellany.  The  same  year  he  gave 
up  his  own  business,  and  was  for  some  time 
employed  by  a  Glasgow  house  as  their  tra- 


velling agent  in  the  "West  Highlands.  After- 
wards he  became  assistant  editor  of  the  Scots 
Times,  a  newspaper  then  published  in  Glasgow. 
To  the  first  volume  of  Whistle-Binkie  Mr. 
Carrick  contributed  the  subjoined  and  many 
other  songs,  which  he  used  to  sing  with  in- 
imitable effect.  In  1833  he  went  to  Perth  as 
editor  of  the  Advertiser,  and  the  year  following 
accepted  the  editorship  of  the  Kilmarnock 
Journal.  In  1835  he  returned  to  Glasgow, 
owing  to  ill  health,  and  superintended  the 
first  edition  of  the  Laird  of  Logan,  an  un- 
rivalled collection  of  Scottish  anecdote  and 
facetiae,  to  which  he  was  the  principal  contri- 
butor. Mr.  Carrick  died  August  17,  1S37, 
and  was  interred  in  the  burying-ground  of  the 
High  Church  of  his  native  city.  His  biogra- 
pher says: — "We  may  observe  generally,  that 
as  a  descriptive  painter  of  the  comic  and  ludi- 
crous aspects  of  man  and  society,  and  as  equally 
skilful  in  the  analysis  of  human  character, 
combined  with  a  rare  and  never-failing  humour, 
a  pungent  but  not  malicious  irony,  and  great 
ease  and  perspicuity  of  expression,  few  writers 
have  surpassed  John  Donald  Carrick." 


THE    MUIRLAN'    COTTAES. 


"The  snaw  flees  thicker  o'er  the  muir,  and 

heavier  grows  the  lift; 
The  shepherd  closer  wraps  his  plaid  to  screen 

him  frae  the  drift; 
I  fear  this  night  will  tell  a  tale  among  our 

foldless  sheep, 
That  will  mak  many  a  farmer  sigh — God  grant 

nae  widows  weep! 

"  I'm  blythe,  guidman,  to  see  you  there,  wi' 

elshin  an'  wi'  lingle 
Sae  eydent  at  your  cobbling  wark  beside  the 

cosie  ingle; 
It  brings  to  mind  that  fearfu'  nicht,  i'  the  spring 

that's  now  awa', 
AVhen  you   was  carried  thowlass  hame,   frae 

'neath  a  wreath  o'  snaw. 


"  That  time  I  often  think  upon,  and  make  it 

aye  my  care, 
On  nichts  like  this,  to  snod  up  a'  the  beds  Ave 

hae  to  spare; 
In  case  some  drift-driven  strangers  come  for- 

foughten  to  our  beild. 
An'  welcome,  welcome  they  shall  be  to  what 

the  house  can  yield. 

"'Twas  God  that  saved  you  on  that  nicht, 

when  a'  was  black  despair. 
An'  gratitude  is  due  to  him  for  makin'  you 

his  care; 
Then  let  us  show  our  grateful  sense  of  the 

kindness  he  bestowed. 
An'  cheer  the  poor  wayfaring  man  that  wanders 

frae  his  road. 


92 


JOHN   DONALD   CAERICK. 


"There's  cauld  and  drift  without,  guidman, 

might  drive  a  body  blin', 
But,  Praise  be  blessed  for  a'  that's  guid,  there's 

meat  and  drink  within; 
An'  be  he  beggar,  be  he  prince,  that  Heaven 

directs  this  way, 
His  bed  it  shall  be  warm  and  clean,  his  fare 

the  best  we  hae." 

The  guidman  heard   her  silentlie,  an'  threw 

his  elshin  by. 
For  his  kindlie  lieart  began  to  swell,  and  the 

tear  was  in  his  eye; 
He  rose  and  pressed  hisfaithfu'  wife  sae  loving 

to  his  breast, 
While  on  her  neck  a  holy  kiss  his  feelings  deep 

expressed. 

"Yes,   Mirran,  yes,  'twas  God  himself  that 

helped  us  in  our  strait, 
An'  gratitude  is  due  to  him — his  kindness  it 

was  great; 
An'  much   I    thank   thee   thus  to  mak'  the 

stranger's  state  thy  care, 
An'  bless  thy  tender  heart,  for  sure  the  grace 

of  God  is  there." 

Nor  prince  nor  beggar  was  decreed  their  kind- 
ness to  partake; 

The  hours  sped  on  their  stealthy  pace  as  silent' 
as  the  flake. 

Till  on  the  startled  ear  there  came  a  feeble 
cry  of  woe. 

As  if  of  some  benighted  one  fast  sinking  in  the 
snow. 

But  help  was  near — an'  soon  a  youth,  in  hod- 
den gray  attire, 

Benumbed  with  cold,  extended,  lay  before  the 
cottars'  fire; 

Kind  Mirran  thow'd  his  frozen  hands,  the 
guidman  rubbed  his  breast, 

An'  soon  the  stranger's  glowin'  cheeks  return- 
ing life  confess'd. 

How  it  comes  the  gracious  deeds  which  we  to 

others  show, 
Pieturn  again  to  our  own  hearts  wi'  joyous 

overflow! 
So  fared  it  with  our  simple  ones,  who  found 

the  youth  to  be 
Their  only  son,   whom   they  were   told   had 

perish'd  far  at  sea. 

The  couch  they  had  with  pions  care  for  some 

lone  stranger  spread — 
Heaven  gave  it  as  a  resting-place  for  their 

lov'd  wanderer's  head : 


Thus  aft  it  comes  the  gracious  deeds  whii-li  we 

to  others  show 
Return  again  to  our  own  hearts  with  joyous 

overflow. 


THE  SOXG   OF  THE  SLAVE. 

0  England!  dear  home  of  the  lovely  and  true. 

Loved  home  of  the  brave  and  the  free. 
Though  distant — though  wayward — the  path  I 
pursue, 
My  thoughts  shall  ne'er  wander  from  thee. 
Deep,  in  my  heart's  core. 
Rests  the  print  of  thy  shore. 
From  a  die  whose  impression  fades  never. 
And  the  motto  impressed 
By  this  die  on  my  breast 
Is  "  England,  dear  England,  for  ever," 
May  blessings  rest  on  thee  for  ever! 

As  Queen,  she  sits  throned  with  her  scejitre  of 
light 
Aloft  on  the  white-crested  wave. 
While  billows  surround  her,  as  guards  of  her  right 
To  an  island  where  breathes  not  a  slave. 
And  her  sceptre  of  light 
Shall,  through  regions  of  night. 
Shed  a  radiance  like  darts  from  day's  quiver. 
Till  the  unfetter'd  slaves. 
To  the  queen  of  the  waves, 
Shout  "  Freedom  and  England  for  ever," 
May  blessings  rest  on  thee  for  ever! 

How  often  hath  fame,  with  his  trumpet's  loud 
blast. 
Praised  the  crimes  of  mock  heroes  in  war, 
Whose  joy  was  to  revel  o'er  nations  laid  waste. 
And  drag  the  fallen  foe  to  their  car! 
But  a  new  law  from  heaven. 
Hath  by  England  been  given 
To  fame — and  from  which  she'll  ne'er  sever — 
"  No  hero  but  he 
Who  saves  and  sets  free," 
Saith  England,  free  England,  for  ever, 
May  blessings  rest  on  thee  for  ever! 


THE  HARP  AND  THE  HAGGIS. 

At  that  tide  when  the  voice  of  the  turtle  is  dumb. 
And  winter  wi'  drap  at  his  nose  doth  come,— 
A  whistle  to  mak'  o'  the  castle  lum. 

To  souf  his  music  sae  sairlie,  0! 
And  the  roast  on  the  speet  is  sapless  and  sma'; 
And  meat  is  scant  in  chamber  and  ha'. 
And  the  knichts  hae  ceased  their  merry  guffaw, 

For  lack  o'  thou-  warm  canarie,  0 ! 


ALEXANDEE  LAING. 


93 


Then  the  Harp  and  the  Haggis  began  a  dispute, 
'Bout  whilk  o'theircharms  were  in  highest  repute; 
The  Haggis  at  first  as  a  haddie  was  mute, 

An'  the  Harp  went  on  wi'  her  vapourin',  0 ! 
An'  lofty  and  loud  were  the  tones  she  assumed, 
An'  boasted  how  ladies  and  kniclits  gaily  plumed, 
Through  rich  gilded  halls,  all  so  sweetly  perfumed , 

To  the  sound  of  her  strings  went  a  caperin',  0 ! 

"  While  the  Haggis,"  she  said,  "  was  a  beggarly 

slave, 
An'  never  was  seen  'mang  the  fair  an'  the  brave;" 
"Fuff!  fuff!"  quo'  the  Haggis,  "  thou  vile  lying 

knave, 

Come  tell  us  the  use  of  thy  twanging,  0  ? 

Can  it  fill  a  toom  wame?  can  it  help  a  man's  pack? 

A  minstrel  when  out  may  come  in  for  his  snack, 

But  when  starving  at  hame  will  it  keep  him,  alack ! 

Fra  trying  his  hand  at  the  hanging,  0?" 

The  twa  they  grew  wud  as  wud  could  be, 
But  a  minstrel  boy  they  chanced  to  see, 
Wha  stood  list'ning  bye,  an'  to  settle  the  plea, 

They  begged  he  would  try  his  endeavour,  0 ! 
For  the  twa  in  their  wrath  had  all  reason  forgot. 
And  stood  boiling  with  rage  just  like  peas  in  a 

pot. 
But  a  haggis,  ye  ken,  aye  looks  best  when  it's  hot. 

So  his  bowels  were  moved  in  his  favour,  0 ! 

"  Nocht  pleasures  the  lug  half  sae  weel  as  a  tune, 
An'  whar  hings  the  lug  wad  be  fed  wi'  a  spoon?" 
The  Harp  in  a  triumph  cried,  "Laddie,  weel 
done," 
An'  her  strings  wi'  delight  fell  a  tinkling,  0! 
"  The  Harjj'sa  brav/  thing,"  continued  the  youth, 


"  But  what  is  the  harp  to  put  in  the  mouth  ? 
It  fills  nae  the  wame,  it  slaiks  nae  the  drouth, — 
At  least — that  is  my  way  o'  thinking,  0 ! 

"  A  tune's  but  an  air,  but  a  haggis  is  meat, — 
An'  wha  plays  the  tune  that  a  body  can  eat  ?— . 
When  a  haggis  is  seen  wi'  a  sheep's  head  and  feet, 

My  word  she  has  gallant  attendance,  0 ! 
A  man  wi'  sic  fare  may  ne'er  pree  the  tangs. 
But  laugh  at  lank  hunger  though  sharp  be  her 

fangs; 
But  the  bard  that  maun  live  by  the  wind  o'  his 

sangs, 
Waes  me,  has  a  puir  dependence,  0 ! 

"  How  often  we  hear,  wi'  the  tear  in  our  eye. 
How  the  puir  starving  minstrel,  exposed  to  the 

sky, 
Lays  his  head  on  his  harp,  and  breathes  out  his 

last  sigh. 
Without  e'er  a  friend  within  hearing,  0 ! 
But  wha  ever  heard  of  a  minstrel  so  crost, — 
Lay  his  head  on  a  haggis  to  gie  up  the  ghost  ?— 
0  never,  since  time  took  his  scythe  frae  the  post, 

An'  truntled  awa'  to  the  shearing,  0  ! 

"  Now  I'll  settle  your  plea  in  the  crack  o'  a  whup: 
Gie  the  haggis  the  lead  be't  to  dine  or  to  sup: — 
Till  the  bags  are  well  filled,  there  can  no  drone 
get  up,— 

Is  a  saying  I  learned  from  my  mither,  0 ! 
When  the  feasting  is  owre,  let  the  harp  loudly 

twang. 
An'  soothe  ilka  lug  wi'  the  charms  o'  her  sang, — 
An'  the  wish  of  my  heart  is,  wherever  ye  gang, 

Gude  grant  ye  may  be  thegither,  0!" 


ALEXANDEB    LAING. 


Born  1787  —  Died  1857. 


Alexander  Laing,  familiarly  kno^yn  as 
"the  Brechin  poet,"  was  born  at  Brechin, 
Forfarshire,  Jlay  14,  1787.  His  education  at 
school  was  exceedingly  limited,  having  been 
there  only  during  two  winters;  but  the  want 
was  largely  supplied  by  the  careful  liome- 
training  of  his  parents  and  his  own  self-appli- 
cation. When  only  eight  years  old  he  was 
employed  herding  cattle  during  the  summer 
months,  and  while  thus  engaged  he  read  many 
of  the  modern  Scottish  poets.  He  was  after- 
wards apprenticed  to  the  flax-dressing  busi- 


ness, at  which  he  continued  for  fourteen  years, 
when  he  was  accidentally  disabled  by  a  heavy 
plank  falling  upon  his  shoulder.  On  recover- 
ing from  the  accident  he  turned  packman,  a 
business  which  he  carried  on  until  within  a 
short  period  of  his  death. 

Laing'seffusionsfirstappearedinthecolumns 
of  provincial  newspapers.  In  1819  several 
songs  from  his  pen  were  publislied  in  the  Harp 
of  Caledonia,  edited  by  John  Struthers,  and 
he  subsequently  became  a  contributor  to  the 
Harp  of  lienfreicshire  and  Smith's  Scottish 


94 


ALEXANDEE  LAING. 


Minstrel.  In  1846  he  published  by  subscrip- 
tion a  collected  edition  of  his  poems  and  songs 
under  the  designation  of  Wayside  Flowers. 
A  second  edition  appeared  in  1850,  and  a  few 
days  befjre  the  poet's  death  a  third  edition 
was  published,  with  illustrative  notes  and 
additions  by  the  author.  His  extensive  and 
reliable  information  regarding  the  poets  and 
poetry  of  Scotland  brought  liim  into  corres- 
pondence with  some  of  the  more  celebrated 
poets  of  the  day,  from  many  of  whom  he 
received  presentation  copies  of  their  works. 
He  edited  two  editions  of  Burns;  furnished 
his  friend  Allan  Cunningham  Avith  numerous 
notes  for  his  four  volumes  of  Scottish  songs; 
compiled   the    biographical    notices    for   the 


Angus  Album,  published  in  1833;  contributed 
facetke  to  the  Laird  of  Logan;  and  edited  an 
edition  of  his  favourite  song-writer  Robert 
Tannahill.  It  is  also  worthy  of  mention  that 
the  improvement  which  took  place  in  the 
penny  chap-book  and  ballad  literature  of 
Scotland  was  owing  in  some  measure  to  Laing, 
who  carefully  superintended  the  Bi-echin  edi- 
tions of  those  once  celebrated  pieces,  often 
enriching  them  with  short  historical  or  bio- 
graphical sketches. 

Mr.  Laing  died  at  Brechin,  October  14, 1857, 
aged  seventy.  A  handsome  marble  tablet  has 
been  erected  over  his  grave  by  the  church  in 
Brechin,  of  which  he  was  for  many  years  a 
consistent  and  valued  office-bearer. 


ARCHIE    ALLAN. 


Ay!  poor  Archie  Allan — I  hope  he's  no  poor! 
A  mair  dainty  neebour  ne'er  entered  ane's  door — 
An'  he's  worn  awa'  frae  an  ill-doin'  kin, 
Frae  a  warld  o'  trouble,  o'  sorrow,  an'  sin. 
Wad  ye  hear  o'  the  hardships  that  Arcliie  befel  ? 
Then  listen  a-wee,  an'  his  story  I'll  tell. 

Now  twice  twenty  towmonts  an'  twentj'^  are  gane 
Sin'  Archie  an'  1  could  ha'e  ranket  as  men — 
Sin'  we  cou'd  ha'e  left  ony  twa  o'  our  eild, 
At  a'  kinds  o'  farm-wark,  at  hame  or  a-field; 
Sin'  we  cou'd  ha'e  carried  the  best  bow  o'  bere. 
An'  thrown  the  fore-hammer  out-owre  ony  pair. 
An!  then  we  were  forward,  an'  flinty,  an'  young. 
An'  never  ance  ken'd  what  it  was  to  be  dung; 
We  were  lang  fellow-servants  and  neebours  fu' 

dear: 
Folk  ne'er  thocht  o'  flittin'  then  ilka  half-year. 

When  he  was  the  bridegroom,  an'  Mary  his  bride, 
Mysel'  an'  my  Jeanie  were  best  man  an'  maid : 
'Twas  a  promise  atween  us — they  cou'dna  refuse — 
Had  our  bridal  been  first,  they  had  gotten  the 
gloe's. 

Aweel,  they  were  married,  an'  mony  were  there. 
An'  Luve  never  low'd  on  a  happier  pair; 
For  Archie  had  nae  woman's  skaith  he  could  rue, 
An'  Mary  was  sakeless  o'  breaking  her  vow. 
They  had  lo'ed  ither  lang,  an'  the  day  was  to  be 
When  their  ain  gather'd  penny  wad  set  them  up 

free; 
Sae  clear  o'  the  warld,  an'  can  tie,  an'  weel. 
They  thrave  out  an'  in,  like  the  buss  i'  the  beil'; 
Their  wants  werena  monie,    their   family  was 

sma' — 


Themsel's  an'  but  ae  lassie-bairn  was  a'; 

Sae  wi'  workin'  an'  winnin',  wi'  savin'  an'  care, 

They  gather'd  an'  gather'd  nae  that  little  gear. 

Yet  nae  narrow  bodies — nae  niggards  were  they — 
Nae  slaves  to  the  warld,  to  want,  an'  to  ha'e; 
Tho'  they  ken'd  weel  aneuch  a'  the  bouk  o'  their 

ain. 
They  wad  tak',  they  wad  gi'e — they  wad  borrow 

or  len'; 
Whan  a  friend  or  a  neebour  gaed  speerin'  their 

weel, 
They  had  meal  i'  the  bannock,  an'  maut  i'  the  yill; 
They  had  hearts  that  could  part,  they  had  hands 

that  were  free. 
An'  leuks  that  bade  welcome,  as  warm  as  cou'd  be; 
Gaed  ye  in — cam'  ye  out,  they  wei'e  aye,  aye  the 

same; 
There's  few  now-a-days  'mang  our  neebours  like 

them ! 

Thus,  blythesome  an'  happy,  time  hasten'd  awa', 
Till  their  dochter  was  twenty,  or  twenty  an'  twa. 
Whan  she,  a'  the  comfort  an'  hope  o'  their  days, 
Fell  into  some  dowie,  some  ling'rin'  disease. 
Lang  ill  was  the  lassie,  an'  muckle  she  bure, 
Monie  cures  they  gi'ed  till  her,  but  death  winna 

cure ; 
She  dwyn'd  like  a  gowan  'mang  newly  mawn  grass ; 
Some  luve  disappointment,  they  said,  ail'd  the 

lass — 
Ay !   happen  what  may,  there  maun  aye  be  a 

mean: 
Her  grave  wasna  sad,  an'  her  truff  wasna  green, 
Whan  Mary,  her  mither,  a'  broken  an'  pin'd 
Wi'  trachle  o'  bodv,  wi'  trouble  o'  mind. 


ALEXANDER  LAING. 


95 


Was  reliev'd   frae   her  sorrows — was   also  weel 

sair'd, 
An'  laid  by  her  bairn  i'  the  silent  kirk -yard ! 

0!  sirs,  sic  a  change!  it  was  waesome  to  see; 
But  Ufe's  like  a  journey,  an'  changes  maun  be; 
Whan  the  day  o'  prosperity  seems  but  at  noon, 
The  nicht  o'  adversity  aften  comes  down: 
I've  lived  till  my  locks  are  as  white  as  the  snaw. 
Till  the  friends  of  my  youth  are  a'  dead  an'  awa'; 
At  death-bed  an'^burial  nae  stranger  I've  been, 
But  sorrow  like  Archie's  I've  never  yet  seen; 
The  death  o'  his  lassie  I  ken'd  it  was  sair. 
But  the  death  o'  her  mither  was  harder  to  bear; 
For  a'  that  was  lovely,  an'  a'  that  was  leal. 
He  had  lost  i'  the  death  o'  his  Mary  Macneill ! 

Whan  the  buryin'  was  bye,  an'  relations  a'  gane; 
Whan  left  i'  the  house,  wae  an'  wearie,  his  lane. 
As  a  neebour  wad  do,  I  gaed  yont  the  gate-end. 
An  hour  i'  the  gloamin'  wi'  Archie  to  spend; 
For  the  fate  o'  our  neighbour  may  sune  be  our  fa'. 
An'  neebours  are  near  us  when  kindred's  awa'. 
We  spak'  o'  the  changes  that  time  ever  brings, 
Of  the  frail  fadin'  nature  of  a'  earthly  things, 
Of  life  an'  its  blessings— that  we  ha'e  them  in  len'; 
That  the  Giver,  when  he  wills,  has  a  right  to  his 

ain; 
That  here  though  we  ha'e  nae  continuin'  hame, 
How  the   promise  is  sure  i'  the  Peace-maker's 

name. 
To  them  that  wi'  patience,  wi'  firmness,  and  faith, 
Beheve  in  his  merits,  and  trust  in  his  death; 
To  them,  though  the  coffin,  an'  pale  windin'-sheet. 
Though  the  cauld  grave  divide  them,  in  heaven 

they  shall  meet — 
Shall  yet  ha'e  a  blythe  an'  a  blest  meetin'  there, 
To  ken  separation  an'  sorrow  nae  mair. 

Thus  kindly  conversin',  we  aften  beguiled 

The  hours  o'  the  gloamin',  till  tliree  summers 

smil'd; 
Till  time  in  its  progress  had  yielded  relief. 
Had  dealt  wi'  his  mem'ry,  an'  lessen'd  his  grief— 
Though  nae  like  the  man  I  had  seen  him,  'tis  true, 
Yet  fell  knief  an'  cantie  my  auld  neebour  grew. 

Sometime  then-about,  as  it  happened  to  be, 
I  hadna  seen  Archie  for  twa  weeks  or  three. 
Whan  ae  night  a  near  neebour  woman  cam'  ben. 
An'  says,    "  Ha'e  ye  heard  o'  the  news  that's 

a-gaun  ? 
It's  been  tell'd  me  sin'  mornin'  by  mae  folk  nor 

ane. 
That  our  friend  Archie  Allan  was  beuket  yes- 
treen." 
"  Aweel,  weel,"  quo'  I,  "  it  e'en  may  be  sae, 
There's  aye  heart  wi'  auld  fouk,  we'll  a'  get  a  day;" 
But  when  it  was  tell'd  wha  the  bride  was  to  be, 
I  heard,  but  said  naething— I  thocht  it  a  lie! 


'Twas  a'  very  g-ude  he  shou'd  marry  again— 
A  man  in  a  house  is  but  dreaiie  his  lane; 
But  to  think  he  wad  ever  tak  ane  for  a  wife, 
Wha  had  liv'd  sic  a  loose  an'  a  throwither  life — 
Wha  had  been  far  an'  near  whar  it  cou'dna  be 

nam'd, 
An'  was  come  o'  a  family  but  little  esteem'd — 
To  think  he  wad  tak'  her !  I  cou'dna  believ't; 
But  I  was,  an'  mony  forbye  were  deceiv't; 
For,  the  Sabbath  thereafter,  wha  think  ye  was 

cried? 
But  Archibald  Allan  an'  Marg'ret  Muresyde  ! 

Weel,  how  they  forgather'd  an'  a'  that  befel, 
Tho'  it's  painful  to  speak  o't,  ye'll  msh  me  to  tell. 
She  cam'  in-about  here  as  it  happened  to  fa'. 
An'  was  nearest  door  neebour  to  him  that's  awa'; 
An'  seein'  a  fu'  house  an'  a  free-hearted  man. 
That  ken'dna  the  warld,  wi'  her  wiles  she  began— 
Seem'd  sober  an'  decent  as  ony  ye'll  see, 
As  quiet  an'  prudent  as  woman  cou'd  be— 
Was  aye  brawly  busket,  an'  tidy,  an'  clean, 
An'  aye  at  the  kirk  on  the  Sabbath  was  seen— 
AVas  better  nor  monie,  an'  marrow't  by  few, 
Till  a'  cam'  about  as  she  wish'd  it  to  do; 
But  scarcely  her  hand  and  her  troth  he  had  ta'en, 
Till  she  kyth'd  in  her  ain  dowie  colours  again. 
They  had  a  short  courtship,  a  brief  honeymune! 
It's  aye  rue'd  at  leisure  what's  owi-e  rashly  dune. 

We've  a'  our  ain  fau'ts  an'  our  failin's,  atweel, 
But  Maggy  Muresyde!  she's  a  bauld  Ne'er-do- 
weel  I 
An'  the  warst  o'  it  was,  in  an  unlucky  hour 
She'd  gotten  ilk  plack  o'  the  purse  in  her  pow'r; 
An'  sune  did  she  lift  it,  an'  sune,  sune  it  gaed— 
In  pennies  'twas  gathered,  in  pounds  it  was  spread; 
Her  worthless  relations,  an'  ithers  siclike. 
Cam'  in  about  swarmin'  like  bees  till  a  bike; 
An'  they  feasted,  an'  drank,  an'  profaned  the 

blest  Name, 
An'  Sabbath  an'  Saturday— a'  was  the  same. 
Waes  me!  it  was  sair  upon  Archie  to  see 
The  walth  he  had  won,  an'  laid  up  a'  sae  free. 
To  comfort  an'  keep  him  when  ailin',  or  auld, 
Sae  squander'd  by  creatures  sae  worthless  an' 

bauld; 
An'  sair  was  he  troubled  to  think  o'  their  sin, 
An'  the  awfu'  account  they  wad  ha'e  to  gi'e  in; 
Yet,  griev'd  as  he  was  at  the  rash  lives  they  led, 
He  durstna  ance  say  it  was  ill  that  they  did! 

But  time  an'  your  patience  wad  fail  me  to  tell 
How  she  spent  an'  abus'd  baith  his  means  an' 

himsel'. 
For  constant  an'  on,  as  the  rin  o'  the  burn. 
Her  hand  it  was  never  but  in  an  ill  turn- 
Till  siller,  an'  gear,  an'  a'  credit  were  gane— 
Till  he  hadna  a  penny,  or  aught  o'  his  ain— 
Till  age  an'  vexation  had  wrinkl'd  his  brow — 
TiU  he  hadna  a  morsel  to  put  in  his  mou' ! 


9C 


ALEXANDER   LAING. 


Aweel,  neither  able  to  want  nor  to  win, 

Ae  mornin'  last  week,  ere  the  daj'-licht  cam'  in, 

Thro'  the  lang  eerie  muLrs,  an'  the  cauld  plashy 

snaw, 
Wi'  his  staff  in  his  hand  he  had  wander'd  awa', 
To  seek  a  fa'n  bit  for  his  daily  supply, 
An'  to  thole  the  down-leuk  o'  the  proud  an'  the 

high. 
0!  had  I  but  seen  him  when  he  gaed  a-field, 
I  wad  ta'en  him  inbye  to  my  aiii  couthie  bield; 
An'  wi'  my  auld  neebour  shar'd  frankly  an'  free. 
My  bannock,  my  bed,  an'  my  hindmost  bawbee! 

How  far  he  had  gane — how  he'd  far'd  thro'  the 

day, 
What  trials  he  had  met  wi',  I  eanna  weel  say; 
But  whan  the  gray  hour  o'  the  gloamin'  fell  down. 
He  sought  the  fire-side  o'  some  distant  farm- 
town — 
Wi'  the  door  halflin's  up,  an'  the  sneck  in  his 

han'. 
He  faintly  inquir'd — wad  they  lodge  a  poor  man? 
The  mistress  gaz'd  on  him,  an'  dryhe  she  spak', 
"We  may  lodge  you  the  nicht,  but  ye  maunna 

come  back" — 
Said  beggars  and  gang'rels  were  grown  unco  rife — 
Speer'd  what  place  he  cam'  frae — gin  he  had  a 

wife? 
Ay!  that  was  a  question!  0!  sirs,  it  was  sair; 
Had  he  no  ha'en  a  u-ife,  he  had  never  been  there! 
Cauld,  cauld  at  their  backs  thro'  the  evenin'  he 

sat, 
An'  cauld  was  the  bed  an'  the  beddin'  he  gat, 
The  floor  an'  the  roof -tree  was  a'  they  could  spare, 
An'  he  lay  down,  alas!  but  to  rise  never  mair. 
Was  ho  lang  or  sair  ill,  there  was  nane  heard  nor 

saw, 
Gin  day-licht  poor  Archie  had  worn  awa'! 
Wha  anco  wad  ha'e  thocht  it  that  he  wad  ha'e 

been 
A  beggar,  an'  dee't  in  a  bam  a'  his  lane! 
But  we  needna  think  this  will,  or  that  winna  be. 
For,  the  Linger  we  live,  the  mae  uncos  we  see. 


THE  BROWNIE  OF  FEAEXDEN. 

Thair  livit  ane  man  on  Norinsyde, 

Whan  Jamis  lielde  his  aine; 
lie  had  ane  maylen  faire  and  wyde, 

And  servants  nyne  or  tone. 

He  had  ane  servant  dwellving  neir, 
Worthe  all  liis  maydis  and  men; 

And  wha  was  this  gyn  ye  wald  speir? 
The  Brownie  of  Fearnden! 

Whan  thair  was  corne  to  tliresh  or  dichte, 
Or  barne  or  byre  to  clene, 


He  had  ane  bizzy  houre  at  nicht, 
Atweene  the  twall  and  ane; 

And  thouch  the  sna"  was  never  so  deip, 

So  wylde  the  wynde  or  rayne, 
He  ran  ane  errant  ia  a  wiieip. 

The  Brownie  of  Fearnden! 

Ae  nicht  the  gudewyfe  of  the  house 

Fell  sicke  as  sicke  could  be. 
And  for  the  skilly  mammy- wyfe 

She  wantit  ane  to  gae; 

Tlie  nicht  was  darke,  and  never  a  sparkc 

AVald  venture  doun  the  glen. 
For  feir  that  he  micht  heir  or  see 

The  Brownie  of  Fearnden! 

But  Brownie  was  na  far  to  seeke, 

For  Aveil  he  heard  the  stryfe; 
And  ablynis  thocht,  as  weil  lie  mychte. 

They  sune  wald  tyne  the  wyfe: 

He  afFe  and  brankis  the  ryding  mear, 
And  throch  the  wynde  and  rayne; 

And  sune  was  at  the  skilly  wyfe's, 
Wha  livit  owre  the  den! 

He  pullifc  the  sneke,  and  out  he  spak', 
That  she  micht  bettere  heir, 
"Thair  is  a  mothere  wald  gyve  byrth. 
But  hasna  strengthe  to  beir. 

"0  ryse!  0  ryse!  and  hape  you  weil. 

To  keip  you  fra  the  rayne." 
"  Whaur  do  you  want  me?"  quoth  the  wyfe. 
"0  whaur  but  owre  the  den!" 

Whan  baytlic  waur  mountit  on  the  mear. 
And  ryding  up  the  glen; 
"0  watt  ye,  laddy,"  quoth  the  wyfe, 
"Gyne  we  be  neir  the  den? 

"Are  we  com  neir  the  den?"  she  said; 
"Tush!  wyshte,  ye  fule!"  quoth  he, 
"For  Avaure  na  ye  ha'e  in  your  armis, 
This  nicht  ye  wynna  see!" 

They  sune  waur  landit  at  the  doore. 
The  wyfe  he  handit  doun — 
"I've  lefte  the  house  but  ae  haufe  houre, 
I  am  a  clever  loun!" 

"  What  mak's  your  feit  sac  brayde?"  quoth  she, 

"And  Avhat  sae  reid  your  cen?" 

"I've  wandert  mony  a  weary  foote. 

And  unco  sichtis  I've  seen! 

"But  mynd  the  wyfe,  and  mynd  the  weane. 
And  see  that  all  gae  richt; 


ALEXANDER   LAING. 


And  keip  the  beyld  of  biggit  land 
Till  aynce  the  mornyng  licht: 

And  gyne  they  speir  wha  brocht  you  heir, 
'Cause  they  waur  scaunte  of  men! 

Even  tell  them  that  ye  rade  ahiut 
The  Brownie  of  Fearndenl" 


THE  TRYST IXG-TREE. 

The  evening  sun  has  closed  the  day, 

An'  silence  sleeps  on  hill  an'  plain; 
The  yellow  moon  is  on  her  way 

AVi'  a'  her  glinting  starry  train. 
The  moment  dear  to  love  an'  me — 

The  happy  moment  now  is  near, 
AVhen  by  our  lanely  trystingtree 

I'll  meet  my  lov'd  Eliza  dear. 

"Where  mild  the  vernal  mornings  rise, 

An'  meek  the  summer  e'enings  fa'; 
"Where  soft  the  breeze  of  autumn  sighs, 

An'  light  the  blasts  o'  winter  blaw; 
AVhere  Keithock  winds  her  silver  stream, 

By  birken  tree  an'  blooming  thorn ; 
Of  love  and  bliss  we  fondly  dream, 

Till  often  dawns  the  early  morn. 

Her  voice  like  warbled  music  sweet, 

"Would  lead  the  minstrels  of  the  grove; 
Her  form,  where  a'  the  graces  meet, 

"Would  melt  the  coldest  heart  to  love; 
Her  wistfu'  look,  an'  winning  smile. 

So  sweetly  kind,  so  chastely  gay, 
"Would  sorrow's  mirkest  hour  beguile. 

And  chase  the  deepest  grief  away. 

My  lov'd  Eliza!  wert  thou  mine! 

My  own  endear 'd— endearing  wife. 
How  blest !  around  thy  heart  to  twine. 

In  a'  the  changing  scenes  of  life; 
Though  beauty,  fancy,  rapture,  flies 

■\Vhen  age  his  chilling  touch  imparts; 
Yet  time,  while  breaking  other  ties. 

Will  closer  bind  our  hands  and  hearts. 


THE   HAPPY   MOTHER. 

An'  0!  may  I  never  live  single  again, 
I  wish  I  may  never  live  single  again;  ^ 
I  ha'e  a  gudeman,  an'  a  hame  o'  my  ain. 
An'  0!  may  I  never  live  single  again. 
I've  twa  bonnie  bairnies,  the  fairest  of  a'. 
They  cheer  up  my  heart  when  their  daddie' 
awa'; 

Vol.  II.— G 


I've  ane  at  my  foot,  and  I've  ane  on  my  knee; 
An'  fondly  they  look,  an'  say  "  Mammie"  to  me. 

At  gloamin'  their  daddie  comes  in  frae  the 

plough, 
The  blink  in  his  e'e,  an'  the  smile  on  his  brow, 
Says,  "  How  are  ye,  lassie,  0!  how  are  ye  a', 
An'  how's  the  wee  bodies  sin'  I  gaed  awa?" 
He  sings  i'  the  e'enin'  fu'  cheery  an'  gay. 
He  tells  o'  the  toil  and  the  news  o'  the  day ; 
The  twa  bonnie  lammies  he  tak's  on  his  knee. 
An'  blinks  o'er  the  ingle  fu'  couthie  to  me. 

0  happy's  the  father  that's  happy  at  hame, 
An'  blythe  is  the  mither  that's  blythe  o'  the 

name, 
The  cares  o'  the  warld  they  fear  na  to  dree— 
The  warld  is  naething  to  Johnny  an'  me. 
Though  crosses  will  mingle  wi'  mitherly  cares, 
Awa',  bonnie  lassies — awa'  wi'  your  fears; 
Gin  ye  get  a  laddie  that's  loving  and  fain, 
Ye'll  wish  ye  may  never  live  single  again. 


ADAM  GLEN. 

Pawkie  Adam  Glen, 

Piper  o'  the  clachan, 
"When  he  stoitet  ben, 

Sairly  was  he  pechan; 
Spak'  a  wee,  but  tint  his  win', 
Hurklit  down,  an'  hostit  syne. 
Blew  his  beik,  an'  dichtit's  een. 

An  whaistl't  a'  forfoughten. 

But,  his  coughin'  dune, 

Cheerie  kyth't  the  bodie, 
Crackit  like  a  gun. 

An'  leugh  to  Auntie  Madie; 
Cried,  "  My  callans,  name  a  spring, 
'  Jinglin'  John,'  or  onything. 
For  weel  I'd  like  to  see  the  fling 
0'  ilka  lass  an'  laddie." 

Blythe  the  dancers  flew, 

Usquebae  was  plenty, 
Blythe  the  piper  blew, 

Tho'  shakin'  ban's  wi'  ninety. 
Seven  times  his  bridal  vow 
Ruthless  fate  had  broken  thro'; 
"Wha  wad  thocht  his  comin'  now 

Was  for  our  maiden  auntie! 

She  had  ne'er  been  sought, 

Cheerie  hope  was  fadin', 
Dowie  is  the  thocht 

To  live  and  dee  a  maiden. 


98 


ALEXANDEK   CAKLILE. 


How  it  comes,  we  caiina  ken, 
AVanters  aye  maun  wait  their  ain, 
Madge  is  hecht  to  Adam  Glen, 
An'  sune  we'll  ha'e  a  weddin'. 


AULD  EPPIE. 

Auld  Eppie,  poor  bodie,  she  wins  on  the  brae, 
In  yon  little  cot-house  aneath  the  auld  tree; 
Far  aff  frae  a'  ithers,  an'  fu',  fu'  o'  flaws, 
Wi'  rough  divot  sunks  haudin'  up  the  mud  wa's; 
The  storm-tattered  riggin'  a  row'd  here  an'  there, 
An'  the  reekit  lum-framin'  a'  broken  an'  bare. 
The  lang  raggit  eaves  hangin'  down  the  laigh  door. 
An'  ae  wee  bit  winnock  amaist  happit  ower; 
The  green  boor-tree  bushes  a'  wavin'  aroun', 
An  gray  siller  willow-wands  kissin'  the  grun' ! 

"Auld  Eppie's  a  weird-wife,"  sae  runs  the  rude 

tale, 
For  ae  nicht  some  chiels,  comin'  hamo  frae  their 

ale, 
Cam'  in  by  her  biggin',  an'  watchin'  apart. 
They  saw  Eppie  turnin'  the  beuk  o'  black  art; 
An'  0!  the  strange  sichts  an'  the  uncos  that  fell, 
Nae  livin'  cou'd  think  o',  nae  language  cou'd  tell. 
Nae  body  leuks  near  her,  unless  it  may  be 
When  cloudie  nicht  closes  the  day's  dowin'  e'e. 
That  some,  wi'  rewards  an'  assurance,  slip  ben, 
The  weils  an'  the  waes  o'  the  future  to  ken ! 

Auld  Eppie's  nae  weird-wife,  though  she  gets  the 

name. 
She's  wae  for  hersel',  but  she's  waer  for  them; 
For  tho'  ne'er  a  frien'ly  foot  enters  her  door. 
She's  blest  wi'  a  f  rien'  in  the  Friend  o'  the  Poor. 


Her  comfort  she  draws  frae  the  Volume  o'  Licht, 
An'  aye  reads  a  portion  o't  mornin'  an'  nicht — 
In  a'  crooks  and  crosses,  she  calmly  obeys. 
E'en  seasons  o'  sorrow  are  seasons  o'  praise. 
She  opens  an'  closes  the  day  on  her  knee — 
That's  a'  the  strange  sicht  ony  body  can  see. 


THE  YOUNG  INQUIRER  AND   AGED 
CHRISTIAN. 

"Old  man!  I  would  speak  a  word  or  two! 
I  long  have  wished  to  learn  of  you — 
Your  kindred  and  friends  to  the  grave  are  gone, 
And  helpless  and  poor  you  are  left  alone. 
Yet,  aged  Pilgrim,  as  happy  you  seem 
As  Youth  with  its  gay  and  golden  dream! 
Oh!  tell  me — I  would  fain  possess 
The  secret  of  your  happiness." 

"Young  man!  your  answer  is  shortly  given, 
My  will  is  the  sovereign  will  of  Heaven, 
Believing,  whatever  my  lot  may  be. 
That  all  things  work  for  good  to  me^ 
And  trusting  alone  to  saving  grace 
For  the  blessings  of  pardon,  hope,  and  peace, 
I  rest  on  the  promise  now  and  ever — 
'  My  loving-kindness  faileth  never.' 

' '  Young  man !  would  you  my  happiness  share. 
With  humble  heart  and  fervent  prayer — 
The  voice  of  the  contrite  sinner  raise 
To  God  your  life  and  length  of  days— 
That  He  as  a  father,  forgetful  of  none, 
Would  give  you  the  portion  of  a  son, 
As  He  in  Christ  hath  given  to  me 
The  hope  of  a  happy  eternity!" 


ALEXANDEB    CAELILE. 


Born  1788  — Died  1860, 


Alexander  Carlile,  the  author  of  several 
spirited  songs,  was  born  at  Paisley,  the  birth- 
place of  so  many  poets,  in  the  year  1788.  He 
was  educated  first  at  the  grammar-school  of 
his  native  town,  and  then  in  the  University  of 
Glasgow.  He  afterwards  established  himself 
in  Paisley  as  a  manufacturer,  and  devoted 
much  of  his  leisure  time  to  literature,  contri- 
buting to  the  leading  magazines  both  in  prose 
and  verse.    In  1855  he  collected  and  published 


his  poetical  compositions  under  the  title  of 
Poenifi.  His  popular  song  "  Wha's  at  the 
Window?"  composed  in  early  life,  finds  a 
place  in  all  the  collections  of  Scottish  songs. 
Mr.  Carlile,  who  was  greatly  interested  in  all 
movements  tending  to  benefit  the  social  and 
moral  welfare  of  his  fellow-citizens,  died  in 
his  native  town,  August  4,  1860,  aged  seventy- 
two.  A  friend  who  was  well  acquainted  Avith 
him,  as  well  as  his  most  estimable  and  accom- 


ALEXANDER  CAELILE. 


99 


plisheil  brother,  the  Rev.  Dr.  Carlile  of  Dublin, 
tells  us  that  he  was  one  to  whom  the  words  of 
the  old  dramatist  might  most  truthfully  be 
applied: — 

"A  most  incomparable  man,  breath'd.  as  it  were. 
To  an  uutirable  and  continuate  goodness;" 


and  Dr.  Rogers,  in  his  Century  of  Scottish 
Life,  remarks  "that  during  his  latter  years, 
when  I  knew  him,  he  was  a  grave  and  reve- 
rend-looking old  man.  He  was  much  in  his 
libi'ary,  which  was  well  stored  with  the  best 
books"" 


WHA'S   AT  THE  WINDOW? 

Oh,  wha's  at  the  window,  wha,  wha? 
Oh,  wha's  at  the  window,  wha,  wha? 

Wha  but  blithe  Jamie  Glen, 

He's  come  sax  miles  and  ten, 
To  tak'  bonnie  Jeanie  awa',  awa'. 
To  tak'  bonnie  Jeanie  awa'. 

He  has  plighted  his  troth,  and  a',  and  a', 
Leal  love  to  gi'e,  and  a',  and  a'. 

And  sae  has  she  dune, 

By  a'  that's  abune. 
For  he  loe's  her,  she  lo'es  him,  'bune  a',  bune  a', 
He  lo'es  her,  she  lo'es  him,  'bune  a'. 

Bridal-maidens  are  braw,  braw. 
Bridal-maidens  are  braw,  braw; 

But  the  bride's  modest  e'e. 

And  warm  cheek  are  to  me 
'Bune  pearlins,  and  brooches,  and  a',  and  a', 
'Bune  pearlins,  and  brooches,  and  a'. 

It's  mirth  on  the  green,  in  the  ha',  the  ha', 
it's  mirth  on  the  green,  in  the  ha',  the  ha'; 

There's  quaffing  and  laughing. 

There's  dancing  and  dafKng, 
And  the  bride's  father's  blithest  of  a',  of  a'. 
The  bride's  father's  blithest  of  a'. 

It's  no  that  she's  Jamie's  ava,  ava. 
It's  no  that  she's  Jamie's  ava,  ava. 

That  my  heart  is  sae  weary, 

When  a'  the  lave's  cheerie. 
But  it's  just  that  .she'll  aye  be  awa',  awa'. 
It's  just  that  she'll  aye  be  awa'. 


THE  VALE  OF   KILLEAX. 

Oh  yes,  there's  a  valley  as  calm  and  as  sweet 
As  "that  vale  in  whose  bosom  the  bright  waters 

meet; 
So  bland  in  its  beauty,  so  rich  in  its  green, 
'Mid    Scotia's    dark    mountains  — the    Vale    of 

Killean. 


The  flocks  on  its  soft  lap  so  peacefully  roam. 
The  stream  seeks  the  deep  lake  as  the  child  seeks 

its  home, 
That  has  wander'd  all  day,  to  its  lullaby  close. 
Singing  blithe  'mid  the  wild-flowers,   and  fain 

would  repose. 

How  solemn  the  broad  hills  that  curtain  around 
This  sanctuary  of  nature,  'mid  a  wilderness  found, 
Whose  echoes  low  whisper,  "  Bid  the  world  fare- 
well. 
And   with   lowly   contentment   here   peacefully 
dwell!" 

Then  build  me  a  cot  by  that  lake's  verdant  shore, 
'Mid  the  world's  wild  turmoil  I'fl  mingle  no  more, 
And  the  tidings  evoking  the  sigh  and  the  tear. 
Of  man's  crimes  and  his  follies,  no  more  shall  I 
hear. 

Young  Mom,  as  on  tiptoe  he  ushers  the  day, 
Will  teach  fading  Hope  to  rekindle  her  ray; 
And  pale  Eve,  with  her  rapture  tear,  soft  will 

impart 
To  the  soul  her  own  meekness— a  rich  glow  to 

the  heai't. 

The  heavings  of  passion  all  rocked  to  sweet  rest, 
As  repose  its  still  waters,  so  repose  shall  this 

breast; 
And  'mid  brightness  and  calmness  my  spirit  shall 

rise 
Like  the  mist  from  the  mountam,  to  blend  with 

the  skies. 


THE  CORBIE  AND  CRAW. 

The  corbie  wi'  his  roupy  throat. 
Cried  frae  the  leafless  tree, 
"  Come  o'er  the  loch,  come  o'er  the  loch, 
Come  o'er  the  loch  to  me." 

The  craw  put  up  his  sooty  head. 

And  look'd  o'er  the  nest  whare  he  lay, 

And  gied  a  flaf  wi'  his  rousty  wings, 
And  cried,  "Whare  tae?  whare  tae?" 

Cor.  "  Te  pike  a  dead  man  that's  lying 
A  hint  yon  meikle  stane." 


100 


THOMAS   PEINGLE. 


Cra. 

Cor. 
Cra. 

Cor. 


"  Is  he  Ui,  is  he  fat,  is  he  fat,  is  he  fat? 
If  no,  we  may  let  him  alaiie." 

"  He  cam'  frae  merry  England,  to  steal 
The  sheep,  and  kill  the  deer." 

"  I'll  come,  I'll  come,  for  an  Englishman 
Is  aye  the  best  o'  cheer." 

"  0  we  may  breakfast  on  his  breast. 
And  on  his  back  may  dine; 
For  the  lave  a'  fled  to  their  ain  count  rie, 
And  they've  ne'er  been  back  sinsyne." 


MY  BROTHERS  ARE  THE  STATELY 
TREES. 

My  brothers  are  the  stately  trees 

That  in  the  forests  grow; 
The  simi:)le  flowers  my  sisters  are, 

That  on  the  green  bank  blow. 
With  them,  with  them,  I  am  a  child 
Whose  heart  with  mirth  is  dancing  wild. 

The  daisy,  with  its  tear  of  joy, 

Gay  greets  me  as  I  stray; 
How  sweet  a  voice  of  welcome  comes 

From  every  trembling  .spray! 


How  light,  how  bright,  the  golden-wing'd  hom-s 
I  spend  among  those  songs  and  flowers! 

I  love  the  spirit  of  the  wind, 

His  varied  tones  I  know; 
His  voice  of  soothing  majesty, 

Of  love  and  sobbing  woe; 
Whate'er  his  varied  theme  may  be. 
With  his  my  spirit  mingles  free. 

I  love  to  tread  the  grass-green  path. 

Far  vip  the  winding  stream; 
For  there  in  nature's  loneliness 

The  day  is  one  bright  dream. 
And  still  the  pilgrim  waters  tell 
Of  wanderings  wild  by  wood  and  dell. 

Or  up  the  mountain's  brow  I  toil 

Beneath  a  wid'ning  sky, 
Seas,  forests,  lakes  and  rivers  wide. 

Crowding  the  wondering  eye. 
Then,  then,  my  soul  on  eagle's  wings, 
To  cloudless  regions  upwards  .springs  I 

The  .stars — the  stars!     I  know  each  one, 

With  all  its  soul  of  love. 
They  beckon  me  to  come  and  live 

In  their  tearless  homes  above; 
And  then  1  spurn  earth's  songs  and  flowers, 
And  pant  to  breathe  in  heaven's  own  bowers. 


THOMAS    PEINGLE. 


BoRX  1789— Died  1834. 


Thomas  Prixgle,  a  poet  and  miscellaneous 
writer,  was  born  at  Blacklaw,  in  Roxburgh- 
shire, January  5,  1789.  AVhen  young  he  met 
with  an  accident  by  which  his  right  hip-joint 
was  dislocated,  and  he  was  obliged  ever  after 
to  use  crutches.  In  liis  fourteenth  year  he 
was  sent  to  the  grammar-school  at  Kelso,  and 
three  years  afterwards  entered  the  University 
of  Edinburgh.  In  the  year  1808  he  obtained 
a  situation  in  the  General  Register  House, 
and  in  1811,  in  conjunction  with  his  friend 
Robert  Storj',  published  a  satirical  poem  en- 
titled "The  In.stitute,"  which  obtained  for  its 
young  authors  great  praise  but  small  profit. 
In  1816  he  became  a  contributor  to  Campbell's 
Albijn  s  Antholorjy ;  he  also  compo.scd  an  ex- 
cellent imitation  of  Sir  Walter  Scott's  poetical 
style  for  the  Ettrick  Shepherd's  Poetic  Mirror. 


In  the  following  year  he  assumed  the  editor- 
ship of  the  Edinburgh  Monthly  Magazine, 
projected  by  James  Hogg  and  himself,  and 
published  by  William  Blackwood,  as  a  rival 
to  the  Scots  Magazine.  Brewster,  Cleghorn, 
Lockhart,  the  Shepherd,  and  Professor  Wilson 
were  among  the  contributors  to  this  periodical, 
whicli  afterwards  became  the  famous  Black- 
icood's  Magazine.  Pringle  soon  withdrew  from 
its  management,  but  he  continued  to  be  the 
conductor  of  the  Edinburgh  Star  newspaper 
and  editor  of  Constable's  Edinburgh  Magazine 
and  Literary  Miscellany.  Before  this  time  he 
had  married,  and  finding  the  emoluments  from 
these  literary  sources  insufficient  to  maintain 
his  family,  he  was  fain  to  abandon  them  and 
return  in  1819  to  his  old  place  in  the  Register 
IIou.sc. 


THOMAS   PRINGLE. 


101 


Priagle  published  during  the  same  year  the 
"Autumnal  Excursion,  and  other  Poems/' 
but  the  poetical  field  at  that  season  was  so 
pre-occupied  by  greater  singers,  that  his  little 
volume,  though  appreciated  by  the  judicious 
few,  brought  him  but  small  profit.  In  1820, 
in  company^  with  his  brothers  and  other  rela- 
tives and  friends,  in  all  twenty-four  persons, 
he  embarked  for  South  Africa,  Avhere  they 
landed  in  safety,  and  took  possession  of  a  tract 
of  twenty  thousand  acres  assigned  to  them  by 
the  government,  which  tiiey  named  Glen 
Lynden.  The  poet  afterward  removed  to  Cape 
Town,  where  he  filled  the  position  of  govern- 
ment librarian,  and  kept  a  large  boarding- 
school.  Here,  after  some  difficulty,  he  estab- 
lished the  South  African  Journal,  a  magazine 
which  appeared  in  Dutch  and  English,  and  he 
also  assumed  the  editorship  of  a  weekly  news- 
paper. But  ere  long  he  had  disagreements 
with  the  governor,  Lord  Charles  Somerset,  and 
weary  of  his  CatiVeland  exile  he  returned  to 
England  in  1826,  and  obtained  the  appoint- 
ment of  secretary  to  the  Anti-Slavery  Societj', 
a  post  which  he  retained  until  the  abolition  of 
slavery  in  the  colonies  of  Great  Britain  ren- 
dered the  society  unnecessary.  Meantime  he 
was  a  constant  contributor  of  prose  and  verse 
to  the  chief  periodicals  of  the  day;  edited  an 
annual.  Friendship's  Offerlnrj;  and  published  a 
"  Narrative  of  his  Residence  in  South  Africa," 
also  "  Ephemerides,  or  Occasional  Poems." 
Failing  health  induced  him  to  decide  to  remove 
to  a  warmer  climate  as  the  only  means  of  saving 
his  life,  and  he  was  preparing  to  return  to  the 


Cape  with  his  wife  and  sister-in  law,  when  he 
became  worse,  and  died  December  5,  1834. 
His  remains  were  interred  in  Bunhill  Fields, 
and  a  tombstone  with  an  elegant  inscription 
marks  the  spot  where  thej'  lie. 

Pringle's  poetical  works,  with  a  memoir 
written  by  Leitch  Ritchie,  were  published  in 
1839.  Many  of  his  compositions  exhibit  a 
highly  cultivated  taste,  combined  witli  deep 
and  generous  feeling.  The  fine  pastoral  lyric 
"  0,  the  Ewe-bughting's  bonnie,"  left  un- 
finished by  Lady  Grizzel  Baillie  (see  vol.  i. 
p.  91),  was  completed  by  our  author.  Allan 
Cunningham  wrote: — "  Thomas  Pringle  is  a 
poet  and  philanthropist:  in  poetry  he  has 
shown  a  feeling  for  the  romantic  and  the 
lovely,  and  in  philanthropy  he  has  laboured  to 
introduce  liberty,  knowledge,  and  religion,  in 
the  room  of  slavery  and  ignorance."  Another 
Scottish  poet  says: — "His  poetry  has  great 
merit.  It  is  distinguished  by  elegance  rather 
than  strength,  but  he  has  many  forcible  pas- 
sages. The  versification  is  sweet,  the  style 
simple  and  free  from  all  superfluous  epithets, 
and  the  descriptions  are  the  result  of  his  own 
observations.  His  'African  Sketches,'  which 
consist  of  poetical  exhibitions  of  the  scenery-, 
the  characteristic  habits  of  animals,  and  the 
modes  of  native  life  in  South  Africa,  are  alone 
sufficient  to  entitle  him  to  no  mean  rank  as  a 
poet."  The  first  of  our  selections  was  greatly 
admired  by  Sir  Walter  Scott  and  many  other 
distinguished  poets  of  Pringle's  period.  Cole- 
ridge was  so  highly  delighted  that  he  did  little 
else  for  several  days  than  read  and  recite  it. 


AFAE    IN    THE    DESERT. 


Afar  in  the  Desert  T  love  to  ride. 
With  the  silent  bush-boy  alone  by  my  side: 
When  the  sorrows  of  life  the  soul  o'ercast, 
And,  sick  of  the  present,  I  turn  to  the  past; 
And  the  eye  is  suffused  with  regretful  tears. 
From  the  fond  recollections  of  former  years; 
And  the  shadows  of  things  that  have  long  since 

fled, 
Flit  over  the  brain  like  the  ghosts  of  the  dead- 
Bright  visions  of  gloiy  that  vanished  too  soon  — 
Day-dreams  that  departed  ere  manhood's  noon — 
Attachments  by  fate  or  by  falsehood  reft — 
Companions  of  early  days  lost  or  left — 
And  my  native  land!  whose  magical  name 


Thrills  to  my  heart  like  electric  flame; 

The  home  of  my  childhood— the  haunts  of  my 

prime ; 
All  the  passions  and  scenes  of  that  rapturous  time, 
When  the  feelings  were  young  and  the  world  was 

new. 
Like  the  fresh  bowers  of  Paradise  opening  to  view! 
All — all  now  forsaken,  forgotten,  or  gone; 
And  1,  a  lone  exile,  remembered  of  none. 
My  high  aims  abandoned,  and  good  acts  undone — 
Aweaiy  of  all  that  is  under  the  sun ; 
With  that  sadness  of  heart  which  no  stranger 

may  scan 
I  fly  to  the  Desert  afar  from  man. 


102 


THOMAS   PEINGLE. 


Afar  in  the  Desert  I  love  to  ride, 
With  the  silent  bush-boy  alone  by  my  side; 
When  the  wild  turmoil  of  this  wearisome  life, 
With  its  scenes  of  oppression,  corruption,  and 

strife; 
The  proud  man's  frown,  and  the  base  man's  fear; 
And  the  scorner's  laugh,  and  the  sufferer's  tear; 
And   mahce   and   meanness   and  falsehood  and 

folly, 
Dispose  me  to  miising  and  dark  melancholy ; 
When  my  bosom  is  full,  and  my  thoughts  are  high. 
And  my  soul  is  sick  with  the  bondman's  sigh — 
Oh,  then!  there  is  freedom,  and  joy,  and  pride. 
Afar  in  the  Desert  alone  to  ride! 
There  is  rapture  to  vault  on  the  champing  steed, 
And  to  bound  away  with  the  eagle's  speed. 
With  the  death-fraught  firelock  in  my  hand— 
The  only  law  of  the  Desert  land — 
But  'tis  not  the  innocent  to  destroy. 
For  I  hate  the  huntsman's  savage  joy. 

Afar  in  the  Desert  I  love  to  ride. 

With  the  silent  bush-boy  alone  by  my  side; 

Away— away  from  the  dwellings  of  men. 

By  the  wild-deer's  haunt  and  the  buffalo's  glen; 

By  valleys  remote,  where  the  oribi  plays; 

Where  the  gnu,  the  gazelle,  and  the  hartebeest 

graze; 
And  the  gemsbok  and  eland  unhunted  recline 
By  the  skirts  of  gray  forests  o'ergrown  with  wild 

vine; 
And  the  elephant  browses  at  peace  in  his  wood; 
And  the  river  horse  gambols  unscared  in  the  flood ; 
And  the  mighty  rhinoceros  wallows  at  will 
In  the  Vley,  where  the  wild  ass  is  drinking  his 

fill. 

Afar  in  the  Desert  I  love  to  ride. 
With  the  silent  bush-boy  alone  by  my  side: 
O'er  the  brown  Karroo  where  the  bleating  cry 
Of  the  springbok's  fawn  sounds  plaintively; 
Where  the  zebra  wantonly  tosses  his  mane. 
In  fields  seldom  freshened  by  moisture  or  rain; 
And  the  stately  koodoo  exultingly  bounds. 
Undisturbed  by  the  bay  of  the  hunter's  hounds; 
And  the  timorous  quagga's  wild  whistling  neigh 
Is  heard  by  the  brak  fountain  far  away; 
And  the  fleet-footed  ostrich  over  the  waste 
Speeds  like  a  horseman  who  travels  in  haste; 
And  the  vulture  in  circles  wheels  high  overhead. 
Greedy  to  scent  and  to  gorge  on  the  dead; 
And  the  grisly  wolf,  and  the  shrieking  jackal, 
Howl  for  their  prey  at  the  evening  fall; 
And  the  fiend-like  laugh  of  hyenas  grim, 
Fearfully  startles  the  twilight  dim. 

Afar  in  the  Desert  T  love  to  ride, 

With  the  silent  bush-boy  alone  by  my  side: 

Away — away  in  the  wilderness  vast. 

Where  the  white  man's  foot  hath  never  passed, 

And  the  quivered  Korauna  or  Bechuan 


Hath  rarely  crossed  with  his  roving  clan : 
A  region  of  emptiness,  howling  and  drear. 
Which  man  hath  abandoned  from  famine  and 

fear; 
Which  the  snake  and  the  lizard  inhabit  alone. 
And  the  bat  flitting  forth  from  his  old  hollow 

stone ; 
Where  grass,  nor  herb,  nor  shrub  takes  root, 
Save  poisonous  thorns  that  pierce  the  foot: 
And  the  bitter  melon,  for  food  and  diink, 
Is  the  pilgrim's  fare  by  the  Salt  Lake's  brin'v : 
A  region  of  drought,  where  no  river  glides. 
Nor  rippling  brook  with  osiered  sides; 
Nor  reedy  pool,  nor  mossy  fountain. 
Nor  shady  tree,  nor  cloud-capped  mountain. 
Are  found — to  refresh  the  aching  eye : 
But  the  barren  earth  and  the  burning  sky. 
And  the  black  horizon  round  and  round, 
Without  a  living  sight  or  sound, 
Tell  to  the  heart,  in  its  pensive  mood. 
That  this  is — Nature's  solitude. 
And  here — while  the  night  winds  round  me  sigh, 
And  the  stars  burn  bright  in  the  midnight  sky, 
As  I  sit  apart  by  the  caverned  stone. 
Like  Elijah  at  Horeb's  cave  alone. 
And  feel  as  a  moth  in  the  mighty  hand 
That  spread  the  heavens  and  heaved  the  land — 
A  "  still  small  voice"  comes  through  the  wild 
(Like  a  father  consoling  his  fretful  child) 
Which  banishes  bitterness,  wrath,  and  fear — 
Saying,  "Man  is  distant,  but  God  is  near!" 


THE  LION  AND   GIRAFFE. 

Would'st  thou  view  the  lion's  den  ? 
Search  afar  from  haunts  of  men — 
Where  the  reed-encircled  rill 
Oozes  from  the  rocky  hill. 
By  its  verdure  far  descried 
'Mid  the  desert  brovra  and  wide. 

Close  beside  the  sedgy  brim, 
Couchant,  lurks  the  lion  grim. 
Watching  till  the  close  of  day 
Brings  the  death-devoted  prey. 
Heedless  at  the  ambush'd  brink 
The  tall  giraffe  stoops  down  to  drink ; 
Upon  him  straight  the  savage  springs 
With  cruel  joy.     The  desert  rings 
With  clanging  sound  of  desperate  strife — 
The  prey  is  strong,  and  he  strives  for  life. 
Plunging  off  with  frantic  bound 
To  shake  the  tyrant  to  the  ground. 
He  shrieks — he  rushes  through  the  waste 
With  glaring  eye  and  headlong  haste. 
In  vain! — the  spoiler  on  his  prize 
Rides  proudly — tearing  as  he  flies 
For  life — the  victim's  utmost  speed 
Is  mustered  in  this  houi-  of  need. 


THOMAS  PRINGLE. 


103 


For  life — for  life— his  giant  might 

He  strains,  and  pours  his  soul  in  flight; 

And  mad  with  terror,  thirst,  and  pain, 

Spurns  with  wild  hoof  the  thundering  plain. 

'Tis  vain;  the  thirsty  sands  are  drinking 

His  streaming  blood — his  strength  is  sinking; 

The  victor's  fangs  are  in  his  veins — 

His  flanks  are  streaked  with  sanguine  stains— 

His  panting  breast  in  foam  and  gore 

Is  bathed — he  reels — his  race  is  o'er. 

He  falls — and  with  convulsive  throe, 

Resigns  his  throat  to  the  ravening  foe ! 

— And  lo !  ere  quivering  life  is  fled, 

The  vultures,  wheeling  overhead, 

Swoop  down,  to  watch  in  gaunt  array, 

Till  the  gorged  tyrant  quits  his  prey. 


COME  AWA',   COME  AWA'. 

Come  awa',  come  aAva', 

An'  o'er  the  march  wi'  me,  lassie; 
Leave  your  southern  wooers  a', 

My  winsome  bride  to  be,  lassie! 
Lands  nor  gear  I  proffer  you, 

Nor  gauds  to  busk  ye  line,  lassie; 
But  I've  a  heart  that's  leal  and  true, 

And  a'  that  heart  is  thine,  lassie! 

Come  awa',  come  awa', 

And  see  the  kindly  north,  lassie, 
Out  o'er  the  peaks  o'  Lammerlair, 

And  by  the  links  o'  Forth,  lassie! 
And  when  we  tread  the  heather-bell, 

Ahoon  Demayat  lea,  lassie. 
You'll  view  the  land  o'  flood  and  fell, 

The  noble  north  countrie,  lassie! 

Come  awa',  come  awa'. 

And  leave  your  southland  hame,  lassie; 
The  kirk  is  near,  the  ring  is  here. 

And  Fm  your  Donald  Graeme,  lassie! 
Eock  and  reel  and  spinning-wheel, 

And  English  cottage  trig,  lassie; 
Haste,  leave  them  a',  wi'  uie  to  speel 

The  braes  'yont  Stirling  brig,  lassie! 

Come  awa',  come  awa', 

I  ken  your  heart  is  mine,  lassie; 
And  true  love  sliall  make  up  for  a' 

For  whilk  ye  might  repine,  lassie! 
Your  father  he  has  gi'en  consent. 

Your  step-dame  looks  na  kind,  lassie; 
0  that  our  feet  were  on  the  bent, 

An'  the  lowlands  far  behind,  lassie! 

Come  awa',  come  awa', 

Ye'U  ne'er  hae  cause  to  rue,  lassie; 


Mr  cot  blinks  blithe  beneath  the  shaw. 

By  bonnie  Avondhu,  lassie! 
There's  birk  and  slae  on  ilka  brae, 

And  brackens  waving  fair,  lassie. 
And  gleaming  lochs  and  mountains  gray- 

Cau  aught  wi'  them  compare,  lassie? 
Come  awa',  come  awa',  &c. 


FAREWELL  TO  TEVIOTDALE. 

Our  native  land — our  native  vale — 

A  long  and  last  adieu ! 
Farewell  to  bonnie  Teviotdale, 

And  Cheviot  mountains  blue. 

Farewell,  ye  hills  of  glorious  deeds. 
And  streams  renown'd  in  song — 

Farewell  ye  braes  and  blossom'd  meads, 
Our  hearts  have  lov'd  so  long. 

Farewell,  the  blythesome  broomy  knowes, 
Where  thyme  and  harebells  grow — 

Farewell,  the  hoary,  haunted  howes, 
O'erhung  with  birk  and  sloe. 

The  mossy  cave  and  mouldering  tower, 

That  skirt  our  native  dell — 
Tiie  martyr's  grave,  and  lover's  bower. 

We  bid  a  sad  farewell ! 

Home  of  our  love!  our  father's  home! 

Land  of  the  brave  and  free! 
The  sail  is  flapping  on  the  foam 

That  bears  us  far  from  thee! 

AVe  seek  a  wild  and  distant  shore. 

Beyond  the  western  main — 
We  leave  thee  to  return  no  more. 

Nor  view  thy  clifts  again! 

Our  native  land — our  native  vale — 

A  long  and  last  adieu ! 
Farewell  to  bonnie  Teviotdale, 

And  Scotland's  mountains  blue! 


MAID  OF  MY  HEART. 

Maid  of  my  heart — a  long  farewell! 
The  bark  is  launch'd,  the  billows  swell, 
And  the  vernal  gales  are  blowing  free. 
To  bear  me  far  from  love  and  thee! 

I  hate  ambition's  haughty  name, 
And  the  heartless  pride  of  Avealth  and  fame; 
Yet  now  I  haste  through  ocean's  roar 
To  woo  them  on  a  distant  shore. 


104 


JOHN   BURTT. 


Can  pain  or  peril  bring  relief 
To  him  wlio  bears  a  darker  grief? 
Can  absence  calm  this  feverish  thrill? 
— Ah,  no! — for  thou  wilt  haunt  me  still! 

Thy  artless  grace,  thj'  open  truth, 
Thy  form  that  breath'd  of  love  and  youth, 
Thy  voice  by  nature  fram'd  to  suit 
Tlie  tone  of  love's  enchanted  lute! 


Thy  dimpling  cheek  and  deep-blue  eye, 
Where  tender  thought  and  feeling  lie! 
Thine  eyelid  like  the  evening  cloud 
That  comes  the  star  of  love  to  shroud! 

Each  witchery  of  soul  and  sense, 
Enshrin'd  in  angel  innocence, 
Combin'd  to  frame  the  fatal  spell  — 
That  blest— and  broke  my  heart — Farewell! 


JOHN    BUETT. 


Born  1789  — Died  1866. 


The  Rev.  John  Burtt  was  born  at  Knock- 
marloch  House,  in  the  parish  of  Riccarton, 
Ayrshire,  May  26,  1789.  While  he  was  still  a 
child  he  lost  his  mother,  and  went  to  reside  with 
his  maternal  grandfather,  Avith  whom  he  spent 
his  boyhood,  during  which  time  he  attended 
school  and  became  a  good  classical  scholar.  He 
was  then  sent  to  learn  the  weaving  trade,  but 
he  soon  abandoned  the  loom  and  returned  to 
his  books.  In  his  si.xteenth  year  lie  was  decoyed 
into  a  small  boat  by  a  press-gang,  carried  on 
board  the  Magn'ificent,  a  ship-of-war  stationed 
near  Greenock,  and  compelled  to  serve  as  a 
common  sailor.  Effecting  his  escape  after 
being  five  years  in  the  service,  he  returned  to 
Scotland  and  opened  a  private  school  at  Kil- 
marnock. In  1816  he  removed  to  Glasgow, 
where  he  attended  the  medical  lectures  at  the 
university. 

During  his  career  as  a  sailor  Burtt  had  occu- 
pied many  of  his  leisure  hours  in  the  composi- 
tion of  verses,  and  had  also  written  some  lyrics 
during  the  period  of  his  teaching  at  Kilmar- 
nock. These  he  collected  and  published  at 
GlasgoAv  in  1817.  The  same  year  he  proceeded 
to  the  United  States,  and  soon  after  entered 
the  Theological  Seminary  at  Princeton,  New 
Jei-sey,  where  he  studied  theology.  On  leaving 
that  institution  Burtt  for  some  time  acted  as  a 
domestic  missionary  of  the  Presbyterian  Church 
at  Trenton  and  Philadelphia,  until  called  to 
a  ministerial  charge  at  Salem,  N.J.    In  1831 


he  removed  to  Philadelphia  and  assumed  the 
editorship  of  a  weekly  journal  named  The  Pres- 
hjterkin.  Two  years  later  he  became  the  pastor 
of  a  church  in  Cincinnati,  at  the  same  time 
acting  as  editor  of  The  Standard.  In  1812  he 
accepted  the  charge  of  a  congregation  at  Black- 
woodtown,  where  he  remained  until  1859,  Avhen 
the  infirmities  of  age  induced  him  to  resign 
and  retire  to  Salem,  N.J.,  wliere  he  died, 
March  24,  1866.  Mr.  Burtt  mari-ied  JNIiss 
Mary  N.  Fisher  of  Philadelphia,  Sept.  29, 1820. 
Of  his  family  a  daughter  survives,  to  whom  the 
Avriter  is  chiefly  indebted  for  the  particulars  of 
her  father's  career;  and  two  sons,  one  of  whom 
has  served  his  country  as  a  surgeon  both  in  the 
army  and  navy,  while  the  other  is  doing  his 
Master's  work  as  a  missionary  among  the 
American  Indians. 

During  the  first  years  of  Mr.  Burtt's  resi- 
dence in  the  New  World  he  wrote  a  number  of 
poems,  which,  with  those  published  in  Scot- 
land, were  issued  in  1819,  at  Bridgeton,  N.J., 
with  the  title  of  Horce  Poeticce.  Later  in  life 
he  occasionally  contriljuted  verses  to  the  col- 
umns of  The  Prenhiitcrlan  and  other  religious 
periodicals.  "  The  Pev.  John  Burtt,"  remarks 
a  correspondent,  writing  to  us  in  1875,  "Avas 
a  man  of  great  excellence  of  character,  and  in 
the  vigour  of  his  years  Avas  one  of  our  best 
preachers  and  poets.  His  Avas  truly  a  remark- 
able life,  Avith  the  golden  ending  so  seldom 
allotted  to  the  children  of  song." 


JOHN   BURTT. 


105 


ON   THE  DIVINE   MERCY. 

Shall  the  wanderer's  harp  of  sorrow 

Always  tell  the  tale  of  woe? 
Shall  the  night  no  joyful  morrow 
Of  unclouded  transport  know? 
Shall  the  bosom  filled  with  sadness — 
Shall  the  boiling  blood  of  madness 
Never  know  the  calm  of  peace, 
Balm  of  hope  and  beam  of  bliss? 

"Wake,  my  harp!  nor  weak  nor  mildly 

Let  thy  notes  of  rapture  swell : 
AVake,  my  harp!  and  warbling  wildly. 

Of  immortal  triumphs  tell. 
Holy  fire— seraphic  feeling — 
O'er  my  melting  mind  are  stealing; 
Heavenward  rolls  my  raptured  eye, 
Loud  I  strike  the  harp  of  joy! 

"Weeping  orphan!  God  has  found  thee. 
Led  thee  to  thy  mother's  breast; 

AVandering  stranger!  all  around  thee 
Smiles  the  blissful  home  of  rest. 

Strengthen'd  is  the  arm  of  weakness; 

Cool'd  the  fever'd  heart  of  sickness; 

3Iortal  strifes  and  pangs  are  o'er — 

lilortals  live  to  die  no  more. 

Sons  of  earth!  behold  Him  bending — 

God,  your  Father,  from  above; 
Peace  and  mercy  sweetly  blending 

AVith  His  tender  looks  of  love. 
Sweeter  than  a  seraph's  vespers 
Is  the  welcome  which  He  whispers; — 
"Come,  ye  weary  and  opprest. 
Come,  ye  heavy  laden — rest ! 

"  Eest  ye  from  the  care  and  sorrow, 
AVhich  in  seasons  past  ye  knew: 
'Tis  an  everlasting  morrow — 

Scenes  of  endless  bliss  ye  view: 
From  the  snares  of  guilt  and  error. 
From  the  grasp  of  death  and  terror 
IJest  secure! — on  IMe  depend — 
Me,  your  Father  and  your  Friend." 


THE   FARE\YELL. 

0  welcome  winter!  wi'  thy  storms. 
Thy  frosts,  an'  hills  o'  sna'; 

Dismantle  nature  o'  her  charms, 
For  I  maun  lea'  them  a'. 

I've  mourn'd  the  gowan  wither'd  laid 
Upon  its  wallow  bier; 


I've  seen  the  rosebud  drooping  fade 
Beneath  the  dewy  tear. 

Then  fare  ye  wcel,  my  frien's  sae  dear. 

For  I  maun  lea'  you  a'. 
0  will  ye  sometimes  shed  a  tear 

For  me,  when  far  awa"? 
For  me,  when  far  frae  hame  and  you, 

AVhere  ceaseless  tempests  blaw, 
AVill  ye  repeat  my  last  adieu, 

An'  mourn  that  I'm  awa? 

I've  seen  the  wood,  where  rude  winds  rave. 

In  gay  green  mantle  drest; 
But  now  its  leafless  branches  wave 

"Wild  whistling  in  the  blast: 
So  perish'd  a'  my  youthfu'  joy. 

An'  left  me  thus  to  mourn; 
The  vernal  sun  will  gild  the  sky, 

But  joy  will  ne'er  return. 
Then  fare  ye  weel,  &c. 

In  vain  will  spring  her  gowans  spread 

Owre  the  green  swairded  lea: 
The  rose  beneath  the  hawthorn  shade 

AVill  bloom  in  vain  for  me: 
In  vain  will  spring  bedeck  the  bowers 

Wi'  buds  and  blossoms  braw — 
The  gloomy  storm  already  lowers 

That  drives  me  far  awa'. 
Then  fare  ye  weel,  &c. 

0  winter!  spare  the  peacefu'  scene 

AVhere  early  joys  I  knew; 
Still  be  its  fields  unfading  green. 

Its  sky  unclouded  blue. 
Ye  lads  and  lasses!  when  sae  blythe 

The  social  crack  ye  ca', 
0  spare  the  tribute  of  a  sigh 

For  me,  when  far  awa' ! 

Then  fare  ye  weel,  &c. 


O'ER  THE   MIST-SHROUDED  CLIFFS.^ 

O'er  the  mist-shrouded  cliffs  of  the  gray  moun- 
tain straying, 
AVhere  the  wild  winds  of  winter  incessantly  rave ; 
What  woes  wring  my  heart,  while  intently  sur- 
veying 
The  stomi's  gloomy  path  on  the  breast  of  the 
wave. 


1  This  song  enjoyed  for  many  years  the  distinction  of 
being  attributed  to  Burns,  and  of  being  iuchuled  in 
several  editions  of  his  poems.  It  celebrates  Burtt's  first 
love,  who  died  young,  and  was  Avritteu  at  Kilmarnock 
when  in  his  twenty-second  year,  before  he  bade  adieu 
to  Scotland.— Ed. 


106 


WILLIAM  KNOX. 


Ye  foam-crested  billows,  allow  me  to  wail, 

Ere  ye  toss  me  afar  from  my  loved  native  shore; 

Where  the  flower  that  bloom'd  sweetest  in  Coila's 
green  vale, 
The  pride  of  my  bosom,  my  Mary's  no  more! 

No  more   by  the  banks  of  the  streamlet  we'll 
wander, 
And  smile  at  the  moon's  rimpled  face  in  the 
wave; 
No  more  shall  my  arms  cling  with  fondness  around 
her, 
For  the  dew-drops  of  morning  fall  cold  on  her 
grave. 
No  more  shall  the  soft  thrill  of  love  warm  my 
breast — 
I  haste  with  the  storm  to  a  far  distant  shore, 
Where  unknown,  unlamented,  my  ashes  shall  rest. 
And  joy  shall  revisit  iny  bosom  no  more. 


0!   LASSIE  I   LO'E  DEAREST! 

0!  lassie  I  lo'e  dearest! 
Mair  fair  to  me  than  fairest, 
Mair  rare  to  me  than  rarest. 

How  sweet  to  think  o'  thee. 
When  blythe  the  blue-ey'd  dawnin' 
Steals  saftly  o'er  tlie  lawnin', 
And  furls  night's  sable  awniii', 

1  love  to  think  o'  tliee. 

An'  while  the  honey'd  dew-drap 
Still  trembles  at  the  flower-tap. 
The  fairest  bud  I  pu't  up. 

An'  kiss't  for  sake  o'  thee. 
An'  when  by  stream  or  fountain, 
In  glen,  or  on  the  mountain, 
Tlie  lingering  moments  counting, 

1  pause  an'  think  o"  thee. 

When  the  sun's  red  rays  are  streamin', 
Warm  on  the  meadow  beamin', 
Or  on  the  loch  wild  gleamia', 
My  heart  is  fu'  o'  thee. 


An'  tardy-footed  gloamin', 
Out-owre  the  hills  slow  comin', 
Still  finds  me  lanely  roamin'. 
And  thinkin'  still  o'  thee. 

When  soughs  the  distant  billow, 
An'  night  blasts  shake  the  willow, 
Stretch'd  on  my  lanely  pillow. 

My  dreams  are  a'  o'  thee. 
Then  think  when  frien's  caress  thee, 
Oh,  think  when  cares  distress  tiiee. 
Oh,  think  when  pleasures  bless  thee, 

0'  him  that  thinks  o'  thee. 


SWEET   THE   BARD. 

Sweet  the  bard,  and  sweet  his  strain, 
Breath'd  where  mirth  and  friendship  reign. 
O'er  ilk  woodland,  hill,  and  plain, 

And  loch  o'  Caledonia. 
Sweet  the  rural  scenes  he  drew, 
Sweet  the  fairy  tints  he  threw 
O'er  the  page,  to  nature  true, 

And  dear  to  Caledonia. 
But  the  strain  so  lov'd  is  o'er. 
And  the  bard  so  lov'd  no  more 
Shall  his  magic  stanzas  pour 

To  love  and  Caledonia. 

Ayr  and  Doon  may  row  their  floods, 
Birds  may  warble  through  the  woods, 
Dews  may  gem  the  opening  buds. 

And  daisies  bloom  fu'  bonnie,  0: 
Lads  fu'  blythe  and  lasses  fain 
Still  may  love,  but  ne'er  again 
Will  they  wake  the  gifted  strain 

0'  Burns  and  Caledonia. 
While,  his  native  vales  among. 
Love  is  felt,  or  beauty  sung. 
Hearts  will  beat  and  harps  be  strung 

To  Burns  and  Caledonia. 


WILLIAM    KNOX. 


Born  1789  — Died  1825. 


William  Knox,  the  author  of  the  pathetic 
poem  which  was  so  great  a  favourite  with  the 
late  President  Lincoln,  beginning, 

"Oh!  wby  sliould  the  spirit  of  mortal  be  proud!" 


was  born  at  Firth,  in  the  parish  of  Lilliesleaf, 
Roxburghshire,  August  17,  1789.  His  parents 
were  in  comfortable  circumstances,  and  he 
received  a  liberal  education,  first  at  the  parish 


WILLIAM  KNOX. 


107 


school  of  Lilliesleaf,  and  afterwards  at  tlie 
grammar-school  of  Musselburgh.  In  1812  he 
became  lessee  of  a  farm  near  Langholm,  but 
he  was  so  uusuccessful  as  a  farmer  that  at  the 
end  of  five  years  he  gave  up  his  lease,  and 
commenced  that  precarious  literary  life  which 
he  continued  to  the  close.  From  his  early 
youth  he  had  composed  verses,  and  in  1818 
he  published  The  Lonelj  Hearth,  and  other 
Poems,  followed  six  years  later  by  Tlie  Songs 
of  Israel.  In  1825  appeared  a  third  volume 
of  lyrics,  entitled  The  Harp  of  Z ion.  Knox's 
poetical  merits  attracted  the  attention  of  Sir 
Walter  Scott,  who  afforded  him  kindly  coun- 
tenance and  occasional  pecuniary  assistance. 
Professor  Wilson  also  thought  highly  of  his 
poetical  genius,  and  was  ever  ready  to  befriend 
him.  He  was  a  kind  and  affectionate  son, 
and  a  man  of  genial  disposition;  but  he  un- 
wisely squandered  his  resources  of  liealtli  and 
strength,  and  died  of  paralysis  at  Edinburgh, 
November  12,  1825,  in  his  thirty-sixth  year. 

Knox's  poetry  is  largely  pervaded  with 
pathetic  and  religious  sentiment.  In  the  pre- 
face to  his  Songs  of  Israel  he  says — "It  is  my 
sincere  wish  that,  Avhile  I  may  have  provided 


a  slight  gratification  for  the  admirer  of  poetry, 
I  may  also  have  done  something  to  raise  the 
devotional  feelings  of  the  pious  Christian." 
A  new  edition  of  his  poetical  works  was  pub- 
lished in  London  in  1847.  Eesides  the 
volumes  mentioned  above  he  also  wrote  A 
]'isit  to  Dublin,  and  a  Christmas  tale  entitled 
"ilarianne,  or  the  AVidower's  Daugiiter." 
Much  of  his  authorship,  however,  was  scattered 
over  the  periodicals  of  the  day,  and  especially 
the  Literary  Gazette.  As  a  prose  writer  his 
works  are  of  little  account,  but  the  same  can- 
not be  said  of  his  poetry,  which  possesses  a 
richness  and  originality  that  insure  for  it  a 
more  lasting  popularity.  Sir  Walter  Scott, 
alluding  to  our  poet,  remarks — "His  talent 
then  showed  itself  in  a  fine  strain  of  pensive 
poetry,  called,  I  think,  "The  Lonely  Hearth," 
far  superior  to  that  of  Michael  Bruce,  whose 
consumption,  by  the  way,  has  been  the  life  of 
iiis  verses."  He  was  keenly  alive  to  his  lite- 
rary reputation,  and  could  not  but  have  been 
greatly  gratified  had  he  known  that  a  poem  of 
his  would  one  day  go  the  rounds  of  the  Ameri- 
can press  and  that  of  the  Canadas  as  the  pro- 
duction of  a  president  of  the  United  States. 


THE    WOOER'S    VISIT. 


My  native  Scotland !  how  the  youth  is  blest 

To  mark  thy  first  star  in  the  evening  sky, 
AVhen  the  far  curfew  bids  the  weary  rest, 

And  in  his  ear  the  milk-maid's  wood-notes  die! 

O !  then  unseen  by  every  human  eye. 
Soon  as  the  lingering  daylight  hatli  decayed. 

Dear,  dear  to  him  o'er  distant  vales  to  hie, 
While  every  head  in  midnight  rest  is  laid, 
To  that  endearing  cot  where  dwells  his  favourite 
maid. 

Though  he  has  laboured  from  the  dawn  of  mom, 

Beneath  the  summer  sun's  unclouded  ray, 
Till  evening's  dewdrops  glistened  on  the  thorn. 

And  wild-flowers  closed  their  petals  with  the 
day; 

And  though  the  cottage  home  be  far  away, 
Where  aU  the  treasure  of  his  bosom  lies, 

O !  he  must  see  her,  though  his  raptured  stay 
Be  short — like  every  joy  beneath  the  skies — 
And  yet  be  at  his  task  by  morning's  earliest  rise. 

Behold  him  wandering  o'er  the  moonlit  dales. 
The  only  living  thing  that  stirs  abroad, 


Tripping  as  lightly  as  the  breathing  gales 
That  fan  his  cheek  upon  the  lonesome  road. 
Seldom  by  other  footsteps  trod ! 

Even  though  no  moon  shed  her  conducting  ray, 
And  light  his  night-path  to  that  sweet  abode. 

Angels  will  giiide  the  lover's  dreariest  way, 

If  but  for  her  dear  sake  whose  heart  is  pure  as  they. 

And  see  him  now  upon  the  veiy  hill. 

From  which  in  breathless  transport  he  doth  hail, 

At  such  an  hour  so  exquisitely  still, 

To  him  the  sweetest,  far  the  sweetest,  vale 
That  e'er  was  visited  by  moimtain  gale. 

And,  0!  how  fondly  shall  be  hailed  by  him 
The  guiding  lamp  that  never  yet  did  fail — 

Tliat  very  lamp  which  her  dear  hand  doth  trim 

To  light  his  midnight  way  when  moon  and  stars 
are  dim. 

But  who  shall  tell  what  her  fond  thoughts  may  be, 
The  lovely  damsel  sitting  all  alone. 

When  every  inmate  of  the  house  but  she 
To  sweet  oblivion  of  their  cares  have  gone  ? 
By  harmless  stealth  unnoticed  and  unkno^vu, 


108 


WILLIAM   KNOX. 


Behold  her  sccated  by  her  midnight  fire, 

And  turning  many  an  anxious  look  upon 
The  lingering  clock,  as  if  she  would  require 
The  steady  foot  of  time  to  haste  at  her  desire. 

But  though  the  appointed  hour  is  fondly  sought, 

At  every  sound  her  little  heart  will  beat, 
And  she  will  blush  even  at  the  very  thought 

Of  meeting  him  whom  she  delights  to  meet. 

Be  as  it  may,  her  ear  would  gladly  greet 
The  house-dog's  bai-k  that  watch'd   the  whole 
night  o'er, 

And  C!  how  gently  shall  she  leave  her  seat. 
And  gently  step  across  the  sanded  floor. 
With   trembling  heart  and   hand,    to   ope   the 
creaking  door. 

The  hour  is  past,  and  still  her  eager  ear 

Hears  but  the  tinkle  of  the  neighbouring  rill; 

No  human  footstep  yet  approaching  near 
Disturbs  the  night  calm  so  serene  and  still, 
That  broods,  hke  slumber,  over  dale  and  hill. 

Ah!  who  may  tell  what  phantoms  of  dismay 
The  anxious  feelings  of  her  bosom  chill — 

The  wiles  that  lead  a  lover's  heart  astray— 

The  darkness  of  the  night— the  dangers  of  the 
way  ? 

But,  lo!  he  comes,  and  soon  shall  she  forget 

Her  griefs,  in  sunshine  of  this  hour  of  bliss; 
Their  hands  in  love's  endearing  clasp  have  met. 
And  met  their  lips  in  love's  delicious 'kiss. 
0!  what  is  all  the  wealth  of  worlds  to  this! 
Go— thou  mayest  cross  each  foreign  land,  each 
sea. 
In  search  of  honours,  yet  for  ever  miss 
The  sweetest  boon  vouchsafed  by  Heaven's  de- 
cree— 
The  heart  that  loves  thee  well,  the  heart  that's 
dear  to  thee. 

And  may  I  paint  their  pleasures  yet  to  come. 
When,  like  their  heai-ts,  their  willing  hands 
are  joined, 
The  loving  inmates  of  a  wedded  home. 
For  ever  happy  and  for  ever  kind  ? 
And  may  I  paint  their  various  charms  combined 
In  the  sweet  offspring  that  around  them  plays, 
Who— tho'  on  mountains  with  the  bounding 
hind 
Be  rudely  nursed — may  claim  a  nation's  praise, 
And  on  their  native  hills  some  proud  memorial 
raise  ? 

l\ry  native  Scotland!  01  thy  northern  hills, 
Tliy  dark  brown  hills,  are  fondly  dear  to  mc; 

And  aye  a  warmth  my  swelling  bosom  fills 
For  all  the  filial  souls  that  cling  to  thee— 
Pure  be  their  loves  as  human  love  can  be, 

And  still  be  worthy  of  their  native  land 
The  little  beings  nursed  beside  their  knee. 


Who  may  at  length  their  country's  guardians 

stand. 
And  own  the  undaunted  heart,  and  lift  the  un- 

conquered  hand ! 


MORTALITY. 

Oh!  why  should  the  spirit  of  mortal  be  proud  ! 
Like  a  fast-flying  meteor,  a  fast-flying  cloud, 
A  flash  of  the  lightning,  a  break  of  the  wave — 
He  passes  from  life  to  his  rest  in  the  grave. 

The  leaves  of  the  oak  and  the  willows  shall  fade, 

Be  scattered  around  and  together  be  laid; 

And  the  young  and  the  old,  and  the  low  and  the 

high, 
Shall  moulder  to  dust,  and  together  shall  he. 

A  child  that  a  mother  attended  and  loved. 
The  mother  that  infant's  affection  that  proved. 
The  husband  that  mother  and  infant  that  blest, 
Each— all  are  away  to  their  dwelling  of  rest. 

The  maid  on  whose  cheek,  on  whose  brow,  in 

whose  eye. 
Shone  beauty  and  pleasure— her  triumphs  are  by; 
And  the  memory  of  those  that  beloved  her  and 

praised, 
Are  alike  from  the  minds  of  the  living  erased. 

The  hand  of  the  king  that  the  sceptre  hath  borne. 
The  brow  of  the  priest  that  the  mitre  hath  worn, 
The  eye  of  the  sage,  and  the  heart  of  the  brave. 
Are  hidden  and  lost  in  the  depths  of  the  grave. 

The  peasant  whose  lot  was  to  sow  and  to  reap, 
The  herdsman  who  climbed  with  his  goats  to  the 

steep. 
The  beggar  that  wandered  in  search  of  his  bread, 
Have  faded  away  hke  the  grass  that  we  tread. 

The  saint  that  enjoyed  the  communion  of  heaven, 
The  sinner  that  dared  to  remain  unforgiven. 
The  wise  and  the  foolish,  the  guilty  and  just. 
Have  quietly  mingled  their  bones  in  the  dust. 

So  the  multitude  goes— like  the  flower  and  the 

weed 
That  wither  away  to  let  others  succeed; 
So  the  multitude  comes— even  those  we  behold, 
To  repeat  every  tale  that  hath  often  been  told. 

For  we  are  the  same  things  that  our  fathers  have 

been. 
We  see  the  same  sights  that  our  fathers  have  seen, 
We  drink  the  same  stream,  and  we  feel  the  same 

sun, 
And  we  nni  the  same  course  that  our  fathers 

have  run. 


WILLIAM  KNOX. 


109 


The  thoughts  we  arc  thinking  our  fathers  would 

think, 
From  the  death  we  are  shi-inkiug  from,  they  too 

would  shrink, 
To  the  Ufe  we  are  clinging  to,  they  too  would 

cling — 
But  it  speeds  from  the  earth  like  a  bird  on  the 

wing. 

They  loved — but  their  story  we  cannot  unfold; 
They  scorned — but  the  heart  of  the  haughty  is 

cold; 
They  grieved — but  no  wail  from  their  slumbers 

may  come; 
They  joyed — but  the  voice  of  their  gladness  is- 

dumb. 

They  died — ay,  they  died  I  and  we  things  that 

are  now, 
Who  walk  on  the  turf  that  lies  over  their  brow. 
Who  make  in  their  dwellings  a  transient  abode, 
Meet  the  changes  they  met  on  then-  pilgi-image 

road. 

Yea,  hope  and  despondence,  and  pleasure  and 

pain. 
Are  mingled  together  like  sunshine  and  rain, 
And  the  smile  and  the  tear,  and  the  song  and 

the  dirge. 
Still  follow  each  other  like  surge  upon  surge. 

'Tis  the  twink  of  an  eye,  'tis  the  di-aught  of  a 

breath. 
From  the  blossom  of  health  to  the  paleness  of 

death, 
From   the   gilded   saloon   to   the  bier  and  the 

shroud — 
0 !  why  should  the  spirit  of  mortal  be  proud ! 


HARP   OF    ZION. 

Harp  of  Zion!  pure  and  holy! 

Pride  of  Judah's  eastern  land! 
May  a  child  of  guilt  and  folly 

Strike  thee  with  a  feeble  hand? 
May  I  to  my  bosom  take  thee, 

Trembling  from  the  prophet's  touch. 
And  with  throbbing  lieart  awake  thee 

To  the  songs  I  love  so  much? 

I  have  loved  thy  thrilling  numbers 

Since  the  dawn  of  childhood's  day, 
When  a  mother  soothed  my  slumbers 

With  the  cadence  of  thy  laj" — 
Since  a  little  blooming  sister 

Clung  with  transport  round  my  knee, 
And  my  glowing  spirit  blessed  her 

With  a  blessing  caught  from  thee. 


IMother— sister — both  are  sleeping 

Where  no  heaving  liearts  respire, 
While  the  eve  of  age  is  creeping 

Piound  the  widowed  spouse  and  sire. 
He  and  his,  amid  tlieir  sorrow, 

Find  enjoyment  in  thy  strain. — 
Harp  of  Zion!  let  me  borrow 

Comfort  from  thy  chords  again. 


THE  DEAR  LAXD  OF  CAKES. 

0!  brave  Caledonians!  my  brothers,  my  friends, 
Now  sorrow  is  borne  on  the  wings  of  the  winds; 
Care  sleeps  with  the  sun  in  the  seas  of  the  west. 
And  courage  is  lull'd  in  the  wan'ior's  breast. 
Here  social  pleasure  enlivens  each  heart. 
And  friendship  is  ready  its  warmth  to  impart; 
The  goblet  is  filled,  and  each  worn  one  partakes, 
To  drink  'plenty  and  peace  to  the  dear  Land  of 
Cakes. 

Though  the  Bom-bon  may  boast  of  his  vine-cover'd 

hills. 
Through  each  bosom  the  tide  of  depravity  thrills; 
Though  the  Indian  may  sit  in  his  green  orange 

bowers. 
There  slavery's  wail  counts  the  wearisome  hours. 
Though  our  island  is  beat  by  the  storms  of  the 

north, 
There  blaze  the  bright  meteors  of  valour  and 

worth ; 
There  the  loveliest  rose-bud  of  beauty  awakes 
From  that  cradle  of  virtue,  the  dear  Land  of 

Cakes. 

0!  valour,  thou  guardian  of  freedom  and  trutli, 
Thou  stay  of  old  age,  and  thou  guidance  of  youth! 
Still,  still  thy  enthusiast  transports  pervade 
The  breast  that  is  wrapt  in  the  green  tartan  plaid. 
And  ours  are  the  shoulders  that  never  shall  bend 
To  the  rod  of  a  tyrant,  that  scourge  of  a  land; 
Ours  the  bosoms  no  terror  of  death  ever  shakes. 
When  called  in  defence  of  the  dear  Land  of  Cakes. 

ShaU  the  ghosts  of  our  fathers,  aloft  on  each  cloud. 
When  the  rage  of  the  battle  is  dreadful  and  loud, 
See  us  shrink  from  our  standai-d  with  fear  and 

dismaj', 
And  leave  to  our  foemen  the  pride  of  the  day  ? 
No,  by  heavens!  we  will  stand  to  our  honour  and 

trust. 
Till  our  heart's  blood  be  shed  on  our  ancestors' 

dust, 
Till   we    sink   to    the   slumber  no  war-trumpet 

breaks, 
Beneath  the  brown  heath  of  the  dear  Laud  of 

Cakes. 


no 


WILLIAM   GLEN. 


0 !  peace  to  the  ashes  of  those  that  have  hied 
For  the  land  where  the  proud  thistle  raises  its 

head! 
0!  peace  to  the  ashes  of  those  gave  us  birth, 
lu  a  land  freedom  renders  the  boast  of  the  earth! 
Though  theii-  lives  are  extinguish'd,  their  spu-it 

remains, 
And  swells  in  their  blood  that  still  runs  in  our 

veins; 
Still   their  deathless    achievements    our  ardour 

awakes. 
For  the  honour  and  weal  of  the  dear  Land  of 

Cakes. 

Ye  sons  of  old  Scotia,  ye  friends  of  my  heart. 
From  our  word,  from  our   trust,  let   us  never 

depart; 
Nor  e'er  from  our  foe  till  with  victory  crown'd, 
And   the  balm  of   compassion   is  pour'd  in  his 

wound ; 
And  still  to  our  bosom  be  honesty  dear, 
And  still  to  our  loves  and  our  friendships  sincere; 
And,  till  heaven's  last  thunder  the  firmament 

shakes, 
May  happiness  beam  on  the  dear  Land  of  Cakes. 


TO-MORROW. 

To-morrow! — mortal,  boast  not  thou 
Of  time  and  tide  tliat  are  not  now! 
But  think,  in  one  revolving  day 
How  earthly  things  may  pass  away! 

To-day— while  hearts  with  rapture  spring, 
The  youth  to  beauty's  lip  may  cling; 
To-morrow — and  that  lip  of  bliss 
May  sleep  unconscious  of  his  kiss. 

To-day — the  blooming  spouse  may  press 
Her  husband  in  a  fond  caress; 
To-morrow — and  the  hands  that  pressed 
May  wildly  strike  her  widowed  breast. 


To-day — the  clasping  babe  may  drain 
The  milk-stream  from  its  mother's  vein; 
Tomorrow — like  a  frozen  rill. 
That  bosom-current  may  be  still. 

To-day — thy  merry  heart  may  feast 
On  herb  and  fruit,  and  bird  and  beast; 
To-mon-ow^ — spite  of  all  thy  glee. 
The  hungry  worms  may  feast  on  thee. 

To-morrow! — mortal,  boast  not  thou 
Of  time  and  tide  that  are  not  now! 
But  think,  in  one  revolving  day 
That  even  thyself  may'st  pass  away. 


THE  SEASON   OF  YOUTH. 

Rejoice,  mortal  man,  in  the  noon  of  thy  prime! 
Ere  thy  brow  shall  be  traced  by  the  ploughshare 

of  time — 
Ere  the  twilight  of  age  shall  encompass  thy  way, 
And  thou  droop'st,  like  the  flowers,  to  thy  rest 

in  the  clay. 

Let  the  banquet  be  spread,  let  the  wine-cup  go 
round, 

Let  the  joy-dance  be  wove,  let  the  timbrels  re- 
sound— 

While  the  spring-tide  of  life  in  thy  bosom  is  high, 

And  thy  spirit  is  light  as  a  lark  in  the  sky. 

Let  the  wife  of  thy  love,  like  the  sun  of  thy  day. 
Throw  a  radiance  of  joy  o'er  thy  pilgrimage  way— 
Ere  the  shadows  of  grief  come,  like  night  from 

the  west, 
And  thou  weep'st  o'er  the  flower  that  expired  on 

thy  breast. 

Rejoice,  mortal  man,  in  the  noon  of  thy  jirime. 
But  muse  on  the  power  and  the  progress  of  time; 
For  thy  life  shall  depart  with  the  joy  it  hath  given, 
And  a  judgment  of  justice  awaits  thee  in  heaven. 


WILLIAM    GLEN, 


Born  1789  — Died  1826. 


William  Glex,  tlic  author  of  "  Wae's  me 
for  Prince  Charlie,"  perhaps  the  most  popular 
and  pathetic  of  modern  Jacobite  lyrics,  was 
born  at  Glasgow,  Nov.  li,  1789.     His  ances- 


tors were  for  many  generations  persons  of  con- 
sideration in  Renfrewshire.  William  received 
a  good  education,  and  on  the  organization  of 
the  Glasgow  Volunteer  Sharpshooters  joined 


WILLIAM  GLEN. 


Ill 


the  corps  as  lieutenant.  He  entered  upon  a 
mercantile  career,  and  was  for  some  time  a 
manufacturer  in  his  native  city,  carrying  on  a 
prosperous  trade  with  the  West  Indies,  where 
he  resided  for  several  years.  In  1814  he  was 
elected  a  manager  of  the  Merchants'  House  of 
Glasgow  and  a  director  of  the  Chamber  of 
Commerce.  Soon  after  he  met  with  several 
heavy  losses,  which  caused  his  failure  in  busi- 
ness, which  he  never  again  resumed.  His 
latter  days  were  marked  by  the  poet's  too  fre- 
quent lot — poverty  and  misfortune.  During 
the  last  few  years  of  his  short  life  he  spent  his 
summers  with  relations  of  Mrs.  Glen  residing 
at  Rainagour,  in  the  parish  of  Aberfoyle,  and 
received  pecuniary  assistance  from  an  uncle 


living  in  Russia.  He  died  of  consumption  in 
his  native  city,  December,  1826,  and  the  Edi- 
tor's father  was  one  of  the  few  friends  of  the 
unfortunate  poet  who  followed  his  remains  to 
their  last  resting-place  in  God's  acre.^ 

In  1815  Glen  published  a  .small  volume  of 
verses,  entitled  Poems,  chiefly  Lyrical.  The 
lovers  of  Scottish  minstrelsy  will  rejoice  to 
learn  that  a  large  number  of  unpublished 
songs  and  poems  which  he  left  behind  him  in 
MS.  are  .soon  to  be  issued,  together  with  a 
memoir  of  the  bard  by  the  editor  the  Rev. 
Dr.  Rogers,  and  a  narrative,  written  by  a  lady, 
of  the  interesting  educational  work  carried  on 
at  Aberfoyle  for  many  years  by  the  widow  and 
daughter  of  Glen. 


THE    BATTLE-SONG. 


Raise  high  the  battle-song 

To  the  heroes  of  our  land; 
Strike  the  bold  notes  loud  and  long 
To  Great  Britain's  warlike  band. 
Burst  away  like  a  Avhirlwind  of  flame. 
Wild  as  the  lightning's  wing; 
Strike  the  boldest,  sweetest  string, 
And  deathless  glory  sing — - 
To  their  fame. 

See  Corunna's  bloody  bed! 

'Tis  a  sad,  yet  glorious  scene; 
There  the  imperial  eagle  fled, 
And  there  our  chief  was  slain. 
Green  be  the  turf  upon  the  warrior's  breast, 
High  honour  seal'd  his  doom, 
And  eternal  laurels  bloom 
Round  the  poor  and  lowly  tomb 
Of  his  rest. 

Strong  was  his  arm  of  might, 

When  the  war-flag  was  unfurl'd; 
But  his  soul,  when  peace  shone  bright, 
Beam'd  love  to  all  the  world. 
And  his  name  through  endless  ages  shall  endure; 

'  Aberfoyle,  though  neither  the  birth-place  of  the 
poet  nor  tlie  spot  where  he  breathed  his  last,  has  never- 
theless many  interesting  associations  connected  with 
William  Glen.  It  was  here  he  often  wandered  in  his 
youth,  here  that  he  won  the  fair  Kate  of  Aberfoyle, 
here  on  the  banks  of  the  lovely  Loch  Ard, 

"  Bright  mirror  set  in  rocky  dell," 

that  he  composed  many  of  his  sweetest  songs,  and  it 
was  here  that  he  spent,  on  the  farm  of  Rainagour,  the 


High  deeds  are  Avritten  fair 
In  that  scroll,  which  time  must  spare, 
And  thy  fame's  recorded  there — 
Noble  Moore. 

Yonder's  Barossa's  height, 

Rising  full  upon  my  view, 
Where  was  fought  the  bloodiest  fight 
That  Iberia  ever  knew. 
Where  Albion's  bold  sons  to  victory  were  led. 
With  bay'nets  levell'd  low, 
They  rush'd  upon  the  foe, 
Like  an  avalanche  of  snow 
From  its  bed. 

Sons  of  the  "  Lonely  Isle," 

Your  native  courage  rose, 
When  surrounded  for  a  while 

By  the  thousands  of  your  foes. 
But  dauntless  was  your  chief,  that  meteor  of 

war. 
He  resistless  led  ye  on. 
Till  the  bloody  field  was  won, 
And  the  dying  battle-groan 
Sunk  afar. 

closing  years  of  his  brief  career.  A  few  weeks  before 
his  death  he  said  to  his  amiable  wife,  "  Kate,  I  would 
like  to  go  back  to  Glasgow."  "Why,  Willie?"  she 
asked,  " are  ye  no  as  well  here ?"  "It's  no  myself  I'm 
thinking  about,"  he  answered.  "  It  was  of  you,  Kate; 
for  I  know  well  it  is  easier  to  take  a  living  man  there 
than  a  dead  one."  So  the  sorrowful  woman  with  her 
dying  husband  departed  from  the  place,  and  the  warm 
Highland  hearts  missed  and  mourned  for  him,  forget- 
ting his  faults  and  remembering  only  his  virtues.— Ed. 


112 


WILLIAM  GLEN. 


Our  song  Balgowan  share, 

Home  of  the  cliieftaiii's  rest; 
For  thou  art  a  lily  fan- 
In  Caledonia's  breast. 
Breathe,  sweetly  breathe,  a  soft  love  soothing 
strain, 
For  beauty  there  doth  dwell, 
In  the  mountain,  flood,  or  fell. 
And  throws  her  witching  spell 
O'er  the  scene. 

But  not  Balgowan's  charms 

Could  lure  the  chief  to  stay; 
For  the  foe  were  up  in  arms. 
In  a  country  far  away. 
He  rush'd  to  battle,  and  he  won  his  fame; 
Ages  may  pass  by. 
Fleet  as  the  summer's  sigh, 
But  thy  name  shall  never  die — 
Gallant  Graeme. 

Strike  again  the  boldest  strings 

To  our  great  commander's  praise; 
Who  to  our  memory  brings 
"  The  deeds  of  other  days." 
Peal  for  a  lofty  spirit-stirring  strain; 
The  blaze  of  hope  illumes 
Iberia's  deepest  glooms, 
And  the  eagle  shakes  his  plumes 
There  in  vain. 

High  is  the  foemen's  pride. 
For  they  are  sons  of  war; 
But  our  chieftain  rolls  the  tide 
Of  battle  back  afar. 
A  braver  hero  in  the  field  ne'er  shone; 
Let  bards,  with  loud  acclaim. 
Heap  laurels  on  his  fame, 
"  Singing  glory"  to  the  name 
Of  Wellington. 

Could  I  with  soul  of  fire 

Guide  my  wild  unsteady  hand, 
I  would  strike  the  quivering  wire. 
Till  it  rung  throughout  the  land. 
Of  all  its  warlike  heroes  would  1  sing; 
Were  powers  to  soar  thus  given. 
By  the  blast  of  genius  driven, 
I  would  sweep  the  highest  heaven 
With  my  wing. 

Yet  still  this  trembling  flight 

^lay  point  a  bolder  way. 
Ere  the  lonely  beam  of  night 
Steals  on  my  setting  day. 
Till  then,  sweet  harp,  hang  on  the  willow  tree; 
And  when  I  come  again. 
Thou  wilt  not  sound  in  vain, 
For  I'll  strike  thy  highest  strain — 
Bold  and  free. 


WAE'S  ME  FOR  PPJKCE  CHAELIE.1 

A  wee  bird  cam'  to  our  ha'  door. 

He  warbled  sweet  and  clearly, 
An'  aye  the  o'ercome  o'  his  sang 

Was  "Wae's  me  for  Prince  Charlie. 
0!  when  I  heard  the  bonnie  soun' 

The  tears  cam'  happin'  rarelj-, 
I  took  my  bannet  aff  my  head. 

For  weel  I  lo'ed  Prince  Charlie, 

Quoth  I,  "  My  bird,  my  bonnie,  bonnie  bird, 

Is  that  a  sang  ye  borrow. 
Are  these  some  words  ye've  learnt  by  heart, 

Or  a  lilt  0'  dool  an'  sorrow?" 
"  Oh!  no,  no,  no,"  the  wee  bird  sang; 

"  I've  flown  sin'  mornin'  early. 
But  sic  a  day  o'  wind  an'  rain — 

Oh!  wae's  me  for  Prince  Charlie! 

"  On  hills  that  are  by  right  his  ain 

He  roves  a  lanely  stranger. 
On  every  side  he's  press'd  by  want. 

On  every  side  is  danger; 
Yestreen  I  met  him  in  a  glen. 

My  heart  maist  burstit  fairly, 
For  sadly  chang'd  indeed  was  he — 

Oh!  wae's  me  for  Prince  Charlie! 

"  Dark  night  cam'  on,  the  tempest  roar'd 
Loud  o'er  the  hills  an'  valleys. 

An'  whare  was't  that  your  prince  lay  down, 
Whase  hame  should  been  a  palace? 

He  row'd  him  in  a  Highland  plaid, 
Which  cover'd  him  but  sparely. 


1  Alexamler  Whitelaw,  in  his  admirable  collection 
entitled  The  Book  of  Scottish  Song,  relates  that  during 
one  of  her  Majesty's  earliest  visits  to  tlie  North, 
"  Wae's  me  for  Prince  Charlie"  received  a  mark  of  royal 
favour,  which  would  have  sweetened,  had  he  been 
alive,  poor  Glen's  bitter  cup  of  life.  While  at  Taymouth 
Castle,  the  marquis  had  engaged  the  celebrated  vocalist 
John  Wilson  to  sing  before  the  Queen.  A  list  of  the 
songs  Mr.  Wilson  was  in  the  habit  of  singing  was  sub- 
mitted to  her  Majesty,  that  she  might  signify  her 
pleasure  as  to  those  wliich  she  would  wish  to  hear,  when 
the  Queen  immediately  fixed  upon  the  following:  — 
"Lochaber  no  more,"  "The  Flowers  of  the  Forest," 
"  The  Lass  o'  Gowrie,"  "  John  Anderson,  my  Jo,"  "Cam' 
ye  by  Athol,"  and  "The  Laird  of  Cockpen."  The  pre- 
sent song  was  not  in  Mr.  Wilson's  list,  but  her  Majesty 
herself  asked  if  he  could  sing  "Wae's  me  for  Prince 
Charlie,"  which  fortunately  he  was  able  to  do.  The 
selection  of  songs  which  the  Queen  made  displays  emi- 
nently her  sound  taste  and  good  feeling.  A  better  or 
more  varied  one,  both  as  regards  music  and  words, 
taking  the  number  of  pieces  into  consideration,  could 
not  easily  be  made. — Ed. 


WILLIAM   GLEN. 


113 


An'  slept  beneath  a  bush  o'  broom — 
Oh!  wae's  me  for  Prince  Charlie!" 

But  now  the  bird  saw  some  red  coats, 

An'  he  sheuk  his  wings  wi'  auger, 
"  Oh!  this  is  no  a  Land  for  me, 

I'll  tarry  here  nae  langer." 
lie  hover'd  on  the  wing  a  while 

Ere  he  departed  fairly; 
But  weel  I  mind  the  fareweel  strain 

Was,  "Wae's  me  for  Prince  Charlie!" 


Then  blow  a  steady  gale,   ye  win's,  waft  him 

across  the  sea, 
And  bring  my  Jamie  hame  again  to  his  wee  bairn 

and  me. 


HO\Y  EERILY,   HOW  DREARILY. 

How  eerily,  how  drearily,  how  wearily  to  pine. 
When  my  love's  in  a  foreign  land,  far  frae  thae 

arms  o'  mine; 
Three  years  ha'e  come  an'  gane  sin'  first  he  said 

to  me. 
That  he  wad  stay  at  hame  wi'  Jean,  wi'  her  to 

live  and  die; 
The  day  comes  in  wi'  sorrow  now,  the  night  is 

wild  and  drear, 
An'  every  hour  that  passeth  by  I  water  wi'  a  tear. 

I  kiss  my  bonnie  baby — I  clasp  it  to  my  breast, 
Ah!  aft  wi'  sic  a  warm  embrace  its  father  hath 

me  prest! 
And  whan  I  gaze  upon  its  face,  as  it  hes  upon 

my  knee. 
The  crystal  drops  out-owre  my  cheeks  will  fa' 

frae  ilka  e'e; 
0 !  mouy  a  mony  a  burning  tear  upon  its  face 

will  fa', 
For  oh!  it's  like  my  bonnie  love,  an'  he  is  far  awa'. 

Whan  the  spring-tims  had  gane  by  and  the  rose 

began  to  blaw. 
An'  the  harebell  an'  the  violet  adorn'd  ilk  bonnie 

shaw, 
'Twas  then  my  love  cam'  courtin'  me,  and  wan 

my  youthfu'  heart. 
An'  mony  a  tear  it  cost  my  love  ere  he  could  frae 

me  part; 
But  though  he's  in  a  foreign  land,  far,  far  across 

the  sea, 
I  ken  my  Jamie's  guileless  heart  is  faithfu'  unto 

me. 

Ye  wastlin'  win's  upon  the  main,  blaw  wi'  a  steady 

breeze, 
And  waft  my  Jamie  hame  again  across  the  roarin' 

seas; 
0!  when  he  clasps  me  in  his  arms,  in  a'  his  manly 

pride, 
I'll  ne'er  exchange  that  ae  embrace  for  a'  the 

world  beside, 

Vol.  II.— H 


THE  BATTLE  OF  VITTORIA. 

Sing  a'  ye  bards,  wi'  loud  acclaim. 
High  glory  gie  to  gallant  Graham, 
Heap  laurels  on  our  marshal's  fame, 

AVha  conquer'd  at  Vittoria. 
Triumphant  freedom  smiled  on  Spain,, 
An'  raised  her  stately  form  again. 
Whan  the  British  lion  siiook  his  mane 

On  tlie  mountains  of  Vittoria. 

Let  blustering  Suchet  crousely  crack, 
Let  Joseph  rin  the  coward's  track. 
An'  Jourdan  wish  liis  baton  back 

He  left  upon  Vittoria. 
If  e'er  they  meet  their  worthy  king. 
Let  them  dance  roun'  him  in  a  ring. 
An'  some  Scots  piper  play  the  spring 

He  blew  them  at  Vittoria. 

Gie  truth  and  honour  to  the  Dane, 

Gie  German's  monarch  heart  and  brain. 

But  aye  in  sic  a  cause  as  Spain 

Gie  Britain  a  Vittoria. 
The  English  rose  was  ne"er  sae  red. 
The  shamrock  waved  whare  glory  led. 
An'  the  Scottish  thistle  rear'd  its  head 

In  joy  upon  Vittoria. 

Loud  was  the  battle's  stormy  swell, 
Whare  thousands  fought  an'  mony  fell. 
But  the  Glasgow  heroes  bore  the  bell 

At  the  battle  of  Vittoria. 
The  Paris  maids  may  ban  them  a'. 
Their  lads  are  maistly  wede  awa'. 
An'  cauld  an'  pale  as  wreaths  o'  snaw 

They  lie  upon  Vittoria. 

Wi'  quakin'  heart  and  tremblin'  knees 

The  eagle  standard-bearer  flees, 

While  the  "  meteor  flag"  floats  to  the  breeze. 

An'  wantons  on  Vittoria. 
Britannia's  glory  there  was  shown, 
By  the  undaunted  AVellington, 
An'  the  tyrant  trembled  on  his  throne, 

Whan  hearin'  o'  Vittoria. 

Peace  to  the  spirits  o'  the  brave. 
Let  a'  their  trophies  for  them  wave. 
An'  green  be  our  Cadogan's  grave. 

Upon  thy  field,  Vittoria! 
There  let  eternal  laurels  bloom, 
While  maidens  mourn  his  early  doom, 


114 


JOHN   MACDIAEMID. 


An'  deck  his  lowly  honour'd  tomb 
Wi'  roses  on  Yittoria. 

Ye  Caledonian  war-pipes  play, 

Barossa  heard  your  Hielan'  lay, 

An'  the  gallant  Scot  show'd  there  that  day 

A  prelude  to  Vittoria. 
Shout  to  the  heroes— swell  ilk  voice, 
To  them  wha  made  poor  Spain  rejoice, 
Shout  Wellington  an'  Lynedoch,  boys, 

Barossa  an'  Vittoria! 


THE  MAID  OF  OEONSEY, 

Oh!  stopna,  bonnie  bird,  that  strain; 

Frae  hopeless  love  itsel'  it  flows; 
Sweet  bird,  oh!  warble  it  again, 

Thou'st  touched  the  string  o'  a'  my  woes; 
Oil!  lull  me  with  it  to  repose, 

I'll  dream  of  her  who's  far  away, 
And  fancy,  as  my  eyelids  close, 

AVill  meet  the  maid  of  Oronsey. 

Could'st  thou  but  learn  frae  me  my  grief, 

.Sweet  bird,  thou'dst  leave  thy  native  grove, 
And  fly  to  bring  my  soul  relief, 

To  where  my  warmest  wishes  rove; 
Soft  as  the  cooings  of  the  dove 

Thon'dst  sing  thy  sweetest,  saddest  lay. 
And  melt  to  pity  and  to  love 

The  bsnnie  maid  of  Oronsey. 

Well  may  I  sigh  and  sairly  weep. 

The  song  sad  recollections  bring; 
Oh!  fly  across  the  roaring  deep. 

And  to  my  maiden  sweetly  sing; 
'Twill  to  her  faithless  bosom  fling 

Remembrance  of  a  sacred  day; 
But  feeble  is  thy  wee  bit  wing, 

And  far's  the  isle  of  Oronsey. 

Then,  bonnie  bird,  wi'  mony  a  tear 
I'll  mourn  beside  this  hoary  thorn, 


And  thou  wilt  find  me  sitting  here 

Ere  thou  can'st  hail  the  dawn  o'  morn ; 

Then  high  on  airy  pinions  borne, 
Thou'lt  chant  a  sang  o'  love  and  wac, 

An'  soothe  me  weeping  at  the  scorn 
Of  the  sweet  maid  of  Oronsey. 

And  when  around  my  weary  head, 

Soft  pillowed  where  my  fathers  lie, 
Death  shall  eternal  poppies  spread, 

An'  close  for  aye  my  tearfu'  eye; 
Ferehed  on  some  bonny  branch  on  high, 

Thou'lt  sing  thy  sweetest  roundelay. 
And  soothe  my  "  spirit  passing  by" 

To  meet  the  maid  of  Oronsey. 


MARY  GRAY. 

Once  William  swore  the  sacred  oath, 

That  I  my  love  had  never  weary; 
And  I  gave  him  my  virgin  troth. 

But  now  he's  turned  awa'  frae  Mary. 
I  thought  his  heart  was  link'd  to  mine. 

So  firm  that  it  could  never  stray; 
Yet,  AVilliam,  may  that  peace  be  thine 

Which  thou  hast  ta'en  frae  Mary  Gray. 

I  once  was  happy  in  his  love. 

No  gloomy  prospect  made  me  dreary; 
I  thought  that  he  would  never  rove, 

But  aye  be  faithfu'  to  his  Mary. 
Bright  on  me  shone  sweet  pleasure's  sun, 

I  sported  in  its  gladdening  ray; 
But  now  the  evening  shades  are  come. 

And  soon  will  close  round  Mary  Gray. 

Yet,  AVilliam,  may  no  gloomy  thought 

Of  my  love  ever  make  thee  dreary; 
I've  suffer'd  much — 'twas  dearly  bought, — 

Peace  now  has  fled  frae  wretched  Mary.— 
And  when  some  maid  more  loved  than  me. 

Thou  lead'st  to  church  on  bridal  day. 
Perhaps  the  lowly  grave  you'll  see 

Of  poor  neglected  Mary  Gray. 


JOHN    MACDIARMID. 


Born  1790  — Died  1852. 


John  MacDiarmid,  a  gifted  writer  and  jour- 
nalist, was  born,  it  is  said,  in  Edinburgh  in 
1790.    The  death  of  his  father,  the  Rev.  Hugh 


MacDiarmid,  for  many  years  minister  of  a 
Gaelic  church  in  Glasgow,  left  him  at  an  early 
age  to  make  his  own  way  in  the  world.      He 


JOHN   MACDIARMID. 


115 


first  became  a  clerk  in  a  counting-house,  and 
afterwards  obtained  a  situation  in  tiie  Com- 
mercial Bank,  Edinburgh,  where  he  rose  to  a 
good  position.  During  this  time  he  managed 
to  attend  several  classes  in  the  university,  and 
devoted  all  his  leisure  hours  to  reading  and 
stud}'.  He  also  for  two  years  acted  as  occa- 
sional amanuensis  to  Professor  Playfair,  from 
whom  he  obtained  the  privilege  of  attending 
his  classes,  and  the  free  use  of  his  library. 

MacDiarmid's  first  literary  effort  seems  to 
liave  been  some  spirited  verses  on  the  battle 
of  Waterloo,  which  he  wrote  in  1815,  on  the 
occasion  of  erecting  a  commemorative  monu- 
ment at  Newabbey,  near  Dumfries.  The  poem 
attracted  notice,  and  the  editor  of  the  Edln- 
6(t)-/7/ti?et>iew signified  his  willingness  to  receive 
contributions  from  MacDiarmid's  pen.  while 
the  publishers  Oliver  and  Boyd  engaged  him  to 
compile  several  works,  for  which  service  he  was 
paid  £50.  This,  the  first-fruits  of  his  literary 
labour,  had  not  been  half  an  hour  in  his  pos- 
session before  he  gave  the  whole  amount  to 
an  impecunious  poet-friend,  who,  it  is  almost 
needless  to  remark,  never  returned  it.  In 
1816,  in  company  with  two  friends,  he  estab- 
lished the  Scotsman  newspaper  in  Edinburgh, 
now  perhaps  the  most  prosperous  journal  in 
Scotland;  and  the  year  following  he  accepted 
the  editorship  of  the  Dumfries  and  Oalloioay 
Courier. 

Although  devoted  to  the  business  of  his  news- 
paper, MacDiarmid  still  continued  to  cherish 
his  literary  enthusiasm.  In  1817  he  published 
an  edition  of  Cowpers  Poems,  with  a  well- 
written  memoir  of  the  poet,  which  passed 
through  several  editions.  The  Scrap  Book,  a 
volume  of  selections  and  original  contributions 
in  prose  and  verse,  appeared  in  1820,  and  was 
soon  followed  by  a  second  volume,  both  of 
which   were   highly   successful.      In  1823    he 


prepared  a  memoir  of  Goldsmith  for  an  Edin- 
burgh edition  of  the  Vicar  of  WakcJiM.  In 
1825  he  originated  the  Dumfries  Mafjazlne, 
and  five  years  later  published  his  Sketches  from 
Nature,  chieSy  illustrative  of  scenery  and 
character  in  the  districts  of  Dumfries  and 
Galloway.  He  also  contributed  an  interesting 
account  of  the  ancient  burgh  and  its  neigh- 
bourhood to  the  Picture  of  Dumfries,  an  illus-  ~ 
trated  work  published  in  1832;  and  in  the 
intervals  of  his  leisure  wrote  a  description 
of  Moffat  and  a  memoir  of  Xicholsou  the 
Galloway  poet. 

The  Courier,  which  ultimately  became  ^Mac- 
Diarmid's  exclusive  property,   and   in  which 
most  of  his  poems  appeared,  acquired  a  char- 
acter rarely  attained  by  a  provincial  paper, 
and   its  editor  was  highly   esteemed   by  Sir 
Walter  Scott,  Wilson,  Jeffrey,   Lockhart,  and 
other  leading  literary  men  of  his  day.     To  his 
kind  heart  and  liberal  patronage  many  young 
aspirants   for  poetic  fame  were  indebted  for 
assistance.      Isabella,   the  youngest  sister  of 
Burns,    told    the    Editor   in   1855    that   her 
brother's  widow  and  children  had   found  in 
Mr.  MacDiarmid  a  most  faithful  friend,  and 
that  after  the  death  of  Mrs.  Burns  he  acted  as 
her  executor.    Not  even  Eobert  Chambers  pos- 
sessed a  more  minute  knowledge  of  the  life  and 
writings  of  Scotland's  great  national  poet,  or 
enriched  the  world  with  more  original  anec- 
dotes concerning  him,   than  did  John   Mac- 
Diarmid.    He  died  universally  respected  by 
his  fellow -men,  November  18,  1852,  leaving 
several  children,  one  of  whom  became  his  bio- 
grapher.    As  a  fitting  tribute  to  his  memory, 
a  number  of  friends  subscribed  a  sufficient  sum 
to  found  a  bursary  bearing  his  name  for  £10 
annually  in  the  University  of  Edinburgh,  to  be 
competed  for  by  students  from  the  counties  of 
Dumfries,  Kirkcudbright,  and  Wigton. 


EVENING. 


Hush,  ye  songsters!  day  is  done; 
See  how  sweet  the  setting  sun 
Gilds  the  welkin's  boundless  breast. 
Smiling  as  he  sinks  to  rest; 
Now  the  swallow  down  the  dell, 
Issuing  from  her  noontide  cell, 
ilocks  the  deftest  marksman's  aim, 


Jumbling  in  fantastic  game: 
Sweet  inhabitant  of  air, 
Sure  thy  bo.^om  holds  no  care; 
Not  the  fowler  full  of  wrath. 
Skilful  in  the  deeds  of  death — 
Not  the  darting  hawk  on  high 
(Ruthless  tyrant  of  the  sky  '.) 


116 


JOHN   MACDIAEMID. 


Owns  one  art  of  cruelty 
Fit  to  fell  or  fetter  thee, 
Gayest,  freest  of  the  free! 

Ruling,  whistling  shrill  on  high, 
Where  yon  turrets  kiss  the  sky. 
Teasing  with  thy  idle  din 
Drowsy  daws  at  rest  within; 
Long  thou  lov'st  to  sport  and  spring 
On  thy  never-wearying  wing. 
Lower  now  'midst  foliage  cool, 
Swift  thou  skimm\st  the  peaceful  pool, 
Where  the  speckled  trout  at  play, 
Eising,  shares  thy  dancing  prey, 
While  the  treach'rous  circles  swell 
Wide  and  wider  where  it  fell, 
Guiding  sure  the  angler's  arm 
Where  to  find  the  puny  swarm  ; 
And  with  artificial  fly. 
Best  to  lure  the  victim's  eye, 
Till,  emerging  from  the  brook, 
Brisk  it  bites  the  barbed  hook; 
Struggling  in  the  unequal  strife. 
With  its  death,  disguised  as  life, 
Till  it  breathless  beats  the  shore, 
Ke'er  to  cleave  the  current  more! 

Peace!  creation's  gloomy  queen, 
Darkest  Night,  invests  the  scene! 
Silence,  Evening's  handmaid  mild. 
Leaves  her  home  amid  the  wild. 
Tripping  soft  with  dewy  feet 
Summer's  flowery  carpet  sweet, 
Morpheus^drowsy  power — to  meet. 
Ruler  of  the  midnight  hour. 
In  thy  plenitude  of  power. 
From  this  burthen'd  bosom  throw 
Half  its  leaden  load  of  woe. 
Since  thy  envied  art  supplies 
What  reality  denies, 
Let  thy  cheerless  suppliant  see 
Dreams  of  bliss  inspired  by  thee — 
Let  before  his  wond'ring  eyes 
Fancy's  brightest  visions  rise — 
Long-lost  happiness  restore, 
None  can  need  thy  bounty  more. 


MY   FAITHFUL   SOMEBODY. 

AVhen  day  declining  gilds  the  west, 
And  weary  labour  welcomes  rest. 
How  lightly  bounds  his  beating  breast 
At  thought  of  meeting  somebody. 
My  fair,  my  faithful  somebody, 
Jly  fair,  my  faithful  somebody; 


When  sages  with  their  precepts  show. 
Perfection  is  unknown  below, 
They  mean,  except  in  somebody. 

Her  lovely  looks,  sae  kind  and  gay, 
Are  sweeter  than  the  smiles  of  day, 
And  milder  than  the  morn  of  Jlay 
That  beams  on  bonnie  somebody'. 
My  fair,  &c. 

'Twas  but  last  eve,  when  wand'ring  here, 
We  heard  the  cushat  cooing  near, 
I  softly  whispered  in  her  ear, 

"He  woos,  like  me,  his  somebody." 
My  fair,  &c. 

With  crimson  cheek  the  fair  replied, 
'•As  seasons  change,  he'll  change  his  bride; 
But  death  alone  can  e'er  divide 
From  me  the  heart  of  somebody." 
My  fair,  &c. 

Enrapt  I  answer'd,  "Maid  divine, 
Thy  mind's  a  model  fair  for  mine; 
And  here  I  swear  I'll  but  resign 
With  life  the  love  of  .somebody." 
My  fair,  &c. 


NITHSIDE. 

When  the  lark  is  in  the  air,  the  leaf  upon  the 

tree. 
The  butterfly  disporting  beside  the  hummel  bee; 
The  scented  hedges  white,  the  fragrant  meadows 

pied. 
How  sweet  it  is  to  wander  by  bonnie  Nithside! 

When  the  blackbird  piping  loud  the  mavis  strives 

to  drown. 
And  sclioolboys  seeking  nests  find  each  nursling 

fledged  or  flown, 
To  hop  'mong  plots  and  borders,  an-ay'd  in  all 

their  pride, 
How  sweet  at  dewy  mom  to  roam  by  bonnie 

Nithside! 

When  the  flies  are  on  the  stream,  'neath  a  sky  of 
azure  hue, 

And  anglers  take  their  stand  by  the  waters 
bright  and  blue; 

While  the  coble  circles  pools,  where  the  nioniu  cli 
salmon  glide, 

Surpassing  sweet  on  summer  days  is  bonnie  Nith- 
side! 

When  the  comcraik's  voice  is  mute,  as  her  young 

begin  to  flee. 
And  seek  with  swifts  and  martins  some  home 

beyond  the  sea; 


DAVID   VEDDER. 


11- 


And  reapers  crowd  the  harvest-field,  in  man  and 

maiden  pride, 
How  exquisite  the  golden  hours  on  bonnie  Nith- 

side! 

When   stubbles   yield   to   tilth,  and  woodlands 

brown  and  sear, 
The  falling  leaf  and  crispy  pool  proclaim   the 

waning  year; 
And  sounds  of  sylvan  pastime  ring  through  oiu- 

valley  wide, 
Vicissitude  itself  is  sweet  by  bonnie  Nithside! 

And  when  winter  comes  at  last,  capping  everj' 

hill  \rith  snow, 
And  freezing  into  icy  plains  the  struggling  streams 

below, 
You  still  may  share  the  curler's  joys,  and  find  at 

eventide. 
Maids  sweet  and  fair,  in  spence  and  ha',  at  bonnie 

Nithside! 


OX  THE  DEATH  OF  A  CHILD. 

I  cannot  weep,  yet  I  can  feel 

Tlie  pangs  that  rend  a  parent's  breast; 
But  ah  I  what  sighs  or  tears  can  lieal 

Thy  griefs,  and  wake  the  slumberer's  rest? 

AVhat  art  thou,  spirit  undefined. 

That  passest  with  man's  breath  away. 

That  givest  him  feeling,  sense,  and  mind. 
And  leavest  him  cold,  unconscious  clay? 

A  moment  gone,  I  look'd,  and,  lo! 

Sensation  throbb'd  through  all  her  frame; 
Those  beamless  eyes  were  raised  in  woe; 

That  bosom's  motion  went  and  came. 


The  next,  a  nameless  chanr^e  was  wrouglit, 
Death  nipt  in  twain  life's  brittle  thread, 

And,  in  a  twinkling,  feeling,  thought. 
Sensation,  motion,  —  all  were  fled! 

Those  lips  will  never  more  repeat 

The  welcome  lesson  connd  with  cai'e; 

Or  breathe  at  even,  in  accents  sweet, 
To  Heaven  the  well-remembered  prayerl 

Those  little  hands  shall  ne'er  essay 

To  ply  the  mimic  ta.sk  again, 
Well  pleased,  forgetting  mirth  and  play, 

A  mother's  promised  gift  to  gain! 

That  heart  is  still — no  more  to  move. 
That  ciieek  is  wan — no  more  to  bloom, 

Or  dimple  in  the  smile  of  love. 

That  speaks  a  parent's  welcome  home. 

And  thou,  with  years  and  sufferings  bow'd. 

Say,  dost  tiiou  least  this  loss  deplore? 
Ah!  though  thy  wailings  are  not  loud, 
I  fear  thy  secret  grief  is  more. 

Youth's  griefs  are  loud,  but  are  not  long; 

But  thine  with  life  itself  shall  last; 
And  age  shall  feel  each  sorrow  strong. 

When  all  its  morning  joys  are  past. 

'Twas  thine  her  infant  mind  to  mould. 
And  leave  the  copy  all  tliou  art ; 

And  sure  the  wide  Avorld  does  not  hold 
A  warmer  or  a  purer  heart! 

I  cannot  weep,  yet  I  can  feel 

The  pangs  that  rend  a  parent's  breast; 
But,  ah!  what  sorrowing  can  unseal 

Those  eyes,  and  wake  tiie  slumberer's  rest? 


DAVID    YEDDEE. 


BoEX  1790  — Died  1854. 


David  A'edder,  a  lyric  poet  of  considerable 
originality,  was  born  in  the  parish  of  Burness, 
Orkney,  in  1790.  Having  early  lost  his  parents, 
he  chose,  as  was  natural  to  an  island  boy,  a 
sailor's  life,  and  at  the  age  of  twelve  siiipped 
as  a  cabin-boy  on  board  a  small  coasting  vessel. 
He  proved  an  apt  scholar  in  the  nautical  pro- 
fession, and  when  <iuite  young  obtained   the 


command  of  a  trading  vessel,  in  wliich  he  made 
several  successful  voyages.  In  1815  he  entered 
the  British  Revenue  service  as  first  officer  of 
an  armed  cruiser,  and  at  the  age  of  thirty  he 
was  promoted  to  the  position  of  tide-surveyor 
of  customs;  successively  discharging  the  duties 
of  his  office  at  the  ports  of  Dundee,  Kirk- 
caldy, Jlontrose,  and  Lcith.     In  1852  he  was 


118 


DAVID   VEDDER. 


placed  on  the  retired  list,  when  he  took  up 
his  residence  in  Edinburgh,  and  died  tliere, 
February  11,  1854,  in  his  sixty-fourth  year. 

David  Vedder  had  from  his  early  boyhood 
indulged  in  the  pleasure  of  rhyming,  and  before 
he  had  attained  to  manhood  his  compositions 
found  admission  to  the  columns  of  the  maga- 
zines.    Encouraged  by  the  favourable  reception 
extended  to  his  poetic  efforts,  he  commenced 
the  career  of  an  author  in  earnest,  and  in  1826 
i.ssued  through  Blackwood  the  publisher  The 
Covenanters  Communion,   and  other  Poems. 
The  volume  was  so  favourably  received   that 
the  whole  impression  was  soon  exhausted.    Six 
years  later  his  Orcadian  Sketches  appeared,  a 
volume  of  prose  and  verse  recounting  many 
reminiscences   of   his    early   life.      This  was 
followed   by  a  memoir  of  Sir  Walter  Scott, 
which  was  much  read  and  admired,  until  it 
was  superseded  by  Lockhart's  well-known  life 
of  his  distinguished   father-in-law.     In  1839 
Tedder  edited  the  Poetical  Remains  of  Robert 
Fraser,   for  which   he   wrote   an   interesting 
memoir:  and  three  years  later  he  published  a 
collected  edition  of  his  own  poetical  writings, 
entitled  Poems— Lerjendcmj,  Lyriccd,  and  De- 
scriptive.    In  1848  he  supplied  the  whole  of 
the  letterpress  for  an  illustrated  volume  entitled 
Lays  and  Lithogrctphs,  published  by  his  son- 
in-law,  Frederick  Schenck  the  lithographer. 
His  last  work  was  a  new  English  version  of 
the  old   German  story  of  Reynard  the  Fox, 
adorned  with  numerous  elegant  illustrations. 
At  the  time  of  his  decease  he  was  engaged  on 
a  beautiful  ballad,  the  subject  of  which  was  the 


persecutions  of  the  Covenanters.  His  prose 
productions  are  good  specimens  of  vigorous 
composition,  and  his  numerous  songs  and 
ballads  are  characterized  by  deep  pathos  and 
beauty.  JIany  of  his  productions  enjoyed  a 
remarkable  degree  of  popularity,  and  one  of  his 
devotional  pieces,  "The  Templeof  Nature,"  was 
an  especial  favourite  with  Thomas  Chalmers, 
who  frequently  quoted  passages  from  the  poem 
in  the  course  of  his  theological  lectures. 

Thomas  C.   Latto,  who  Avas  intimate  with 
"the  sailor-poet  of  Orkney,"  as  Hugh  Miller 
called  him,  informs  the  Editor  that  Vedder  was 
the  biggest  poet  in  Scotland,  or  England  either, 
weighing  twenty-two  stones,  but  that  he  was 
active  to  the  last— a  prudent,  warm-hearted. 
God-fearing    man.       His    countenance    was 
weather-beaten   and   corrugated   in   rather   a 
singular  manner;  his  aspect  somewhat  threaten- 
ing and  forbidding,  but  his  first  words  made 
you  forget  all  that,  for  his  breast  was  warm, 
and    his  conversation  of  a  kindly  and   high 
order.     His  words  had  weight,  for  Avhile  he 
talked  he  instructed.     His  voice  was  deep  as 
a  boatswain's,  but  when  he  sang  some  of  the 
sweet   songs  of  Scotland,  it  was  marvellous 
how  softly  and  gently  he  could  mould  it  to  the 
tenderest  expression  or  archest  humour.     He 
was  pretty  well  grown  before  he  could  read  or 
write.     At  last  he  mastered  the  alphabet,  and 
as  he  used  to  say,  "  What  more  does  a  man 
want    than   that,  to   make   his   way  in   the 
world?"     His  widow,  "Bonnie  Jean,"  a  son 
in  the  royal  navy,  and  two  amiable  daughters, 
still  survive. 


SIR    ALAX    MORTIMER. 

A   LEGEXD   OF   FIFE. 


The  morning's  e'e  saw  mirth  an'  glee 

r  the  hoary  feudal  tower 
0'  bauld  Sir  Alan  Mortimer, 

The  lord  o'  Aberdour. 

But  dool  was  there,  an"  mickle  care, 
When  the  moon  began  to  gleam; 

For  Elve  an'  Fay  held  jubilee 
Beneath  her  siller  beam. 

Sir  Alan's  peerless  daughter  was 
His  darling  frae  iufancie; 


She  bloomed  in  her  bower  a  lily  flower, 
Beneath  the  light  o'  his  e'e; 

She  equalled  Eve's  majestic  form. 

Saint  Mary's  matchless  grace; 
An'  the  heavenly  hues  o'  paradise 

O'erspread  her  beauteous  face. 

The  diamond  grew  dim  compared  wi'  her  e'e. 
The  gowd,  compared  wi'  her  hair, — 

Wi'  the  magic  o'  her  bewitching  smile 
There  was  nacthing  an  earth  to  compare. 


DAVID   VEDDEE. 


119 


An'  the  dulcet  music  o'  her  voice 

Excelled  the  harmonic 
Which  Elve  an'  Fay  sae  deftly  play 

AYhen  haldiug  high  jubilee! 

The  woodbine  an'  the  jessamine 

Their  tendrils  had  entwined; 
A  bower  was  formed,  an'  Emma  aft 

At  twilight  there  reclined. 

She  thought  of  her  knight  in  Palestine; 

An'  sometimes  she  would  sigh, — 
For  love  was  a  guest  in  her  spotless  breast, 

In  heavenly  purity. 

The  setting  sun  had  ceased  to  gild 

Saint  Col u nib's  haly  tower, 
An'  the  vesper  star  began  to  glow 

Ere  Emma  left  her  bower; 

An'  the  fairy  court  had  begun  their  sport 

Upon  the  daisied  lea, 
While  the  gossamer  strings  o'  their  virginals 
rang 

Wi'  fairy  melodie. 

That  night  the  king  had  convoked  his  court 

Upon  the  enamelled  green, 
To  pick  an'  wale  thro'  his  beauties  a' 

For  a  blumin'  fairy  queen; 

xVn'  ere  ever  he  wist,  he  spied  a  form 

That  rivalled  his  beauties  a'; 
'Twas  Emma — Sir  Alan  Jlortimer's  pride — 

Coming  hame  to  her  father's  ha'. 

Quick  as  the  vivid  lightning  gleams 

Amidst  a  thunder  storm. 
As  rapidly  the  elve  assumed 

Lord  Bethune's  manly  form: 

As  flies  the  cushat  to  her  mate, 

So,  to  meet  his  embrace  she  flew; — 

Like  a  feathered  shaft  frae  a  yeoman's  bo's,^ 
She  vanished  frae  human  view! 

The  abbey  bell,  on  the  sacred  isle, 

Had  told  the  vesper  hour; 
No  footsteps  are  heard,  no  Emma  appeared. 

Sir  Alan  rushed  from  his  tower; 

The  warders  they  ha'e  left  their  posts. 

An'  ta'en  them  to  the  bent; 
The  porters  they  ha'e  left  the  yetts  — 

The  sleuth-hounds  are  on  the  scent. 

The  vassals  a'  ha'e  left  their  cots. 
An'  sought  thro'  brake  an'  wold; 

But  the  good  sleuth-hounds  they  a'  lay  down 
On  the  purple  heath,  an'  yowled! 


Sir  Alan  was  aye  the  foremost  man 

In  dingle,  brake  an'  brier; 
But  when  he  heard  his  sleuth-hounds  yowl, 

He  tore  his  thin  gray  hair. 

An'  aye  he  cheered  his  vassals  on, 
Tiiough  his  heart  was  like  to  break; 

But  Avheri  he  saw  his  hounds  lie  down, 
Fu'  mournfully  thus  he  spake: 

"Unearthlie  sounds  affright  my  hounds, 
Unearthlie  sights  they  see; 
They  quiver  an'  shake  on  the  heather  brake 
Like  the  leaves  o'  the  aspen  tree. 

"  My  blude  has  almost  ceased  to  flow. 
An'  my  soul  is  chilled  wi'  fear. 
Lest  the  elfin  or  the  demon  race 

Should  ha'e  stown  my  daugiiter  dear. 

"Haste,  haste  to  the  haly  abbot  wha  dwells 
On  Saint  Coin  nib's  sacred  shores; 
An'  tell  him  a  son  o'  the  haly  kirk 
His  ghostlic  aid  implores. 

"  Let  him  buckle  sic  spiritual  armour  on 
As  is  proof  against  glamourie; 
Lest  the  friends  o'  hell  ha'e  power  to  prevail 
Against  baith  him  an'  me." 

The  rowers  ha'e  dashed  across  the  stream 
An'  knocked  at  the  chapel  door; 

The  abbot  waschauntin'  his  midnight  hymn, 
Saint  Columb's  shrine  before; 

His  saint-like  mien,  his  radiant  een, 

An'  his  tresses  o'  siller  gray, 
Might  ha'e  driven  to  flight  the  demons  o' 
night, 

But  rood  or  rosarie! 

The  messenger  dropt  upon  his  knee, 
An'  humbly  tiiis  he  said; — 
"My  master,  a  faithfu'  son  o'  the  kirk, 
Implores  your  ghostlie  aid; 

"An  ye' re  bidden  to  put  sic  armour  on 
As  is  proof  against  glamourie. 
Lest  the  fiends  o'  hell  ha'e  power  to  prevail 
Against  baith  him  an'  thee." 

The  abbot  leaped  lightlie  in  the  boat, 
An'  pushed  her  frae  the  strand; 

An'  pantin'  for  breath,  'tween  life  and  death, 
The  vassals  rowed  to  land; 

He  graspit  the  mournfu'  Baron's  hand — 
"  Ha'e  patience,  my  son,"  says  he, 
"For  I  shall  expel  the  fiends  o'  hell 
Frae  your  castle  an'  baronie." 


120 


DAVID   VEDDER. 


"  Eestore  my  daughter,"  Sir  Alan  cries, 
"  To  her  father's  fond  embrace, 
An'  the  half  o'  my  gold,  this  very  night, 
Saint  Columb's  shrine  shall  grace; 

"Yes,  if  thou'lt  restore  my  darling  child. 
That's  from  me  foully  been  riven. 
The  half  of  my  lands,  ere  morning's  prime. 
To  thine  abbey  shall  be  given." 

The  abbot  replied,  with  priestly  pride, 
"  Ha'e  patience  under  your  loss; 

There  never  was  fiend  witiistood  me  yet, 
AVhen  I  brandished  the  haly  cross. 

"  Forego  your  fear,  and  be  of  good  cheer — 
I  liereby  pledge  my  word 
That,  by  Marie's  might,  ere  I  sleep  this  night. 
Your  daughter  shall  be  restored." 

The  abbot  had  made  a  pilgrimage 

Barefoot  to  Palestine; 
Had  slept  1'  the  haly  sepulchre, 

An'  visions  he  had  seen; 

His  girdle  had  been  seven  times  laved 

In  Siloanl's  sacred  stream, 
An'  haly  Saint  Bride  a  rosarie  hung 

Around  his  neck,  in  a  dream! 

A  bead  was  strung  on  his  rosarie 
That  had  cured  ten  men  bewitched; 

An'  a  relic  o'  the  real  cross 
His  pastoral  staff  enriched; 

lie  caiTied  a  chalice  in  his  hand, 

Brimfu'  o'  water  clear. 
For  his  ain  behoof,  that  had  oozed  frae  the  roof 

U'  the  haly  sepulclire! 

lie  sprinkled  bauld  Sir  Alan's  lands 
\Vi'  draps  o'  this  heavenly  dew; 

An'  the  gruesome  elves  betook  themselves 
To  the  distant  Grampians  blue: 

Anon  he  shook  his  rosarie, 

An'  invoked  Saint  Marie's  name. 

An'  Emma's  lute-like  voice  was  heard 
Chauntin'  our  lady's  hymn! 

But  when  lie  brandished  the  haly  rood. 

An'  raised  it  to  the  sky, 
Like  a  beam  of  light  she  burst  on  their  sight 

In  vestal  purity! 


THE   TEMPLE   OF  NATURE. 

Talk  not  of  temples — there  is  one. 

Built  without  hands,  to  mankind  given; 


Its  lamps  arc  the  meridian  sun, 

And  all  the  stars  of  heaven; 
Its  Avails  are  the  cerulean  sky. 

Its  floor  the  earth  so  green  and  fair; 
The  dome  is  vast  immensity — 

All  nature  worships  there! 

The  Alps  array'd  in  stainless  snow, 

The  Andean  ranges  yet  untrod, 
At  sunrise  and  at  sunset  glow 

Like  altar-fires  to  God. 
A  thousand  fierce  volcanoes  blaze, 

As  if  with  hallow'd  victims  rare; 
And  thunder  lifts  its  voice  in  praise — 

All  nature  worships  there! 

The  ocean  heaves  resistlessly. 

And  pours  his  glittering  treasure  forth; 
His  waves — the  priesthood  of  the  sea — 

Kneel  on  the  shell-gemm'd  earth, 
And  there  emit  a  hollow  sound, 

As  if  they  murmur'd  praise  and  prayer; 
On  every  side  'tis  holy  ground — 

All  nature  Avorships  there! 

The  grateful  earth  her  odours  yield 

In  homage,  mighty  One!  to  thee; 
From  herbs  and  flowers  in  every  field, 

From  fruit  on  every  tree. 
The  balmy  dew  at  morn  and  even 

Seems  like  the  penitential  tear, 
Shed  only  in  the  sight  of  heaven — 

All  nature  worships  there! 

The  cedar  and  the  mountain  pine. 

The  willow  on  the  fountain's  brim. 
The  tulip  and  the  eglantine 

In  reverence  bend  to  Him; 
The  song-birds  pour  their  sweetest  lays 

From  tower,  and  tree,  and  middle  air; 
The  rushing  river  murmurs  praise — 

All  nature  Avorships  there! 

Tiien  talk  not  of  a  fane,  save  one 

Built  without  hands,  to  mankind  given; 
Its  lamps  are  the  meridian  sun. 

And  all  the  stars  of  heaven ; 
Its  Avails  are  the  cerulean  sky. 

Its  floor  the  earth  so  green  and  fair, 
The  dome  is  vast  immensity — 

All  nature  Avorships  there! 


GIDEON'S   AVAR-SONG. 

Oh!  Israel,  thy  hills  are  resounding, 
The  checks  of  thy  Avarriors  are  pale: 

For  the  trumpets  of  Midian  arc  sounding. 
His  legions  are  closing  their  mail, 


DAVID   VEDDER. 


121 


His  battle-steeds  prancing  and  bounding, 
Ills  veterans  whetting  tlieir  steel  1 

His  standard  in  haughtiness  streaming 
Above  his  encampment  appears; 

An  ominous  radiance  is  gleaming 
Around  from  his  forest  of  spears: 

The  eyes  of  our  maidens  are  beaming, — 
But,  ah!  they  are  beaming  through  tears. 

Our  matron  survivors  are  -weeping, 
Their  sucklings  a  prey  to  the  sword; 

Tiie  blood  of  our  martyrs  is  steeping 
The  fanes  where  their  fathers  adored; 

The  foe  and  the  alien  are  reaping 

Fields, — vineyards,  — the  gift  of  the  Lord  1 

Our  country!  shall  IMidian  enslave  her, 
AVith  the  blood  of  the  brave  in  our  veins? 

Shall  we  crouch  to  the  tyrant  for  ever, 
AVhilst  manhood — existence — remains? 

Shall  we  fawn  on  the  despot?     Oh,  never! — 
Like  freemen,  unrivet  your  chains! 

Like  locusts  our  foes  ai'e  befoi-e  us, 
Encamped  in  the  valley  below; 

The  sabre  must  freedom  restore  us, 

The  spear,  and  the  shaft,  and  the  bow; — 

The  banners  of  Heaven  wave  o'er  us, — 
IJush! — rush  like  a  Hood  on  the  foe! 


JEANIE'S   WELCOME   IIAME. 

Let  wrapt  musicians  strike  the  lyre, 

While  plaudits  shake  the  vaulted  fane; 
Let  warriors  rush  through  flood  and  fire, 

A  never-dying  name  to  gain; 
Let  bards,  on  fancy's  fervid  wing, 

Pursue  some  high  or  holy  theme; 
Be't  mine,  in  simple  strains,  to  sing 

My  darling  Jeanie's  welcome  harae! 

Sweet  is  the  morn  of  flowery  May, 

When    incense    breathes  from    heath   and 
wold — 
When  laverocks  hymn  the  matin  lay. 

And  mountain-peaks  are  bathed  in  gold — 
And  swallows,  frae  some  foreign  strand. 

Are  Avheeling  o'er  the  winding  stream; 
But  sweeter  to  extend  my  hand. 

And  bid  my  Jeanie  welcome  hame! 

Poir  collie,  our  auld-farrant  dog. 

Will  bark  wi' joy  whene'er  she  comes; 

And  baudrons,  on  the  ingle  rug. 

Will  blithely  churm  at  "auld  gray-thrums." 

The  mavis,  frae  our  apple-tree, 
Siiall  warble  forth  a  joyous  strain; 


The  blackbird's  mellow  minstrelsy 
Shall  welcome  Jeanie  hame  again! 

Like  dew-drops  on  a  fading  rose. 

Maternal  tears  shall  start  for  thee, 
And  low-breathed  blessings  rise  like  those 

Which  soothed  thy  slumbering  infancy. 
Come  to  my  arms,  my  timid  dove! 

I'll  kiss  thy  beauteous  brow  once  more; 
The  fountain  of  thy  father's  love 

Is  welling  all  its  banks  out  o'er! 


THE   SUX   HAD   SLIPPED. 

The  sun  had  slipped  ayont  the  hill. 

The  darg  was  done  in  barn  and  byre; 
The  carle  himself,  come  hame  frae  the  mill. 

Was  luntiu'  his  cutty  before  the  fire: 
The  lads  and  lasses  had  just  sitten  down, 

The  hearth  was  sweepit  fu'  canty  an'  clean. 
When  the  cadgie  laird  o'  Windlestraeto\ra 

Cam'  in  for  till  baud  his  Hallowe'en. 

The  gudewife  beck'd,  and  the  carle  boo'd; 

In  owre  to  the  dels  the  laird  gaed  he; 
The  swankies  a',  they  glowr'd  like  wud, 

The  lasses  leugh  i'  their  .sleeves  sao  slee; 
An'  sweet  wee  Lilias  was  unco  feared, 

Tho'  she  blumed  like  a  rose  in  a  garden  green ; 
An'  sair  she  blush'd  when  she  saw  the  laird 

Come  there  for  till  haud  his  Hallowe'en ! 

"Now  haud  ye  merry,"  quo'  Windlestraetown, 

"  I  dow^na  come  here  your  sport  to  spill, — 
Kax  down  the  nits,  ye  unco  like  loon, 

For  though  I  am  auld,  I  am  gleesorac  slill: 
An'  Lilias,  my  pet,  to  burn  wi'  me. 

Ye  winna  be  sweer,  right  weel  I  \s'ecn, 
However  it  gangs  my  fate  I'll  dree. 

Since  here  I  am  haudin'  my  Hallowe'en." 

The  pawky  auld  wife,  at  the  chimly-cheek, 
Took  courage  an'  spak',  as  a  mither  should  do ; 
"Noo  haud  up  yer  head,  my  dochter  meek, — 
A  laird  comesna  ilka  night  to  woo! 
He'll  make  you  a  lady,  and  that  right  soon, 
I  dreamt  it  twice  owre,  I'm  sure,  yestreen. " — 
"A  bargain  be't,"  quo'  Windlestraetown, — 
"  It's  lucky  to  book  on  Hallowe'en!" 

"I'll  stick  by  the  nits,  for  better,  for  waur,— 
Will  ye  do  the  like,  my  bonny  May? 
Ye  sail  shine  at  my  board  like  the  gloaming 
star, 
An'  gowd  in  gowpins  ye's  hae  for  aye!" — 
The  nits  are  cannilie  laid  on  the  ingle, 

AYeel,  weel  are  they  tented  wi'  anxious  een, 
And  sweetlie  in  ase  thegither  they  mingle; 
"  Noo  blessed  for  aye  be  this  Hallowe'en!" 


122 


JOHN   NEVAY. 


JOHN    NEYAY. 


Born  1792  — Died  1870. 


John  Nevay  was  born  in  the  town  of  Forfar, 
January  28,  1792.  He  tells  us  that  when  a 
boy  he  loved  to  wander  among  the  Grampians 
and  by  the  streams,  imbibing  from  the  beauties 
of  nature  the  spirit  of  poesy.  His  verses  soon 
became  locally  known,  and  in  1818  he  was 
induced  to  collect  and  publish  them  under  the 
title  of  "A  Pamphlet  of  llhymes,"  which,  being 
favourably  received,  was  followed  by  a  second 
collection  in  1821.  After  an  interval  of  ten 
years  he  brought  out  "Emmanuel:  a  Sacred 
Poem,  in  nine  cantos,  and  other  Poems,"  fol- 
lowed in  a  short  time  by  "The  Peasant:  a  Poem 
in  nine  cantos;  with  other  Poems."  In  1835 
he  published  "  The  Child  of  Nature,  and  other 
Poems."  In  1853  he  printed  by  subscription 
a  volume  entitled  "Rosaline's  Dream,  in  four 
duans;  and  other  Poems;"  followed  in  1855 
by  "The  Fountain  of  the  Kock :  a  Poem." 
Mr.  Nevay's  latest  poems,  entitled  "Leisure 
Hours,"  ai-e  still  in  manuscript.  He  died  in 
May,  1870,  after  having  been  favourably  known 
in  the  literary  world  for  half  a  century.  He 
was  of  a  very  sensitive,  retiring  disposition, 
simple  in  all  his  manners  and  ways,  and  his 


life  was  a  life  of  poverty  and  privation,  Lome 
bravely  and  uncomplainingly. 

Hi  an  autobiographic  sketch,  prepared  by 
Nevay  in  1866  for  this  volume,  he  remarks  in 
conclusion:  "The  third  and  last  epoch  has  yet 
to  be  written, — wherein  there  may  be,  now 
and  then,  a  blink  of  summer  sunshine  breaking 
thi-ough  the  clouds  of  cai-e  and  regret ;  and 
even  through  the  rimy  fog  of  disappointment, 
a  glimpse  of  morning  light  may  appear  in  the 
horizon  of  my  destiny."  He  had  the  honour 
of  being  introduced  as  "John  o'  ye  Girnal" 
by  Christopher  North  in  the  Nodes  Amhrosi- 
ance,  accompanied  by  a  quotation  from  his 
beautiful  poem  of  "The  Yeldron."  "I  beg 
to  mention,"  the  venerable  bard  wrote  to  the 
Editor  in  his  last  letter,  ".sans  vanity,  that 
many  of  my  lyrics  have  been  translated  into 
both  the  French  and  German  languages.  The 
French  translator  is  the  Chevalier  de  Chatelain. 
This  you  Avill  allow  is  very  gratifying  to  my 
muse.  I  am  delighted  to  learn  that  you  are 
so  well  pleased  with  the  MS.  pieces  intended 
for  insertion  in  your  valuable  and  interesting 
work." 


THE    FALL    OF    THE    LEAF. 


The  summer  flowers  are  gone, 
And  o'er  the  melancholy  sea 
The  thistle-down  is  strewn; 
The  brown  leaf  drops,  drops  from  the  tree. 
And  on  the  spated  river  floats, — 
That  with  a  sullen  spirit  flows; 
Like  lurid  dream  of  troubled  thoughts; 
While  mournfully,  all  mounifully, 
The  rain-wind  blows. 

The  summer  birds  are  mute, 

Anrl  cheerless  is  the  unsung  grove; 

Silent  the  rural  flute. 

Whose  Doric  stop  was  touched  to  love, 

By  hedgerow  stile  at  gloaming  gray : 

Nor  heard  the  milk-maid's  melody, 

To  fountain  wending,  blithe  as  gay; 

In  wain-shed  stand,  all  pensively, 


The  hamlet  fowls, — the  cock  not  crows; 
While  mo\u-nfully,  all  mournfully. 
The  rain-wind  blows. 

Nor  heard  the  pastoral  bleat 
Of  flocks,  that  whitened  many  hills; 
Vacant  the  plaided  shepherd's  seat — 
Far  up  above  the  boulder-leaping  rills: 
Young  Winter  o'er  the  Grampians  scowls, 
His  blasts  and  snow-clouds  marshalling; 
Beasts  of  the  fields,  and  forest  fowls. 
Instinctive  see  the  growing  wing  of  storm 
Dark  coming  o'er  their  social  haunts; 
Yet  fear  not  they,  for  Heaven  provides 
For  them;  the  wild  bird  never  wants; 
Want  still  with  luxury  resides! 
Prophetic,  on  the  rushy  lea, 
Stalk  the  dull  choughs  and  crows; 


JOHN   NEVAY. 


123 


\\Tiile  mournfully,  and  drearily, 
The  rain-wind  blows. 

Thick  on  the  unsunn'd  lake 
Float,  munnuringly,  its  hlasted  reeds; 
And  on  the  pebbles  break, 
To  rot  among  the  oozy  weeds; 
The  wreck  of  summer  grand  and  beauteous  spring, 
The  hearse-like,  pensive,  chilly  fret 
Of  the  bleak  water  seems  to  sing 
The  elegy  of  bright  suns  set, 
And  all  their  balmy  blossoms  dead; 
Like  young  life's  verdant  pastimes  fled; 
Nor  sapphu-e  sky,  nor  amber  cloud, 
Lies  mirrored  in  the  sombre  wave: 
The  gloomy  heaven's  like  Nature's  shroud; 
The  water's  lurid  depth  seemeth  the  grave 
Of  beauty  gone.     And  beauty's  eye 
No  more  with  floral  pleasure  glows; 
While  mom-nfuUy,  all  mournfully. 
The  rain-wind  blows. 

There  long  decay  hath  been; 
Through  the  rank  weeds,  and  nettles  vile, 
Whistle  the  surly  winds  of  e'en. 
Where  Scotland's  Queen  was  wont  to  smile; 
Who,  in  a  dark  and  savage  age. 
Was  learned  and  pious;  read  the  sacred  page 
Unto  her  lord;  taught  maids  of  lowhest  home 
To  know  and  love  the  Saviour-Lord; 
To  read  his  soul-uphfting  word. 
And  understand  the  kingdom  yet  to  come: 
Now  sainted  Margaret's  boimy  summer-bower 
Is  reft  of  all  its  sylvan  joy; 
Nor  vestige  left  of  the  Inch  Tower; 
Nor  that  which  charmed  the  roaming  boy; 
The  ancient  Bush  of  glossy  sloes: 
Nought  but  the  lightning-scathed  tree 
Remains;  that,  from  its  leafless  boughs 
Drops  the  cold  dew  incessantly, 
Like  Eld  weeping  for  a  young  maiden's  woes; 
While  mournfully,  all  mournfully, 
The  rain-wind  blows. 

Browse  not  the  kine  and  horse; 
Rusted  the  harrow  and  the  plough; 
And  all  day  long  upon  the  gorse. 
Brown-blighted  on  the  brae's  rough  brow. 
The  night-dew,  and  thin  gossamer, 
Hang  chilly;  and  the  weary  sua 
Seems  tired  amid  the  troubled  air; 
And,  long  ere  his  full  course  be  run, 
Besouth  the  Sidlaws  wild,  sinks  down; 
Night  gathers  fast  o'er  cot  and  town; 
Ai'ound,  and  far  as  eye  can  see. 
Day  has  a  dreary,  death-like  close; 
W^hile  mournfully,  most  mournfully, 
The  rain-wind  blows. 

Thick  glooms  fall  on  the  wood; 

A  cold  and  thrilling  sough  is  there; 


'Tis  like  the  heart's  mirk  mood. 

That  makes  this  fleeting  world  its  care; 

And  hath  no  joys,  nor  hope  of  joys, 

Above  the  \'ulgar  mortal  aim 

W'hich  all  the  grovelling  soul  employs. 

Till  quenched  is  its  ethereal  flame! 

From  sky  to  earth  now  all  is  night; 

In  every  nook  old  Darkness  creeps; 

And  art  the  halls  of  wealth  must  light. 

Where  beauty  smiles;  nay,  haply  weeps. 

Amid  the  grandeuV  of  a  station  high; 

Tears  from  the  fount  of  sympathy — 

For  hapless  worth,  worth  which  the  world  not 

knows; 
0!  blessed  is  the  tear  that  flows, 
Like  matma-dew  from  a  celestial  tree, 
For  uncomplaining  woes. 
Now  happy— 0  how  happy  they, 
The  toil-tired  sons  of  honest  industry, 
Who,  by  the  cheerful  hearth,  'mid  children  gay. 
In  cottage-home,  enjoy  health's  blithe  repose, 
Wliile  mournfully,  and  drearily. 
The  rain-wind  blows. 


A  SUMMER  LOVE-LETTEK. 

Let  us  rove,  Jessie,  rove;  now  the  summer  is 

brightest. 
The  sky  pure  azure,  earth  a  green  grassy  sea; 
And  clear  are  the  fountains,  where  gowans  bloom 

whitest. 
But  heaven  has  nae  light,  earth  nae  beauty  like 

thee. 

Of  a'  that  is  fair,  thou,  dear  Jessie,  art  fairest; 
Of  a'   that's   bright,    brighter  thy  thought's 
modesty. 
That    hallows   each  feeling— the   sweetest  and 
rarest ; 
Love    declares   that    a   beauty  mair    heaven 
couldna  gie. 

And  a'  things  are  happy  where'er  thou  appearcst; 

The  darkness  o'  light's  on  thy  lily  e'ebree; 
Compared  wi'  which,  night  and  her  stars  come 
the  nearest: 

The  love  in  thy  breast  is  a  heaven-ccstacy! 

The  pride  o'  my  heart  is  to  sing  thee  the  fairest, 
The  sweet  rays  o'  song  are  the  morn  in  thine  e'e; 

And  in  thy  bright  bosom  a  jewel  thou  wearest,— 
0  were  it  mine,  richer  than  kings  I  would  be! 

0,  how  shall  I  win  it— that  jewel  sae  simple? 

I'll  think  it  a  flower  on  the  untrodden  lea. 
My   love  a   pure  stream  that,  wi'  clear,  sunny 
wimple, 

Sings— heaven  is  mail-  blessed  that  lily  to  sec! 


124 


JOHN   NEVAY. 


Let  us  rove,  Jessie,  rove,  for  a'  Ucature  is  bloom- 
ing; 
The  siller  burns  dance  o'er  the  pebbles  wi'glee; 
And  flowers  in  their  prime  are  the  saft  breeze 
perfuming; 
Oh,  surely   the   flowers  steal  their  fragrance 
from  thee! 

We'll  rove  by  the  burnie  where  summer  is 
sweetest, 

Where  every  wee  blossom  gi'es  balm  to  the  bee : 
But  thou,  fairest  Flower!  fair  nature  completest, 

And  every  bird  sings — nature's  perfect  in  thee! 

We'll  rove  in  the  woodland,  where  violets  are 
springing, 
They  wait  to  unfold  their  chaste  virtues  to  thee; 
In  the  dell,   to  her  children  loved,   summer  is 
singing: 
But  thou  art  the  Muse  o'  my  heart's  melodic. 

Youth  is  the  gay  season  o'  love — the  prime  bless- 
ing; 
Without  love,  life's  summer  joys  ne'er  would 
we  pree; 
Then  let  us,   dear  Jessie,   con  summer's  sweet 
lesson, — 
Our  love  like  her  bright  dewy  mom  aye  to  be. 

Oh,    then,   let   U3  saunter  where  a'  things   are 
loving — 
The  air  and  the  su.nlight,  and  bird,  ilower,  and 
tree : 
And  we  too  will  love,  by  the  blithe  waters  roving. 
And  sweetly  our  joy  shall  wi'  summer's  agree. 

Hark!  Nature  invites  us.  Her  reason  is  thrilling, — 

'Tis  love,  hope,  and  rapture — thy  soul's  poesie; 

Let  us  rove,  then,  where  .summer  our  love-cup  is 

filling; 

We'll  drink,  and  sae  blest,  heaven  mair  blest 

couldna  be! 

And  we  shall  be  happy,  our  hearts  sae  united, — 
Joy  blending  wi'  joy  in  a  love  melodic; 

And  in  it  sae  sweetly  our  troth  .shall  be  plighted: 
Oh,  then,  my  ain  Jessie,  to  love  we'll  be  free! 


THE  DREAMING   LOVER. 

0  sweet  the  May  morn,  and  fair  every  flower. 

And  every  sweet  song-bird  makes  love  its  theme; 
But  sweeter  and  happier  the  curfew-hoxir. 
When  love  was  my  dream. 


0  the  summer  day's  bright,  green  every  bower. 

And  blithe  is  the  song  of  the  silver  stream; 
But  brighter  and  blither  the  curfew-hour, 
When  love  was  my  dream. 

0  rich  autumn's  sun  of  the  golden  shower. 

And  the  corn-fields  drink  of  his  mellowing  beam; 
But  richer  the  star  of  the  curfew-hour, 
When  love  was  my  dream. 

0  sweet  winter's  hearth,  while  music's  power 
Enchai-ms  heart  and  soul,  like  a  joy  supi-eme; 

But  sweeter  by  moonlight  the  curfew-hour, 
When  love  was  my  dream. 

0 !  brightest  and  sweetest  o'  the  twenty-four. 
Announced  by  the  silver  peal, — like  a  gleam 
Of  hope  from  heaven,  was  the  curfew-hour, 
When  love  was  my  dream. 

When  the  heart  was  young,  and  life  seemed  a 
dower. 
The  maiden  all  lovely — my  soul's  esteem, 
'Twas  heaven  to  tryst  in  the  curfew-hour, 
When  love  was  my  dream. 

1  cared  not  for  wealth,  I  envied  not  rank; 

All  nature  was  mine,  and  the  sunlight  above, — 
The  sweet  gushing  stream,  and  the  prinu-ose  bank, 
When  my  dream  was  love. 

I  cared  not  for  aught  which  the  vain  world  pur- 
sues; 
With  her  only  happy  was  I  to  rove; 
Her  smile  was  like  that  of  a  heavenly  Muse, 
When  my  dream  was  love. 

Afar  from  the  world  and  its  pleasures  vain. 

At  calm  summer  eve,  in  lily  alcove, 
I  thought  not  of  aught  but  to  be  her  swain, 
When  my  dream  was  love. 

I  cared  not  for  books;  for  morality. 

Religion,  and  song  in  her  smile  were  wove; 
The  melody  of  heaven  was  in  her  eye, 
When  my  dream  was  love. 

I  eared  not  for  aught  but  the  beautiful. 

For  that  was  the  joy  of  her  bosom's  dove, — 
The  feeling  that  well  all  chaste  things  could  cull, 
When  my  dream  was  love. 

I  cared  not  for  aught  but  the  gems  of  her  choice. 
Fair  Nature's  own  blooms  in  the  woodland  and 
grove; 
And  there  with  my  Jeanie  were  all  Ufe's  joys, 
When  my  dream  was  love. 


HEW  AINSLIE. 


125 


HEW    AINSLIE. 


Hew  Aixslie,  one  of  the  best  living  writers 
of  Scottish  songs  and  ballads,  was  born  April  5, 
1792,  at  Bargeny  Mains,  in  the  parish  of  Dailly, 
Ayrshire,  on  the  estate  of  Sir  Hew  Dalrympie 
Hamilton,  in  whose  service  his  father  had  been 
employed  for  many  years.  He  was  educated 
first  by  a  private  tutor  at  home,  afterwards 
at  the  parish-school  of  Ballantrae,  and  finally 
at  the  Ayr  Academy.  At  the  age  of  fourteen 
delicate  health  induced  him  to  forego  tlie  further 
prosecution  of  his  studies,  and  to  return  to  his 
native  hills.  Sir  Hew  was  at  this  time  engaged 
in  an  extensive  plan  for  the  improvement  of 
his  estate,  under  the  direction  of  the  celebrated 
landscape-gardener  AVhite,  and  a  number  of 
young  men  from  the  south.  Young  Ainslie 
joined  this  company,  as  he  says,  "to  harden 
my  constitution  and  clieck  my  overgrowth. 
Amongst  my  planting  companions  I  found  a 
number  of  intelligent  young  men,  who  had  got 
up  in  a  large  granary  a  private  theatre,  where 
they  occasionally  performed  for  the  amusement 
of  the  neighbourhood  the  'Gentle  Shepherd,' 
'Douglas,'  &c.,  and  in  due  time  I  was  to  my 
great  joy  found  tall  enough,  lassie-looking 
enough,  and  flippant  enough,  to  take  the  part 
of  the  pert  'Jenny ;'  and  the  first  relish  I  got  for 
anything  like  sentimental  song  was  from  learn- 
ing and  singing  the  songs  in  tliat  pastoral, — 
auld  ballads  that  my  mother  sung — and  she 
sang  many  and  sang  them  well — having  been 
all  the  poetry  I  cared  for.  For  three  years, 
which  was  up  to  the  time  we  removed  to  IJoslin, 
I  remained  in  this  employment,  acquiring  a 
tough,  sound  constitution,  and  at  the  same 
time  some  knowledge  of  nursery  and  floral 
culture." 

In  his  seventeenth  year  he  was  sent  to  Glas- 
gow to  study  law  in  the  office  of  a  relation,  but 
the  pursuit  proving  uncongenial  he  returned 
to  Eoslin.  Soon  after  he  obtained  a  situation 
in  the  liegister  House,  Edinburgh,  Avhich  he 
retained  until  1822,  a  portion  of  the  time  being 
passed  at  Kinniel  House,  as  the  amanuensis 
of  Prof.  Dugald  Stewart,  whose  last  woi-k  he 
copied  for  the  press.     Having  married  in  1812, 


and  finding  his  salary  inadequate  to  the  main- 
tenance of  his  family,  Ainslie  resolved  to  go  to 
the  United  States,  and  accordingly  set  sail, 
arriving  in  Xew  York  in  July,  1822.  He  pur- 
chased a  small  farm  in  Een.sselaer county,  X.  Y., 
and  resided  there  for  three  years.  He  next  made 
trial  for  a  year  of  Robert  Owen's  settlement 
at  New  Harmony,  Indiana,  but  found  it  a 
failure,  and  then  removed  to  Cincinnati,  where 
he  entered  into  partnership  with  Price  and 
Wood,  brewers.  In  1829  he  established  a 
branch  at  Louisville,  which  Avas  ruined  by  an 
inundation  of  the  Ohio  in  1832.  He  erected 
a  similar  establishment  the  same  year  in  Xew 
Albany,  Indiana,  which  was  destroyed  by  fire 
in  1834.  Satisfied  with  these  experiments,  he 
employed  himself — till  his  retirement  from 
business  a  few  years  ago — in  superintending 
the  erection  of  mills,  factories,  and  breweries 
in  the  Western  States. 

In  186i  Ainslie  visited  Scotland,  after  an 
absence  of  more  than  forty  years,  and  was 
warmly  welcomed  by  old  friends  and  many 
ncAv  ones  to  his  native  land.  From  the  lead- 
ing literary  men  of  Edinburgh  and  Glasgow, 
and  especially  from  the  poets,  he  received 
many  most  gratifying  marks  of  attention  and 
respect.  He  still  enjoys  good  health  for  a 
person  upwards  of  fourscore  years  of  age,  and 
continues  to  reside  in  Louisville.  On  the 
one  hundred  and  twelfth  anniversary  of  the 
birth  of  Burns  a  large  company  assembled  in 
Louisville  to  celebrate  the  day  so  dear  to  all 
Scotchmen.  The  chairman  was  the  venerable 
poet,  whose  memory  dates  back  nearly  to  the 
days  of  the  Ayrshire  bard,  and  who,  in  a 
humorous  address  delivered  on  the  occasion, 
told  how  he  had  had  the  honour  of  kissing 
"  Bonny  Jean,"  the  wife  of  the  great  poet. 

Ainslie  was  a  poet  from  his  early  years,  and 
had  composed  verses  before  lie  left  his  native 
Carrick.  A  visit  to  Ayrshire  in  1820  renewed 
the  ardour  of  his  muse,  which,  on  the  eve  of 
his  departure  from  Scotland,  burst  forth  into 
authorship  under  the  title  of  A  PUgrimnge  to 
the  Land  of  Burns.     A  second  volume  from 


126 


HEW  AINSLIE. 


his  pen,  entitled  Scottish  Songs,  Ballads,  and 
Poems,  appeared  in  1855.  A  new  edition  of 
his  poetical  writings  is  now  in  preparation  for 
the  press.  Many  of  Ainslie's  compositions  are 
tj  be  found  in  Whistle  Blnkie,  Gems  of  Scot- 


tish Song,  and  other  collections  of  the  lyrie 
poetry  of  his  native  land.  They  well  deserve 
the  reputation  they  acquired  half  a  century 
ago,  and  which  they  still  retain  in  the  New  and 
Old  Worlds. 


"STANDS   SCOTLAND   WHERE 
IT   DID?" 

IIoo's  dear  auld  mither  Scotland,  lads, 

Hoo's  kindly  Scotland  noo? 
Are  a'  her  glens  as  green  's  of  yore, 

Her  hills  as  stern  an'  blue? 

I  meikle  dread  the  iron  steed. 
That  tears  up  heugh  and  fell, 

Has  gi'en  our  canny  old  folic 
A  sorry  tale  to  tell. 

Ha'e  touns  ta'en  a'  our  bonnie  burns 

To  cool  their  lowin'  craigs? 
Or  damm'd  them  up  in  timmer  troughs 

To  slock  their  yettlin'  naigs? 

Do  Southern  loons  infest  your  touns 

Wi'  mincing  Cockney  gab? 
Ha'e  "John  and  Eobert"  ta'en  the  place 

0'  plain  auld  "Jock  an'  Itab?" 

In  sooth,  I  dread  a  foreign  breed 
Noo  rules  o'er  "corn  an'  horn;" 

An'  kith  an'  kin  I'd  hardly  fin'. 
Or  place  whare  I  was  born. 

They're  houkin  sae  in  bank  an'  brae. 
An'  sheughin'  hill  an'  howe: 

I  tremble  for  the  bonny  broom, 
The  whin  an'  heather  cowe. 

I  fear  the  dear  auld  "Deligence" 
An'  "Flies"  ha'e  flown  the  track, 

An'  cadgers  braw,  pocks,  creels  an'  a', 
Gane  i'  the  ruthless  wrack. 

Are  souple  kimmers  kirkward  boun. 

On  Sabbath  to  be  seen  ? 
Wi'  sturdy  carles  that  talk  o'  texts, 

lioups,  craps,  an'  days  ha'e  been. 

Gang  lasses  yet.  wi'  wares  to  sell 

Barefitit  to  the  toun? 
Is  wincie  still  the  wiliccoat 

An'  demitty  the  goun? 

Do  wanters  try  the  yarrow  leaf 
Upon  the  first  o'  Alay? 


Are  there  touslings  on  the  hairst  rig. 
An'  lioutherings  'mang  the  hay? 

Are  sheepshead  dinners  on  the  board, 

Wi'  gousty  haggis  seen? 
Come  scones  an'  farls  at  four  hours; 

Are  sowens  sair'd  at  e'en? 

Are  winkings  'tween  the  preachings  rife 

Out-owre  the  baps  an'  yill? 
Are  there  cleekings  i'  the  kirk  gates. 

An'  loans  for  lovers  still  ? 

Gang  loving  sauls  in  plaids  for  shawls 

A  courtin'  to  the  bent? 
Has  gude  braid  lawlins  left  the  land? 

Are  kail  and  crowdy  kent? 

Ah!  weel  I  min',  in  dear  langsyne, 
Our  rantin's  round  the  green; 

The  meetings  at  the  trystin'  tree. 
The  "  chappings  out"  at  e'en. 

Oh  bootless  queries,  vanish'd  scenes; 

Oh  wan  and  wintry  Time! 
Why  lay  alike,  on  heart  an'  dyke, 

Thy  numbing  frost  and  rime? 

E'en  noo  my  day  gangs  doun  the  brae. 
An'  tear  di'aps  fa'  like  rain. 

To  think  the  fouth  o'  gladsome  youth 
Can  ne'er  return  again. 


THE  ROYER  0'  LOCHRYAN. 

The  Eover  o'  Lochryan  he's  gane, 

Wi'  his  merry  men  sae  brave; 
Their  hearts  are  o'  the  steel,  and  a  better  keel 

Ne'er  bowled  o'er  the  back  o'  a  wave. 

It's  no  when  1he  loch  lies  dead  in  its  trough, 

WTien  nac thing  disturbs  it  ava; 
But  the  rack  an'  the  ride  o'  the  restless  tide. 

An'  the  splash  o'  the  gray  sea-maw. 

It's  no  when  the  yawl  an'  the  light  skiffs  crawl 

Owrc  the  breast  o'  the  siller  sea, 
That  I  look  to  the  west  for  the  bark  I  lo'e  best, 

An'  the  Rover  that's  dear  to  me. 


HEW  AINSLIE. 


127 


Bub  when  that  the  chid  lays  its  cheeks  to  the  flud, 
An'  the  sea  lays  its  shouthcr  to  the  shore; 

^Vhen  the  wind  sings  high,  and  the  sca-whaups 
cry, 
As  they  rise  frae  the  deafening  roar. 

It's  then  that  I  look  thro'  the  thickening  rook, 

An'  watch  by  the  midnight  tide; 
I  ken  the  wind  brings  my  Rover  hame, 

And  the  sea  that  he  glories  to  ride. 

Men-ily  he  stands  'mang  his  jovial  crow, 

Wi'  the  helm  heft  in  his  hand, 
An'  he  sings  aloud  to  liis  boys  in  blue. 

As  his  e'e's  upon  Galloway's  land — 

"  Unstent  and  slack  each  reef  and  tack, 
Gi'e  her  sail,  boys,  while  it  may  sit; 

She  has  roar'd  thro'  a  heavier  sea  afore, 
And  she'll  roar  thro'  a  heavier  yet. 

"  When  landsmen  drouse,  or  trembling  rouse. 

To  the  tempest's  angry  moan. 
We  dash  thro'  the  drift,  and  sing  to  the  lift 

0'  the  wave  that  heaves  us  on. 

"  It's  braw,  boys,  to  see,  the  morn's  blythe  e'e, 
When  the  night's  been  dark  an'  drear; 

But  it's  better  far  to  lie,  wi'  our  storm-locks  dry, 
In  the  bosom  o'  her  that  is  dear. 

"Gi'e  her  sail,  gi'e  her  sail,  till  she  buries  her 
wale, 

Gi'e  her  sail,  boys,  while  it  may  sit; 
She  has  roar'd  thro'  a  heavier  sea  afore, 

An'  she'll  roar  thi'o'  a  heavier  yet!" 


THE  SWEETEST  0'  TIIEII  A'. 

AVhen  springtime  gi'es  the  heart  a  lift 
Out  ower  cauld  winter's  snaw  and  drift, 
An'  April's  showers  begin  to  sift 

Fair  flowers  on  field  an'  shaw. 
Then,  Katie,  when  the  dawing's  clear — 
Fresh  as  tlie  firstlings  o'  the  year — 
Come  forth,  my  joy — my  dearest  dear — ■ 

0!  sweetest  o'  them  a'! 

When  pleasant  primrose  days  are  doon — 
When  Unties  sing  tlieir  saftest  tune— 
And  simmer,  nearing  to  his  noon, 

Gars  i-arest  roses  biaw — 
Then,  sheltered  frae  the  sun  an'  win', 
Beneath  the  buss,  below  the  linn, 
I'll  tell  thee  hoc  this  heart  ye  win, 

Thou  sweetest  o'  them  a'. 

When  flowers  hae  ripened  into  fruit — 
When  plantings  wear  their  Sabbath  suit- 


When  win's  grow  loud,  and  birdies  mute, 

An'  swallows  flit  awa' — 
Then,  on  the  lee  side  o'  a  stook, 
Or  in  some  calm  an'  cosie  nook, 
I'll  swear  I'm  tiiine  upon  the  IJook, 

Thou  sweetest  o'  them  a'. 

Tho'  black  December  bin's  the  pool 
AVi'  blasts  might  e'en  a  wooer  cool. 
It's  them  that  brings  us  canty  Yule 

As  weel's  the  frost  an'  snaw. 
Then,  wlien  aiild  winter's  raging  wide, 
An'  cronies  crowd  the  ingle-side, 
I'll  bring  them  ben  a  blooming  bride — 

0!  sweetest  o'  them  a'! 


OX  Wr  THE   TARTAN. 

Do  ye  like,  my  dear  lassie, 

The  hills  wild  an'  free, 
Wiiere  the  sang  o'  the  shepherd 

Gars  a'  ring  wi'  glee; 
Or  the  steep  rocky  glens. 

Where  tlie  wild  falcons  bide? 
Then  on  wi'  the  tartan. 

An'  fy  let  us  ride! 

Do  ye  like  the  knowes,  lassie, 

That  ne'er  were  in  riggs. 
Or  tile  bonny  lowne  howes, 

Where  the  sweet  robin  biggs? 
Or  the  sang  o'  the  lintie, 

AVhen  wooing  his  bride; 
Then  on  wi'  the  tartan, 

An'  fy  let  us  ride. 

Do  ye  like  the  burn,  lassie. 

That  loups  amang  linns. 
Or  the  bonny  green  holmes 

Where  it  cannily  rins; 
Wi'  a  cantie  bit  housie, 

Sae  snug  by  its  side; 
Then  on  wi'  the  tartan, 

An'  fy  let  us  ride. 


THE  LAST  LOOK  OF  HOME. 

Our  sail  has  ta'en  the  blast, 
Our  pennant's  to  the  sea, 

And  the  waters  widen  fast 
'Twixt  the  fatherland  and  me. 

Then,  Scotland,  fare  thee  well  — 
There's  a  sorrow  in  tliat  word 


128 


HEW  AINSLIE. 


This  aching  heart  could  tell, 
But  words  shall  ne'er  record. 

The  lieart  should  make  us  veil 
From  the  heart's  elected  few, 

Our  sorrows  when  we  ail — 

Would  we  have  them  suffer  too? 

No,  the  parting  hour  is  past; 

Let  its  memory  be  brief; 
AYhen  we  monument  our  joys, 

We  should  sepulchre  our  grief. 

Kow  yon  misty  mountains  fail, 
As  the  breezes  give  us  speed — 

On,  my  spirit,  with  our  sail, 
There's  a  brighter  land  ahead. 

There  are  wailings  on  the  wind, 
There  are  murmurs  on  the  sea. 

But  the  fates  ne'er  proved  unkind 
Till  they  parted  home  and  me. 


THE  IXGLE  SIDE. 

It's  rare  to  see  the  morning  bleeze, 

Jjike  a  bonfire  frae  the  sea; 
It's  fair  to  see  the  burnie  kiss 

The  lip  o'  the  flowery  lea; 
An'  fine  it  is  on  green  hill  side, 

When  hums  the  hinny  bee; 
But  rarer,  fiiirer,  finer  far, 

Is  the  ingle  side  to  me. 

Glens  may  be  gilt  wi'  gowans  rare, 

The  birds  may  fill  the  tree. 
An'  haughs  ha'e  a'  the  scented  ware 

Tiiat  simmer's  growth  can  gi'e; 
But  the  cantie  hearth  where  cronies  meet, 

An'  the  darling  o'  our  e'e; 
That  makes  to  us  a  warld  complete — 

0!  the  ingle  side  for  me! 


A  HAMEWAED  SAXG. 

Each  whirl  o'  the  wheel. 

Each  step  brings  me  nearer 
The  hame  o'  my  youth; 

Every  object  grows  dearer. 
The  hiils,  an'  the  huts, 

The  trees  on  that  green ; 
Losh!  they  glour  in  my  face, 

Like  some  kindly  auld  frien'. 

E'en  the  brutes  they  look  social 
As  gif  they  would  crack; 


An'  the  sang  o'  the  bird 
Seems  to  welcome  me  back. 

0!  dear  to  the  heart 

Is  the  hand  that  first  fed  us; 

An'  dear  is  the  land, 

An'  the  cottage  that  bred  us. 

An'  dear  are  the  comrades, 

AVi'  whom  we  once  sported; 
But  dearer  the  maiden. 

Whose  love  we  first  courted. 
Joy's  image  may  perish, 

E'en  grief  die  aAvay; 
But  the  scenes  o'  our  youth. 

Are  recorded  for  ave. 


SIGHIXGS  FOR  THE  SEASIDE. 

At  the  stent  o'  my  string, 
Wiien  a  fourth  o'  the  earth 

Lay  'tween  me  and  Scotland — 
Dear  land  o'  my  birth, — 

Wi'  the  richest  o'  valleys. 

And  waters  as  bright 
As  the  sun  in  midsummer 

Illumes  wi'  his  light. 

And  surrounded  wi'  a' 

That  the  heart  or  the  head, 

The  body  or  the  niou' 
0'  mortal  could  need. — 

I  hae  paused  in  sic  plenty, 
And  .stuck  in  my  track. 

As  a  tug  frae  my  tether 

Would  mak  me  look  back, — 

Look  back  to  auld  hills 

In  their  red  heather  bloom. 

To  glens  wi'  their  burnies, 
And  hillocks  o'  broom, 

To  some  loop  in  our  lock, 
Whar  the  wave  gaes  to  sleep. 

Or  the  black  craggy  headlands 
That  bulwark  the  deep; 

Wi'  the  sea  lashing  in 

Wi'  the  wind  and  the  tide — 

Aye,  'twas  then  that  I  sicken'd, 
'Twas  then  that  I  cried — 

0!  gie  me  a  sough  o'  the  auld  saut  sea, 

A  scent  o'  his  brine  again. 
To  stiffen  the  wilt  that  this  wilderness 

Has  brought  on  this  breast  and  brain. 


THOMAS   LYLE. 


129 


Let  me  heai-  his  roar  on  the  rocky  shore, 

His  thud  on  the  shelly  sand; 
For  my  spirit's  bow'd  and  my  heart  is  dow'd 

AVi'  the  gloom  o'  this  forest  land. 

Your  sweeping  floods  an'  your  waving  woods, 
Look  brave  iu  the  suns  o'  June; 


But  the  breath  o'  the  swamp  brews  a  sickly 
damp, 

And  there's  death  in  the  dark  lagoon. 
Aye,  gie  me  the  jaup  o'  the  dear  auld  saut, 

A  scent  o'  his  brine  again! 
To  stitfen  the  wilt  that  this  wilderness 

Has  laid  on  this  bosom  and  bruiu. 


THOMAS    LYLE, 


Born  1792  — Died  1859. 


Dr.  Thomas  Lyle,  like  his  friend  John 
Wilson,  a  native  of  Paisley,  was  born  in  that 
town,  September  10,  1792.  He  received  a 
liberal  education,  and  afterwards  studied  at 
the  University  of  Glasgow,  where  in  181G  he 
obtained  his  diploma  as  a  surgeon,  and  entered 
upon  the  practice  of  his  profession.  Cherish- 
ing as  he  did  a  love  for  the  old  minstrelsy  of 
liis  native  land,  he  was  zealous  in  collecting 
such  ancient  airs  as  he  met  with,  and  to  one 
of  these  he  composed  his  exceedingly  popular 
song  of 

"  Let  us  haste  to  Kelvin  Grove,  bonnie  lassie,  O." 
It  was  written  in  the  year  1819,  when  he  was 
in  the  habit  of  resorting,  in  his  botanical 
excursions,  to  the  then  wooded  and  sequestered 
banks  of  the  Kelvin,  about  two  miles  from 
Glasgow.  Since  that  date  the  huge  city  has 
swallowed  up  Lyle's  rural  retreat  of  Kelvin 
Grove.  Not  meeting  with  the  success  in  his 
profession  that  he  anticipated,  he  removed  in 
1826  to  Airth,  a  few  miles  from  Falkirk.  But  it 
does  not  appear  that  he  met  with  any  greater 


success  in  his  new  field  of  labour;  for,  as  in 
Glasgow,  he  Avas  regarded  as  a  man  more 
devoted  to  the  muse  and  to  the  gathering  of 
rare  plants  than  to  the  practice  of  his  profes- 
sion. In  the  following  year  he  appeare<l  as 
the  author  of  a  volume  entitled  "Ancient  Bal- 
lads and  Songs,  chiefly  from  Tradition,  Manu- 
scripts, and  scarce  Works,  with  Biographical 
and  Illustrative  Notices."  This  entertaining 
work,  the  result  of  long  investigation  into  the 
popular  poetry  of  Scotland,  contained  nume- 
rous compositions  of  Lyle's;  but  much  the 
most  valuable  jiortion  of  it  to  antiqinirians 
consists  of  the  miscellaneous  poems  of  Sir  Wil- 
liam Mure,  Knight  of  Rowallan.  After  a 
residence  at  Airth  for  above  a  quarter  of  a 
centur}^  he  returned  in  18.53  to  Glasgow,  and 
resumed  his  profession.  Two  years  later  the 
Editor  found  him  living  there  in  obscurity, 
with  little  practice,  and  apparently  as  much 
forgotten  as  the  spot  celebrated  in  his  most 
popular  song.  Lyle  died  in  Glasgow,  April 
19,  1859. 


KELVIN    GROYE.i 


Let  us  haste  to  Kelvin  Grove,  bonnie  lassie,  0, 
Thi-ough  its  mazes  let  us  rove,  bonnie  lassie,  0, 

Where  the  rose  in  all  her  pride 

Paints  the  hollow  dingle  side, 
Where  the  midnight  fairies  glide,  bonnie  lassie,  0. 

>  It  is  worthy  of  mention  that  this  song,  on  which 
Lyle's  poetical  reputation  chiefly  rests,  was  originally 
attributed  to  another  writer.  MaodonalJ.  in  his  Ram- 
bles round  Glasgow,  savs— "  The  song  was  first  published 

Vol.  II.— I  " 


Let  us  wander  by  the  mill,  bonnie  lassie,  0, 
To  the  cove  beside  the  rill,  bonnie  lassie,  0 

Where  the  glens  rebound  the  call 

Of  the  roaring  waters'  fall. 
Thro'  the  mountain's  rocky  hall,  bonnie  lassie,  0. 

in  1S20  in  the  Harp  of  Renfreicaliire,  a  collection  of 
poetical  pieces  to  which  an  introductory  essay  on  the 
poetsof  the  district  was  contrilMi  ted  by  William  JI  other- 
well.    In  the  index  to  that  work  the  name  of  John  Sim 


130 


THOMAS   LYLE. 


0!  Kelvin  banks  are  fair,  bonnie  lassie,  0, 
When  in  summer  we  are  there,  bonnie  lassie,  0, 
There  the  ]May-pink's  crimson  plum^i 
Throws  a  soft,  but  sweet  perfume, 
Round  the  yellow  banks  of  broom,  bonnie  lassie,0. 

Though  I  dare  not  call  thee  mine,  bonnie  lassie,  0, 
As  the  smile  of  fortune's  thine,  bonnie  lassie,  0, 

Yet  with  fortune  on  my  side, 

I  could  stay  thy  father's  pride, 
And  win  thee  for  my  bride,  bonnie  lassie,  0. 

But  the  frowns  of  fortune  lower,  bonnie  lassie,  0, 
On  thy  lover  at  this  hour,  bonnie  lassie,  0, 
Ere  yon  golden  orb  of  day 
Wake  the  warblers  on  the  spray. 
From  this  land  I  must  away,  bonnie  lassie,  0. 

Then  farewell  to  Kelvin  Grove,  bonnie  lassie,  0, 
And  adieu  to  all  I  love,  bonnie  lassie,  0, 

To  the  river  winding  clear. 

To  the  fragrant  scented  breer. 
E'en  to  thee  of  all  most  dear,  bonnie  lassie,  0. 

When  upon  a  foreign  shore,  bonnie  lassie,  0, 
Should  I  fall  midst  battle's  roar,  bonnie  lassie,  0, 

Then,  Helen!  shouldst  thou  hear 

Of  thy  lover  on  his  bier. 
To  his  memory  shed  a  tear,  bonnie  lassie,  0. 


I  AKCE  KNEW  CONTENT. 

I  ance  knew  content,  but  its  smiles  are  awa', 
The  broom  blooms  bonnie,  an'  grows  sae  fair; 

Each  tried  friend  forsakes  nie,  sweet  Phebe  an'  a'. 
So  I  ne'er  will  gae  down  to  the  broom  ony  mair. 

How  light  was  my  step,  and  my  heart,  0  how 

gay ! 
The  broom  blooms  bonnie,  the  broom  blooms 

fair; 
Till  Phebe  was  crowned  our  Queen  of  the  May, 
When  the  bloom  o'  the  broom  strew'd  its  sweets 
on  the  air. 


is  given  as  that  of  the  author  of  '  Kelvin  Grove.'  Mr. 
Sim,  who  had  contributed  largely  to  the  work,  and  for  a 
time  had  even  acted  as  its  editor,  left  Paisley  before  its 
completion  for  the  West  Indies,  where  he  shortly  after- 
ward died.  In  the  meantime  the  song  Vjecame  a  general 
favourite,  when  Jlr.  I.yle  laid  claim  to  it  as  liisonn 
production,  and  brought  forward  evidence  of  the  most 
onvincing  nature  to  that  effect,.  So  clearly,  indeed, 
did  he  establish  the  fact  of  his  authorship  that  a  music- 
seller  in  Edinburgh,  who  had  previously  purchased  the 
song  from  the  executors  of  Mr.  Sim,  at  once  entered 
into  a  new  arrangement  with  him  for  the  copyright. 
Mr.  Lyle,  it  seems,  was  in  the  habit  of  corresiionding 
with  Mr.  Sim  on  literary  matters,  and  on  one  occasion 
sent   liira  '  Kelvin  Grove,'  with  another  song,  to  be 


She  was  mhie  when  the  snaw-draps  hung  white 
on  the  lea. 

Ere  the  broom  bloom' <1  bonnie,  an'  grew  sae  fair; 
Till  May-day,  anither  wysed  Phebe  frae  me, 

So  I  ne'er  will  gae  down  to  the  broom  ony  mai/. 

Sing,  love,  thy  fond  promises  melt  like  the  snaw. 
When  broom  waves  lonely,  an'  bleak  blaws  the 
air; 
For  Phebe  to  me  now  is  naething  ava'. 

If  my  heart  could  say,  "Gang  to  the  broom 
nae  man-." 

Durst  I  trow  that  my  dreams  in  the  night  hover 
o'er, 
Where  broom  blooms  bonnie,  an'  grows  sae  fair; 
The  .swain  (who,  while  waking,  thou  thinks  of  no 
more,) 
Whisp'ring,  "Love,  will  ye  gang  to  the  broom 
ony  mair?" 

No!  fare  thee  well,  Phebe;  I'm  owre  wae  to  weep, 

Or  to  think  o'  the  broom  growing  bonnie  an' 

fair; 

Since  thy  heart  is  anither's,  in  death  I  maun  .sleep, 

'Neatii  the  broom  on  the  lea,  an'  the  bawm 

sunny  air. 


DAEK  DUNOON. 

See  the  glow-Avorm  lits  her  fairy  lamp, 

From  a  beam  of  the  rising  moon; 
On  the  heathy  shore  at  evening  fall, 

'Twixt  Holy-Loch  and  dark  Dunoon; 
Her  fairy  lamp's  pale  silvery  glare. 

From  the  dew-clad,  moorland  flower, 
Invite  my  wandering-  footsteps  there, 

At  the  lonely  twilight  hour. 

Wlien  the  distant  beacon's  revolving  light 

Bids  my  lone  steps  seek  the  shore. 
There  the  rush  of  the  flow-tide's  rippling  wave 

Meets  the  dash  of  the  fisher's  oar; 
And  the  dim-seen  steamboat's  hollow  sound, 

As  she  seaward  track.s  lier  way; 
All  else  are  asleep  in  the  still  calm  night, 

And  robed  in  the  misty  gray. 


published  anonymously  in  the  Harp  of  Renfreushire. 
In  the  meantime  Mr.  Sim,  who  had  transcribed  both 
the  pieces,  was  called  abroad;  and  after  his  death  his 
executors,  finding  the  two  songs  among  his  papers  and 
in  liis  handwriting,  naturally  concluded  that  they  were 
productions  of  his  own  genius,  and  published  them 
accordingly."  Dr.  Lyle,  «hen  upwards  of  threescore 
years  of  age,  and  his  authorship  to  the  piece  in  question 
admitted  by  all,  still  alluiled  with  considerable  acri- 
mony to  the  wrong  and  injustice  which  he  had  been 
subjected  to  in  being  compelled  to  prove  his  just  claim 
to  his  own  property.— Ed. 


WILLIAM   FINLAY. 


131 


When  the  glow-worm  lits  her  elfiu  lamp, 
And  the  night  breeze  sweeps  the  hill; 

It's  sweet  on  thy  rock-bound  shores,  Dunoon, 
To  wander  at  fancy's  will. 


Eliza!  with  thee  in  this  solitude, 
Life's  cares  would  pass  away, 

Like  the  fleecy  clouds  over  gray  Kilmun, 
At  the  Avake  of  early  day. 


WILLIAM   FINLAY 


T 


EoRN  1792  —  Died  1847. 


William  Finlay,  the  son  of  a  weaver,  was 
born  at  Paisley  in  1792.  At  an  early  age  he 
attended  Bell's  School,  and  subsequentlj'  the 
Grammar  School,  where  he  made  such  progress 
that  before  he  was  nine  years  of  age  he  could 
read  and  translate  Ctesar  with  facility.  For 
twenty  years  he  followed  his  father's  occupa- 
tion, after  which  he  was  employed  in  a  cotton 
mill  at  Duntocher.  In  1840  he  became  an 
assistant  in  the  office  of  Mr.  Neilson,  printer. 
Paisley,  with  whom  he  remained  for  eight 
years.  He  afterwards  removed  to  a  bleachfield 
on  the  GlenifFer  Braes,  where  he  died  Novem- 
ber 5,  1847. 

As  early  as  his  twentieth  year  Finlay  became 
Icnown  as  a  composer  of  verses,  and  ultimately 
as  a  successful  writer  of  humorous  and  satirical 
poems,  which  he  contributed  to  the  Paisley 
and  Glasgow  journals.  Several  of  the  most 
agreeable  of  his  productions  are  those  in  which 
there  is  a  combination  of  the  descriptive,  the 
humorous,  and  the  kindly,  delicately  .spiced 
with  the  satirical.     "The  Widow's  Excuse" 


is  a  favourable  specimen  of  this  class  of  com- 
position. In  1846  Finlay  collected  a  number 
of  his  pieces,  which  were  published  in  Paisley 
in  a  volume  entitled  Poems,  J/umowus  and 
Sentimental.  He  was  fond  of  music  and 
society,  and  yielding  to  the  fascinations  of 
conviviality  he  sometimes  committed  excesses 
which  he  deeply  regretted.  Frequent  and 
touching  allusions  to  his  besetting  sin  are  to 
be  met  with  in  his  writings,  as  well  as  vain 
regrets  at  the  time  squandered  among  his 
friends,  to  the  neglect  perhaps  of  the  necessary 
pursuits  of  a  labouring  man.     He  says — 

"  Wliile  others  have  been  busy,  bustling 

After  wealth  and  fame, 
And  wisely  adding  house  to  house. 

And  Bailie  to  their  name; 
I,  like  a  thoughtless  prodigal. 

Have  wasted  precious  time, 
And  followed  lying  vanities 

To  string  them  up  in  rhyme." 

It  has  been  truthfully  said  that  AVilliam  Fin- 
lay's  pictures  of  the  evils  of  intemperance  arc 
equal  to  Eodger's  or  Alexander  AVilson's. 


THE    MIGHTY    MUNRO. 


Come,  brawny  John  Bai-leycora,  len'  me  your 

aid, 
Though  for  such  inspiration  aft  dearly  I've  paid, 
Come  cram  up  my  noddle,  and  help  me  to  show, 
In  true  graphic  colours,  the  mighty  Muuro. 

0 !  could  ye  hut  hear  him  his  stories  rehearse, 
Whilk  the  hke  was  ne'er  heard  o',  in  prose  or  in 

verse, 
Ye  wad  laugh  till  the  sweat  dovra  your  haffets 

did  flow, 
At  the  matchless,  magnificent,  mighty  Munro. 


With  such  pleasing  persuasion  he  blaws  in  your 

lug, 
Ye  wad  think  that  the  vera  inanimate  jug 
Whilk  Stan's  on  the  table,  mair  hriehtly  doth 

glow 
At  the  wild  witching  stories  o'  mighty  JIunro. 

Such  care-killing  caper-3— such  glorious  riggs, 
Such  cantrin'  on  cuddies,  and  cadging'  in  gigs, 
Such  rantin,'  and  jauntin',  and  shunting,  and 

show, 
Could  ne'er  be  displayed  but  by  mighty  Munro. 


132 


WILLIAM   FINLAY. 


Great  Goliath  o'  Gath,  who  came  out  and  defied, 
With  the  gi-eat  swelhng  words  o'  vainglory  and 

pride, 
The  brave  armies  of  Israel,  as  all  of  ya  knnjv, 
Was  a  dwarf-looking  bodie  compared  vvi'  Munro. 

And  Samson,  that  hero,  who  slew  men  cii  masse 
Wi'  naething  but  just  the  jaw  bane  o'  an  ass; 
And  drew  down  a  house  on  himsel'  and  the  foe, 
Was  a  puir  feckless  creatur'  compared  wi'  JVIunro. 

The  chivalrous  knight  of  La  Mancha,  'tis  tnie, 
And  Baron  Munchausen,  had  equals  but  few; 
Their  exploits  have  astonished  the  warl',  but  lo! 
Both  the  Don  and  the  Baron  mUst  bow  to  Munro. 

But  a  tythe  o'  his  merit  nae  words  can  impart, 
His  errors  are  all  of  the  head,  not  the  heart; 
Though  his  tongue  doth  a  little  too  trippingly  go. 
Yet  a  guid  chiel  at  bottom  is  mighty  Munro. 

Though  the  lamp  o'  his  fame  will  continue  to  bum 
When  even  his  dust  to  the  dust  shall  return, 
And  for  ages  to  come  a  bright  halo  will  throw 
O'er  the  mouldering  remains  o'  the  mighty  Munro, 


THE  DREAM  OF  LIFE'S  YOUNG  DAY. 

Once  more,  Eliza,  let  me  look  upon  tliy  smil- 
ing face, 

For  there  I  with  the  '•'joy  of  grief"  tliy 
mother's  features  trace; 

Iler  sparkling  eye,  her  winning  smile,  and 
sweet  bewitching  air — 

Iler  raven  locks  which  clust'ring  hung  upon 
her  bosom  fair. 

It  is  the  same  enchanting  smile,  and  eye  of 
joyous  mirth. 

Which  beamed  so  bright  with  life  and  light  in 
her  who  gave  thee  birth ; 

And  strongly  do  they  bring  to  mind  life's  glad- 
some happy  day, 

AVhen  first  I  felt  within  my  heart  love's  pulse 
begin  to  play. 

]\Iy  years  were  few — my  heai-t  was  pure;  for 
vice  and  folly  wore 

A  hideous  and  disgusting  front,  iu  those  green 
days  of  yore : 

Destructive  dissipation  tlien,  with  her  deceit- 
ful train. 

Had  not,  with  their  attractive  glare,  confus'd 
and  turn'd  my  brain. 

Ah!  well  can  I  recall  to  mind  liow  (piick  my 

heart  would  beat. 
To  see  her,  in  the  house  of  prayer,  so  meekly 

take  her  seat; 


And  when  our  voices  mingled  sweet  in  music's 
solemn  strains. 

My  youthful  blood  tumultuously  rush'd  ting- 
ling through  my  veins. 

It  must  have  been  of  happiness  a  more  than 

mortal  dream, 
It  must  have  been  of  heavenly  light  a  bright 

unbroken  beam; 
A  draught  of  pure  unmingled  bliss;  for  to  my 

wither'd  heart 
It  doth,  e'en  now,  a  thri'ding  glow  of  ecstacy 

impart. 

She  now  hath  gone  where  sorrow's  gloom  the 

brow  doth  never  shade — 
Where  on  the  cheek  the  ro>y  bloom  of  youth 

doth  never  fade; 
And  I've  been  left  to  struggle  here,  till  now 

my  locks  are  gray. 
Yet  still   I  love  to  think  upon  this  "dream  of 

life's  young  day." 


THE  WIDOWS  EXCUSE. 

"  0,  Leezie  M'Cutcheon,  I  canna  but  say, 
Your  grief  hasna  lasted  a  year  and  a  day; 
The  crape  aff  your  bannet  already  ye've  tane; 
Nae  wonner  that  men  ca'  us  fickle  an'  fain. 
Ye  sich't  and  ye  sabbit,  that  nicht  Johnnie  dee't, 
I  thought  my  ain  heart  wad  hae  broken  to  see't; 
But  noo  ye're  as  canty  and  brisk  as  a  bee; 
Oh!  the  frailty  o'  women  I  wonner  to  see: 

The  frailty  o'  women  I  wonner  to  see, 

The  frailty  o'  women  I  wonner  to  see; 

Ye  kiss'd  his  cauld  gab  wi'  the  tear  in  your  e'e; 

Oh,  the  frailty  o'  women  I  wonner  to  see. 

"When  Johnnie  was  living,  oh  little  he  wist 
That  the  sound  o'  the  mools  as  they  fell  on  his 

kist. 
While  yet  like  a  knell,  ringing  loud  in  your  lug. 
By  anither  man's  side  ye'd  be  sleeping  sae  snug. 
0  Leezie,  my  lady,  ye've  surely  been  fain. 
For  an  unco-like  man  to  your  aims  ye  have  ta'en; 
John  M'Cutcheon  was  buirdly,but  this  ane,I  trow, 
The  e'e  o'  your  needle  ye  might  draw  him  through : 
0,  the  e'e  o'  your  needle  ye  might  draw  him 

through. 
His  nose  it  is  shirpit,  his  lip  it  is  blue. 
Oh,  Leezie,  ye've  surely  to  wale  on  had  few, 
Ye've  looted  and  lifted  but  little,  I  trow." 

"  Now,  Janet,  wi'  jibing-  and  jeering  hae  dune. 
Though  it's  true  that  anither  now  fills  Johnnie's 

shoon. 
He  was  lang  in  sair  trouble,  and  Robin,  ye  ken, 
Was  a  handy  bit  body,  and  lived  but  and  ben. 


WILLIAM   BEATTIE. 


133 


He  was  unco  obliging,  and  cam'  at  my  wag, 
Whan  wi'  grief  and  fatigue  I  was  liken  to  fag: 
'Deed,  John  couldna  want  him— for  aften  I've 

seen 
His  e'e  glisten  wi'  gladness  when  Robin  cam'  in. 

Then,  how  can  ye  wonner  I  gied  himmyhaun! 

Oh,  how  can  ye  wonner  I  gied  him  my  haun; 

When  I  needed  his  help  he  was  aye  at  comman' ; 

Then  how  can  ye  wonner  I  gied  him  my  haun  ? 

"  At  length  when  John  dee't,  and  was  laid  in  the 

clay, 
My  haun  it  was  bare,  and  my  heart  it  was  wae; 


1  had  na  a  steek,  that  was  black,  to  put  on, 
For  wark  I  had  plenty  wi'  guiding  o'  John; 
Now  Robin  was  thrifty,  and  ought  that  he  wan 
He  took  care  o't,  and  aye  had  twa  notes  at  corn- 
man'. 
And  he  lent  me  as  muckle  as  coft  a  black  gown, 
Sae  hoo  can  ye  wonner  he's  wearing  John's  shoon< 
Then  hoo  can  ye  wonner  he's  wearing  John's 

shoon, 
My  heart-strings  wi'  sorrow  were  a'  out  o'  tune; 
A  man  that  has  worth  and  twa  notes  at  com- 
man'. 
Can  sune  got  a  woman  to  tak  him  in  haun." 


WILLIAM    BEATTIE. 


Born  1793  — Died  1875. 


William  Beattie,   M.D.,  the    friend   and 
biographer  of  Thomas  Campbell,  was  born  in 
the  parish  of  Dalton,  Dumfriesshire,  Feb.  24, 
1793.     After  receiving  the  riuUments  of  his 
education  at   the  Clarencefield  Academy,  he 
entered  the  University  of  Edinburgh  in  1813, 
where  in  1820  he  took  the  degree  of  M.D.    He 
then  continued  his  studies  in  London  and  on 
the  Continent  for  ten  years,   when  he  com- 
menced practice  in  London,   where   he   ever 
afterward  continued  to  reside.    While  actively 
pursuing  his  profession,  Dr.  Beattie,  like  the 
late   Sir   Henry   Holland,   found    leisure   for 
literary  pursuits  and  foreign  travel.     His  first 
M'ork,  giving  an  account  of  a  four  years'  resi- 
dence in  Germany,  appeared  in  1827,  followed 
by  "John  Huss,  a  Poem."  Dr.  Beattie's  next 
poetical    publication,   "Polynesia,   a   Poem," 
celebrated  the  labours  of  the  missionaries  in 
the  South  Seas.     He  is  also  the  author  of  pro- 
fessional writings,  including  a  Latin  treatise 
on  pulmonary  consumption.    His  most  popu- 
lar work,  and  the  one  most  likely  to  keep  his 
name  before  the  public,  is  his  admirable  me- 
moir of  the  poet  Campbell,   whose  personal 
friendship  he  enjoyed  for  many  years.     It  was 
through  Dr.  Beattie's  persevering  efforts  that 
a  statue  of  Campbell  was  placed  in  Westminster 
Abbey.    His  latest  literary  work  was  an  enter- 


taining memoir,  published  in  1855,  of  William 
Henry  Bartlett,  whom  he  had  assisted  in  the 
preparation  of  several  of  his  illustrated  works. 
Dr.  Beattie  was  well  known  as  the  genial 
entertainer  of  men  of  letters,  as  a  contributor 
to  the  magazines,  as  rendering  professional 
services  gratuitously  to  authors  and  clergymen, 
and  as  a  hearty  lover  of  his  native  land.     At 
upwards  of  fourscore  years  of  age  he  continued 
to  mingle  in  the  literary  society  of  London, 
and  to  indulge  in  occasional  poetic  composi- 
tion.    He  was  much  esteemed  for  his  amiable 
character  and  ability  in   his  profession.     He 
died  at  his  residence  in  Portman  Square,  Lon- 
don, March  17,  1875,  aged  eighty -two  years, 
and  was  buried  at  Brighton  by  the  side  of  his 
wife,  to  whom  he  was  married  in  the  summer 
of  1822.     During  the  last  few  years   of  his 
life  Dr.   Beattie  amused  his  leisure  hours  in 
the  preparation  of  an   autobiography,  which 
it  is  to  be  hoped  that  his  literary  executors, 
one  of  whom  is  Dr.  Robert  Carruthers  of  In- 
verness, will  ere  long  give  to  the  world.    From 
his  residence  of  half  a  century  in  the  great 
metropolis,  and  his  wide  acquaintance  witii 
many  literary  and  distinguished  people,  such 
as  Samuel  Rogers,  Lady  Byron,  and  the  Coun- 
tess of  Blcssington,  it  can  hardly  fail  to  be  an 
attractive  book. 


134 


WILLIAM  BEATTIE. 


MONODY  OX  THE  DEATH  OF  THOMAS  CAMPBELL. 


Hark! — 'Tis  the  death -knell,    from   Bononia's 

shore, 2 
Startles  the  ear,  and  thrills  in  every  core! 
Pealed  from  these  cUffs,  the  echoes  of  our  own 
Catch,  and  prolong  the  melancholy  tone. 
As  fast  and  far  the  mournful  tidings  spread— 
"The  light  is  queuch'd— the  '  Bard  of  Hope'  is 

dead!" 

Campbell  is  dead!  and  Freedom  on  her  wall 
Shrieks — as  she  shrieked  at  Kosciusko's  fall! 
And  warrior-exiles,  as  the  dirge  they  hear, 
Heave  tlie  deep  sigh,  and  drojj  the  bitter  tear. 

Friends  of  the  poet ! — ye  to  whom  belong 
The  prophet's  fire — the  mystic  powers  of  song — 
On  you  devolves  the  sad  and  sacred  trust 
To  chant  the  requiem  o'er  a  brother's  dust ! 
His  kindred  shade  demands  the  kindred  tear — 
The  poets'  homage  o'er  a  poet's  bier! 
While  / — who  saw  the  \atal  flame  expire. 
And  heard  the  last  tones  of  that  bi-oken  lyre — 
Closed  the  dim  eye,  and  propp'd  the  drooping 

head — 
And  caught  the  spirit's  farewell  as  it  fled — 
With  your  high  notes  my  lowly  tribute  blend. 
And  mourn  at  once  the  poet  and  the  friend! 

Twice  twenty  summers  of  unclouded  fame 

Had  shed  their  lustre  on  our  poet's  name; 

And  found  him  over  arm'd,  and  in  the  van, 

To  guard  the  rights  and  dignity  of  man. 

On  Freedom's  altar  sacrificing  wealth. 

To  Science  consecrating  life  and  health; 

In  age  retaining  all  the  fire  of  youth — 

The  love  of  liberty,  the  thirst  for  truth — 

He  spent  his  days — improved  them  as  they  pass'd, 

And  still  reserved  the  brightest  for  the  last ! 

'T.vas  here — whei'e  Godfrey's    sullen   rampart 

frowns^ 
O'er  wave-worn  cliffs  and  cultivated  downs; 
Where  the  cool  breeze  a  bracing  freshness  throws, 
"WTiere  shade  and  solitude  invite  repose; 
And  whispering  elms,  in  soothing  cadence,  wave 
O'er  Churchill's  death-bed  and  Le  Sage's  grave^ — 
'Tvvas  here  our  poet — on  the  stranger's  soil, 

1  Written  at  Boulogne  shortly  after  the  poet's  decease, 
and  now  publislied  for  the  first  time. — Ed. 

2  Bononia  Galike — the  Ge.s.soriacum  of  antiquity,  or 
Boulogne-sur-Mer  of  the  present  day,  "  Gessoriacum 
quod  nunc  Bononia." 

*  Godfrey  (of  Bouillon),  whom  lus'.ory  represents  as 
having  been  born  in  the  citadel  of  Boulo^'iie,  not 
Bouillon  in  Lorraine. 

■•  Churchill— the  English  Juveual— died  at  Boulogne 


Retired  to  pause  from  intellectual  toil; 

Resign'd  the  well-fought  field,  with  honours  rife, 

To  trim  with  frugal  hand  the  lamp  of  life; 

To  solve  the  mystic  writing  on  the  wall — 

Adjust  his  mantle  ere  he  let  it  fall; 

Weigh  life's  gi'eat  question — commune  with  his 

heart. 
Then,  hail  the  welcome  signal  and  depart. 

And  here — tho'  health  decay'd — his   taste   still 

warm 
Conferr'd  on  all  it  touch'd  a  classic  charm; 
Dispell'd  the  gloom,  and  peopled  every  shade 
With  foi-ms  and  visions  brilliantly  portray'd. 
Thoughts  well  directed — i-eason  well  applied — 
Philosophy  with  cheering  faith  allied — 
Ins|)ired  a  fresh  and  healtlifvil  tone  of  mind 
That  braced  the  .sisirit  as  the  body  pined; 
While  freedom  strew'd  her  laurels  at  his  feet. 
And  song  and  science  dignified  I'etreat. 

But  soon  life's  current  darken'd  as  it  flow'd; 
Gladness  forsook  the  poet's  new  abode; 
His  hearth  grew  sad,  and  swiftly  pass'd  away 
The  cheerful  evening  of  his  well-spent  day ! 
The  books,  the  lyre,  the  lov'd  Achaian  strain, 
That  charm'd  the  fancy,  could  not  lull  the  pain. 
That  now,  in  fatal  ambush,  hour  by  hour 
Bore  witness  to  the  fever's  wasting  power. — 
Yet  pain,  depression,  anguish  never  wrung 
Complaint,  regret,  or  murmiu-  from  his  tongue : 
Or  if — amidst  his  pain,  a  tear,  a  sigh 
Rose  on  his  lip,  or  trembled  in  his  eye, — 
'Twas  when  sweet  memories  o'er  his  spirit  came, 
And  his  lips  mov'd  to  some  beloved  name, 
Which,  while  the  soul  was  yearning  to  depart, 
Still  kept  its  mansion  sacred  in  his  heart ! — 
But  else,  unmov'd,  he  watch'd  the  close  of  life— 
Brac'd  on  his  armour  for  the  final  .strife; 
Resolv'd  in  death,  to  fall  beneath  liis  shield, 
Conqueror — not  captive — to  resign  the  field. 

The  hour  arriv'd:  the  star  of  Hope  arose 

To  light  her  poet  to  his  last  repose! 

Life  ebbed  apace:  the  seraph,  stooping  down. 

Illumed  his  couch,  and  showed  the  future  crown. 

"  Welcome!"  she  whispered — "welcome  be  the 

hour 
That  clothes  my  votary  with  celestial  power! 
Enough  hast  thou  achieved  of  earthly  fame. 
To  gild  the  patriot's  and  the  poet's  name; 
Thou  hast  not  pandered  to  a  vicious  age, 
Nor  left  thy  sins  recorded  in  thy  page; 


in  17C4;  and  Le  Sage,  the  author  of  Gil  Bla.",  in  174T: 
"  Ici  est  mort  I'Auteur  de  Gil  Bias,  1747,"  is  engraved 
on  a  stone  over  the  door  of  his  house. 


WILLIAM   BEATTIE. 


135 


But,  kindred  with  the  source  from  which  it  came, 
Thy  song-  hath  minister'd  to  virtue's  flame. 
And  now — that  longer  life  were  lengthened  pain — 
In  brighter  realms  revive  the  hallowed  strain; 
That  heaven-born  genius  to  thy  keeping  given, 
Pure  and  unsullied,  render  back  to  heaven!" 
tSo  said — the  radiant  herald  waved  her  torch, 
And,   beckoning    onward,    showed    the    dismal 

porch — 
Death's  dreary  vale,  thro'  which  the  fleeting  soul 
Flies  to  its  fount,  like  streamers  to  the  pole. 

As  o'er  yon  headlands,^  where  the  sun  has  set, 

Beams  of  reflected  glory  linger  yet; 

So  now — to  gild  the  last  and  closing  scene — 

Fresh  on  the  poet's  cheek  and  brow  serene, 

The  setting  sun  of  life's  eventful  day 

Has  left  a  soft  and  sanctifying  ray! 

Campbell  is  dead! — dissolved  the  spirit's  bond — 
The  bourne  is  pa^t — and  all  is  light  beyond!* 
Dead — yet  not  silent! — still  to  memory  dear. 
His  latest  accents  linger  on  my  ear; 
His  words — his  looks,  like  spirits  from  the  urn — 
With  awful  force  and  tenderness  return; 
While  here  I  watch,  beside  the  breathless  clay. 
The  lines,  and  fleeting  hues  of  life  decay. 

All — all  is  changed ! — the  master-lyre  unstrung, 
Quenched  the  bright  eye,  and  mute  the  inspiring 

tongue. 
That  erst  with  generous  glow,  and  godlike  art. 
Subdued — exalted— sway 'd  the  stubborn  heart; 
Abashed  the  proud,  dispelled  the  exile's  fears. 
And  even  from  despots  wrung  reluctant  tears — 
In  British  hearts  infused  a  Spartan  zeal, 
That  stirred  our  spirits  like  a  trumpet-peal. 
Speak  thou,  Sarmatia!    When  the  spoiler's  hand 
With  blood  and  rapine  filled  thy  smiling  land — 
When  beauty  wept,  and  brave  men  bled  in  vain. 
And  reeking  slaughter  stalked  on  every  plain — 
Whose  voice  uprose? — as  with  a  mighty  charm, 
To  shield  the  weak  and  foil  the  despot's  arm — 
Whose  voice  first  taught  our  sympathies  to  flow 
In  streams  of  healing  through  a  lanrl  of  woe  ? 
'Twas  his!  'twas  Campbell's  soul-inspiring  chord, 
That  nerved  the  heart,  and  edged  the  Patriot's 

sword — 
That   changed— nor  faltered— nor  relaxed    the 

song. 
Till,  roused  to  vindicate  thy  nation's  wrong, 
Britannia,  seconding  her  poet's  art. 
Received  thy  band  of  heroes  to  her  heart; 
And  o'er  the  wreck  of  Freedom's  gory  field 
Threw  the  broad  shade  of  her  protecting  shield! 


1  The  headlands  alluded  to  aie  the  English  cliffs,  as 
fir  as  Beachy  Head:  the  sunset  over  which,  as  seen 
from  the  wniparts  of  Boulogne,  is  often  very  beautiful, 
and  was  strikingly  so  at  the  time  mentioned. 


He  loved  thee,  Poland!  with  unchanging  love; 
Shared  in  the  sorrows  he  could  not  remove! 
Revered  thy  virtues,  and  bewail'd  thy  woes; 
And — could  his  life  have  purchas'd  thy  repose — 
Proud  of  the  sacrifice,  he  would  have  bled, 
And  mingled  ashes  with  thy  mighty  dead! 

And  ye — who  in  the  sad  or  social  hour 

Have  seen,  and  felt  the  minstrel's  varied  power — 

Say  how  his  soul  rejoiced  with  you  to  share 

The  noon  of  sunshine,  or  the  night  of  care ! 

His  heart — to  tenderest  sympathies  awake — 

His  mind — transparent  as  the  summer  lake — 

Lent  all  his  actions  energy  and  grace,    ' 

And  stamped  their  manly  feelings  in  the  face — 

Feelings— no  sordid  aim  could  compromise — 

That  feared  no  foe,  and  needed  no  disguise. 

To  you  —his  cherished  friends  and  old  compeers — 
The  frank  companions  of  his  brightest  years; 
Whose  friendship  strengthened  as  acquaintance 

grew — 
Warmed — glowed,  as  fate  the  narrowing  circle 

drew ;  — 
To  you — a  mournful  messenger — I  bear 
The  minstrel's  blessing,  and  the  patriot's  prayer. 

"  Be  firm!-"  he  said;  "Freedom  shall  yet  strike 

home; 
Worth  shall  be  crowned— the  brave  shall  cease 

to  roam; 
The  exile  shall  i-egain  his  father's  hearth. 
And  Justice  recommence  her  reign  on  earth! 
Thrice  happy  days! — tho'  but  to  gild  my  ui"n — 
Fulfil  tho  prophecy — return!  return!" 

Britons!  when  next  in  Freedom's  wonted  hall 
Assembled  patriots  hold  high  festival; 
When,  face  to  face,  Sarmatia's  sons  j^e  meet — 
Miss  the  loved  voice,  and  mark  the  vacant  seat! 
When  thro'  the  soul  conflicting  passions  throng, 
Your  poet  vdW  be  present  in  his  song! 
His  spirit  will  be  there! — a  shadowy  guest — 
Unseen — unheard — but  felt  in  every  breast! 
He  will  be  there,  the  minstrel-chair  to  claim, 
And  fan  the  sparks  of  freedom  into  flame. — 

I  knew  him  well! — how  sad  to  say  /  liieir! 
That  word  alone  brings  all  my  loss  to  view — 
I  knew  his  \-irtues — ardently  and  long 
Admir'd  the  poet  for  his  moral  song; 
But  soon — when  closer  intercourse  began, 
I  found  tho  poet's  rival  in  the  Ma» — 
The  man,  who  blended  in  the  minstrel's  art 
The  brightest  genius  with  the  warmest  heart. 

And  thus  bereaved — in  this  her  two-fold  grief — 
Where  shall  the  mourning  spirit  find  relief  ? 
She  turns  instinctive  to  his  page,  and  hears 
The  voice  of  Hope,  trimnphant  in  her  tears! 
"Weep  not  for  him,''  she  cries,  "who  leaves 
behind 


133 


WILLIAM  BEATTIE. 


The  fruits  and  flowers  of  an  immortal  mind. 
Weep  not  for  him — the  minstrel  hath  a  part — 
A  living  home  in  every  kindred  heart! 
Fraught  with  high  powers,  his  lay  in  every  clime 
Still  warms  the  soul,  and  prompts  the  thought 
sublime. 

His  songs,  that  haunt  us  in  our  grief  and  joy, 
Time  shall  not  chill,  nor  death  itself  destroy! 
But,  long  as  love  can  melt,  or  hope  inspire 
One  heart  imbued  with  Nature's  hallowed  fire — 
So  long  the  lay — to  virtuous  feeling  true — 
Shall  breathe,  and  burn,  with  fervour  ever  new." 

Sweet  Bard  of  Hope! — Shrined  with  the  glorious 

dead, 
A  nation's  love  shall  guard  thy  hallow'd  bed ; 
While  patriots,  as  their  poet's  name  they  scan. 
Shall  pause,  and  proudly  say — "Here  lies  the  man 
Whose  upright  purpose,  force  nor  fraud  could 

bend; 
Who,  serving  Freedom,  served  her  to  the  end; 
Gave  to  her  sacred  cause  all  man  could  give, 
Nor  ceased  to  love  her,  till  he  ceased  to  live!' 

My  task  is  done;  nor  care  I  now  to  weigh 
What  praise  or  censure  may  await  my  lay: 
The  mournful  theme  had  better  poets  sung — 
This  voice  had  slept — this  harp  remained  vm- 

strung; 
Deep,  but   not  loud — as  warriors  mourn  then- 
chief — 
My  heart  had  grieved,  but  not  confessed  its  gi-icf. 
But  now — when  kindred  genius  stands  aloof 
And  friendship  calls  my  loyalty  to  j^roof ; 
Shall  I— tho'  least  of  England's  minstrels  here — 
Awake  no  requiem  at  her  poet's  bier  ? — 
But,  coldly  mute,  renounce  the  saddest  part  ? 
No!  silence  now  were  treason  to  the  heart! 
Grief  must  have  voice — the  wounded  spirit  vent — 
The  debt  be  paid — before  my  day  is  spent : 
And  if — at  friendship's  call — the  numbers  flow 
In  seemly  warmth — 'tis  sorrow  gives  the  glow.i 


LINES   OX   A   rORTRAIT.^ 

Well  bath  the  master's  hand  depicted  here 
The  worth  we  love,  the  veteran  we  revere! 

'  Ilaviiig  watched  at  the  poet's  beUside— (lining  the 
last  ten  <lays  of  his  life- the  writer  has  described 
several  circumstances  attendin,::;  the  closing  scene,  with 
as  much  fidelity  as  he  could  ;  and  the  j  oem — if  it 
deserves  the  name— was  written  partly  in  the  death- 
chamber,  and  altogether  in  the  house,  of  the  lamented 
poet.  This  fact  may  account  for  various  allusions  in 
the  text,  which  to  the  general  reader  would  otherwise 
appear  obscure  or  overwrought.  But  it  is  to  the 
l)iographer   that   this   affecting   period — the   last    few 


Genius  by  geniu.s,  mind  by  kindred  mind: 
Science  by  science,  truthfully  defined. 
The  features  speak:  the  canvas  seems  to  live 
With  all  the  glow  that  finished  art  can  give. 

Apollo  answered:  and,  with  smile  benign, 

Said:  "  Painter  and  physician — both  are  mine. 

This,  witii  a  Nestor's  wisdom  I  inspire; 

And  that,  with  all  a  Zeuxis  could  desire. 

By  my  liivine  'afflatus'  I  reveal-^ 

The  soul  to  paint;  the  sacred  power  to  heal. 

Patron  of  arts,  god  of  the  silver  bow. 

To  me  tlieir  skill,  their  excellence  tiiey  owe.'' — 

He  said;   then,  soaring  to  Olympus'  height. 
Around  the  picture  threw  a  flood  of  light. 

Watson!  Avhen  closed  alongand  bright  career: 
When  missed  and  mourned  by  friends  and  col- 
leagues here: 
Be  thine,  no  sacred  duty  left  undone. 
To  hail  the  rising,  in  the  setting,  sun! 
In  hope  rejoicing,  take  the  "promised  rest," 
And  leave  thy  monument  in  every  breast. 


EVENING   HYMN   OF   THE  ALPINE 
SHEPHERDS. 

Brothers,  the  day  declines, 

Above,  the  glacier  brightens; 
Through  hills  of  waving  pines 

The  "vesper-halo"  lightens! 
Now  wake  the  welcome  chorus 

To  Him  our  sires  adored; 
To  Him  who  watcheth  o'er  us; — 

Ye  shepherds,  praise  the  Lord.* 

From  each  tower's  embattled  crest 

The  vesper-bell  has  toll'd; 
'Tis  the  hour  that  bringeth  rest 

To  the  shepherd  and  his  fold: 


months  of  the  poet's  life— will  present  a  series  of  parti- 
culars which,  if  recorded,  can  hardly  fail  to  a«akeu  a 
deep  and  lasting  interest  in  a  reflecting  mind. 

-  In  a  letter  to  the  Editor,  dated  March,  1S73,  Dr. 
Beattie  remarks,  "I  inclose  unpublished  lines  on  a 
celebrated  portrait  of  our  President  of  tlie  Royal  Col- 
lege of  Physicians  (Sir  Thomas  Watson,  Bart.),  whiih 
my  colleagues  have  received  with  gratifying  indulgence. 
—Ed. 

3  Nemo  vir  magnu;  sine  offialii  aHquo  diiino  unquam 
fuit. 

^  Every  evening  at  sunset  "Ye  shepherds,  praise  the 
Lord"  was  sung,  and  repeated  from  cliff  to  cliff,  until 
every  voice  joined  in  the  chorus. 


HENEY   FRANCIS   LYTE. 


137 


From  hamlet,  rock,  ami  cliulet 
Let  our  evening  song  be  poiir'il. 

Till  mountain,  rock,  and  valley 
lle-eeho — Praise  the  Lord! 

Praise  the  Lord,  who  made  and  gave  us 

Our  glorious  mountain-land! 
Who  deigned  to  shield  and  save  us 

From  the  despot's  iron  hand: 
With  the  bread  of  life  He  feeds  us; 

Enlightened  by  His  Word, 
Through  pastures  green  He  leads  us; — 

Ye  shepherds,  praise  the  Lord! 

And  hark!  below,  aloft, 

From  cliffs  that  pierce  the  cloud. 


From  blue  lakes,  calm  and  soft 

As  a  virgin  in  her  shroud; 
New  strength  our  antliem  gatiiers. 

From  alp  to  alp  'tis  poured; 
So  sang  our  sainted  fathers; — 

Ye  shepherds,  praise  the  Lord! 

Praise  the  Lord!  from  flood  and  fell 

Let  the  voice  of  old  and  young, — 
All  the  strength  of  Appenzel, 

True  of  heart  and  sweet  of  tongue,- 
The  grateful  theme  prolong 

With  souls  in  soft  accord. 
Till  von  stars  take  up  our  song — 

Hallelujah  to  the  Lord! 


HENEY    FEANCIS    LYTE, 


Born  1793  — Died  1847. 


Fifty  years  ago  Professor  Wilson  wrote: 
"  Have  you  seen  a  little  A'olume,  entitled 
'Talcs  in  Yerse,  by  the  Pvev.  H.  F.  Lyte,' 
which  seems  to  have  reached  a  second  edition? 
Kow  that  is  the  right  kind  of  religious  poetry. 
Mr.  Lyte  shows  how  the  sins  and  sorrows  of 
men  flow  from  irreligion,  in  simple  yet  strong 
domestic  narrations,  told  in  a  style  and  spirit 
reminding  one  sometimes  of  Goldsmith  and 
sometimes  of  Crabbe.  A  volume  so  humble 
in  its  appearance  and  pretensions  runs  the  risk 
of  being  jostled  off  the  highway  into  by-paths; 
and  indeed  no  harm  if  it  should,  for  in  such 
retired  places  it  will  be  pleasant  reading- 
pensive  in  the  shade,  and  cheerful  in  the  sun- 
shine.    Mr.  Lyte  has  reaped 

"  'The  harvest  of  a  quiet  eye. 

That  broods  and  sleeps  on  its  own  heart ;' 

and   his   Christian   tales   will    be   read   with 

interest  and  instruction  by  many  a  fireside. 

'  The  Brothers'  is  exceedingly  beautiful.     He 

ought  to  give  us  another  volume." 

The  gentle  poet,  who  did  "give  us  another 

volume,"  stands  next  to  James  Thomson  on 

the  roll  of  sacred  Border  poets.     They  were 

both  natives  of  Ednam,  a  village  beautifully 

situated  on  the  Eden,  a  tributary  of  the  Tweed. 

He  was  the  second  son  of  Captain  Thomas 

Lyte,   and  was  born  June  1,  1793.     Though 


of  somewhat  gentle  blood,  and  having  all  the 
early  advantage  of  a  loving  mother's  influence 
and  holy  lessons,  he  was  soon  made  to  feel  the 
misery  of  narrow  resources.      He,    however, 
finally  entered  Trinity  College,  Dublin,  matri- 
culating there,  and  carrying  off  on  three  occa- 
sions the  English  prize  poem.     He  took  holy 
orders  in  Ireland,  and  v.as  called  to  a  desolate 
and  dreary  Irish  curacy.    After  several  changes 
he  settled  in  the  quiet  little  town  of  Marazion, 
Cornwall,  on  the  shores  of  the  beautiful  Bay  of 
Mount  St.  Michael.   Here  he  married  Miss  .Ynnc 
Maxwell,   and  finally  removed  to  the  parish 
of  Brixham,   Devonshire,  where  he  laboured 
acceptably  and  successfully  for  twenty  years. 
It   was  here  that  he  composed  most  of  his 
hymns,  so  remarkable  for  their  pure  Christian 
sentiment  and  simplicity  of  diction,  and  which 
are  held  in  high  estimation  by  all  sections  of 
the  Christian  Church.      Some  of  them  were 
written  "from  under  the  cloud" — clouds  of 
personal  suffering,  clouds  of  pastoral  difficulty 
and  discouragement. 

Failing  health  induced  Lyte  to  seek  for  a 
time  a  milder  climate  in  the  south  of  Europe. 
Before  his  departure  he  preached  on  the  "  Holy 
Communion,"  and  it  was  solemnly  significant 
to  hear  their  dying  pastor  say,  "0  brethren! 
I  can  speak  feelingly,  experimentally,  on  this 


138 


HENKY   FEANCIS   LYTE. 


point;  and  I  stand  here  among  you  seasonably 
to-da}'  as  alive  from  tlio  dead,  if  I  may  hope 
to  impress  it  upon  you,  and  induce  you  to 
prepare  for  that  solemn  hour  wliicli  must  come 
to  all,  by  a  timely  acquaintance  with,  appre- 
ciation of,  dependence  on,  the  death  of  Christ." 
This  was  his  last  appeal,  and  for  the  last  time 
he  dispensed  the  sacred  elements  to  his  sor- 
rowing flock;  and  then,  exhausted  with  his 
eifort,  he  retired  with  a  soul  in  sweet  repose 
on  that  Saviour  whom  he  had  preached  with 
his  dying  breath;  and  as  the  evening  drew 
on  he  handed  to  a  near  relative  his  undying 
hymn — 

"Abide  with  me!    Fast  falls  the  eventide," 


which  has  taken  its  place  in  nearly  all  the 
sacred  collections  of  tiie  Protestant  English- 
speaking  world.  It  was  written  in  September, 
1847,  and  it  was  his  last  hymn  upon  earth. 
A  few  days  later  he  reached  Nice,  and  tiiere, 
on  November  20,  the  spirit  of  the  sweet  singer 
entered  into  rest.  After  his  death  a  volume 
was  published  containing  a  memoir  of  the 
faithful  pastor  and  preacher,  together  with  a 
selection  of  his  poems  and  hymns.  Another 
beautiful  hymn,  beginning  "Jesus,  I  my  cross 
have  taken/'  the  authorship  of  which  has  been 
erroneously  attributed  to  James  Montgomery 
and  ethers,  was  written  by  Lyte  in  the  year 
1833. 


EVENING. 

Sweet  evening-  hour!  sweet  evening  hour! 
That  calms  the  air,  and  shuts  the  ilower; 
That  brings  the  wild  bird  to  her  nest, 
The  infant  to  its  mother's  breast. 

Sweet  hour!  that  bids  the  labourer  cease, 
That  g-ives  the  weary  team  release, 
That  leads  them  home,  and  crowns  them  there 
With  rest  and  shelter,  food  and  care. 

O  season  of  soft  sounds  and  hues, 
Of  twilight  walks  among  the  dews, 
Of  feelings  calm,  and  converse  sweet, 
And  thoughts  too  shadowy  to  repeat ! 

The  weeping  eye,  that  loathes  the  day. 
Finds  peace  beneath  thy  soothing  sway; 
And  fdith  and  prayer,  o'ermastering  grief, 
Burst  forth,  and  bring  the  heart  relief. 

Yes,  lovely  hour!  thou  art  the  time 
When  feelings  flow,  and  wishes  climb; 
When  timid  souls  begin  to  dare, 
And  God  receives  and  answers  praj'er. 

Then  trembling  tlirough  the  dewy  skies, 
Look  out  the  stars,  like  thoughtful  eyes 
Of  angels,  calm  reclining  there, 
And  gazing  on  this  world  of  care. 

Then,  as  the  earth  recedes  from  sight, 
Heaven  seems  to  ope  her  fields  of  light. 
And  call  the  fettered  soul  above. 
From  sin  and  grief,  to  peace  and  love. 

Sweet  hour!  for  heavenly  musing  made — 
When  Isaac  walked,  and  Daniel  prayed; 


When  Abram's  offering  God  did  own; 
And  Jesus  loved  to  be  alone. 

Who  has  not  felt  that  Evening's  hour 
Draws  forth  devotion's  tenderest  power; 
That  guardian  spirits  round  us  stand. 
And  God  himself  seems  most  at  hand  ? 

The  very  birds  cry  shame  on  men, 
And  chide  their  selfish  silence,  then: 
The  flowers  on  high  their  incense  send; 
And  earth  and  heaven  unite  and  blend. 

Let  others  hail  the  rising  day: 
I  praise  it  when  it  fades  away; 
When  life  assumes  a  higher  tone, 
And  God  and  heaven  are  all  my  own. 


ON  A  NAVAL  OFFICER  BUKIED  IN 
THE  ATLANTIC. 

There  is,  in  the  wide  lone  sea, 
A  spot  unmarked,  but  holy; 
For  there  the  gallant  and  the  free 
In  his  ocean  bed  hes  lowly. 

Down,  down,  within  the  deep. 
That  oft  to  triumph  bore  him, 
He  sleeps  a  sound  and  pleasant  sleep. 
With  the  salt  waves  washing  o'er  him. 

He  sleeps  serene,  and  safe 
From  tempest  or  from  billow, 
Where  the  storms,  that  high  above  him  chafe. 
Scarce  rock  his  peaceful  pillow. 

The  sea  and  him  in  death 
They  did  not  dare  to  sever: 


HENEY   FRANCIS   LYTE. 


139 


It  was  his  home  while  he  had  breath; 
'Tis  now  his  rest  for  ever. 

Sleep  on,  thou  mighty  dead! 
A  glorious  tomb  they've  found  thee. 
The  broad  blue  sky  above  thee  spread, 
The  boundless  waters  round  thee. 

No  vulgar  foot  treads  here; 
No  hand  profane  shall  move  thee; 
But  gallant  fleets  shall  proudly  steer, 
And  warriors  shout,  above  thee. 

And  when  the  last  trump  shall  sound. 
And  tombs  are  asunder  riven, 
Like  the  morning  sun  from  the  wave  thou'lt 
bound, 
To  rise  and  shine  in  heaven. 


GRACE  DARLING'S  DEATH-BED. 

0  wipe  the  death-dews  from  her  brow  I— prop 

up  her  sinking  head  I  — 
And  let  the  sea-breeze  on  her  face  its  welcome 

fresliness  shed! 
She  loves  to  see  the  western  sun  pour  glory 

o'er  the  deep; 
And  the  music  of  the  rippling  waves  may  sing 

her  into  sleep. 
Her  lieart   has  long,   'mid   other  scenes,  for 

these  poured  out  the  sigh ; 
And   now  back   to  her  Higliland  home  she 

comes— but  comes  to  die. 

Yes,  fearful  in  its  loveliness,  that  cheek's  pro- 
phetic bloom; 

That  lustrous  eye  is  lighted  from  a  world 
beyond  the  tomb; 

Those  thin  transparent  fingers,  that  hold  the 
book  of  prayer; 

That  form,  which  melts  like  summer  snow, 
too  plainly  speak  despair. 

And  they  that  tend  around  her  bed,  oft  turn 
to  wipe  the  tear 

That  starts  forth,  as  they  view  her  thus,  so 
fleeting,  and  so  dear. 

Not  such  was  she  that  awful  night  when  o'er 

North  umbria's  foam 
The  shipwrecked  seaman's  cry  was  heard  within 

that  rocky  home. 
Amid  the  pauses  of  the  storm   it   loud  and 

louder  came. 
And  tiirilled  into  her  inmost  soul,  and  nerved 

her  fragile  frame: 
"Oh,  father,  let  us  launch  the  boat,  and  try 

their  lives  to  save." 


"  Be  still,  my  child,  we  should  but  go  to  share 
their  watery  grave." 

Again  tliey  shriek.      "Oh,  fatiicr,  come,  tiie 

Lord  our  guide  will  be: 
A  word  from  him  can  stay  tiic  blast,  and  tame 

the  raging  sea." 
x\nd  lo!  at  length  her  plea  prevails;  their  skiff 

is  on  the  wave. 
Protect  them,  gracious  Heaven!   protect  the 

gentle,  kind,  and  brave! 
They  reach  the  rock,  and,  wond'rous  sight  to 

those  they  succour  there, 
A  feeble  girl  achieving  more  tiian  boldest  men 

would  dare! 

Again,  again  her  venturous  bark  bounds  o'er 

the  foaming  tide; 
Again  in  safety  goes  and  comes  beneath  its 

heavenly  guide. 
Nor  shrinks  that  maid's  heroic  heart,  nor  fails 

her  willing  hand. 
Till  all  the  remnant  of  the  wreck  are  ferried 

safe  to  land. 
The  cord  o'erstrung  relaxes  then,  and   tears 

begin  to  fall; — 
But  tears  of  love  and  praise  to  Him  whose 

mercy  saved  them  all. 

A  deed  like  this  could  not  be  hiel.      Upon  tlie 

wings  of  fame, 
To  every  corner  of  our  if.le,  flew  forth  Grace 

Darling's  name; 
And  tongues  were  loud  in  just  applause,  and 

bosoms  highly  beat. 
And  tributes  from  the  great  and  good  were 

lavished  at  her  feet; 
While  she,  who  braved  the  midnight  blast, 

and  rode  the  stormy  swell. 
Shrank  timid,  trembling,  from  the  praise  that 

she  had  earned  so  well. 

Why  did  they  tempt  her  forth  to  scenes  she  ill 
^  was  formed  to  share] 

Why  bid  her  face  the  curious  crowd,  the  ques- 
tion, and  the  stare? 

She  did  not  risk  her  life  that  night  to  earn  the 
world's  applause: 

Her  own  heart's  impulse  sent  her  forth  in 
pitv's  holy  cause. 

And  richly  were  her  toils  repaid,  and  well  her 
soul  content 

With  the  sweet  thought  of  duty  done,  of  suc- 
cour timely  lent. 

Ilcr  tender  spirit  sinks  apace.     Oh,  bear  the 

drooping  flower 
Back  to  its  native  soil  again— its  own  secluded 

bower! 


140 


HENRY   FRANCIS  LYTE. 


Amidst  admiring  multitudes,  she  sighs  for 
home  and  rest: 

Let  the  meek  turtle  fulJ  her  wing  witliin  her 
own  wild  nest; 

And  drink  the  sights  and  sounds  she  loves, 
and  breathe  her  wonted  air, 

And  find  with  them  a  quiet  hour  for  thought- 
fulness  and  prayer! 

And  she  has  reached  her  sea-girt  liomc— and 

she  can  smile  once  more; 
But  ah!  a  faint  and  moonlight  smile,  without 

the  glow  of  yore! 
The  breeze  breathes  not  as  once  it  did  upon 

her  fevered  brow; 
The  waves  talk  on,  but  in  her  breast  awake  no 

echoes  now; 
For  vague  and  flickering  are  her  thoughts,  her 

soul  is  on  the  wing 
For  Heaven,  and  has  but  little  heed  for  earth 

or  earthly  thing. 

"My  father,  dost  thou  hear  their  shriek?  dost 

hear  their  drowning  cry?" 
"No,  dearest,  no;  'twas  but  the  scream  of  the 

curlew  flitting  by." 
Poor  panting,    fluttering,    hectic   thing,    thy 

tossings  soon  will  cease; 
Thou  art  passing  through  a  troubled  sea,  but 

to  a  land  of  peace! 
And  He,  who  to  a  shipwrecked  world  brought 

rescue,  O  may  He 
Be  near  thy  dying  pillow  now,  sweet  Grace,  to 

succour  thee! 


"LO,  WE   HAVE   LEFT   ALL,  AND 
FOLLOWED   THEE." 

Jesus,  I  my  cross  have  taken, 

All  to  leave  and  follow  thee; 
Destitute,  despised,  forsaken, 

Thou  from  hence  my  all  ghalt  be. 
Perish  every  fond  ambition, 

All  I've  sought,  or  hoped,  or  knowai; 
Yet  how  rich  is  my  condition, — 

God  and  heaven  are  still  my  own! 

Let  the  world  despise  and  leave  me; 

They  have  left  my  Saviour  too; 
Human  hearts  and  looks  deceive  me: 

Thou  art  not,  like  them,  untrue; 
And  while  Thou  shalt  smile  upon  me, 

God  of  wisdom,  love,  and  might, 
Foes  may  hate,  and  friends  may  shun  me : 

Show  thy  face,  and  all  is  bright! 

Go  then,  earthly  fame  and  treasure! 
Come,  disaster,  scorn,  and  pain! 


In  Thy  service  pain  is  pleasure; 

With  Thy  favour,  loss  is  gain. 
I  have  called  thee  Abba.,  Father; 

I  have  stayed  my  heart  on  Thee : 
Sto:*ms  may  howl,  and  clouds  may  gather; 

All  must  work  for  good  to  me. 

Man  may  trouble  and  distress  me; 

'Twill  but  drive  me  to  Thy  breast. 
Life  with  trials  hard  may  press  me; 

Heaven  will  bring  me  sweeter  rest. 
Oh,  'tis  not  in  grief  to  harm  me! 

While  Thy  love  is  left  to  me! 
Oh,  'twere  not  in  joy  to  charm  me. 

Were  that  joy  unmixed  with  Thee. 

Take,  my  soul,  thy  full  salvation; 

Rise  o'er  sin,  and  fear,  and  care; 
Joy  to  find  in  every  station 

Something  still  to  do  or  bear! 
Think  what  Spirit  dwells  within  thee; 

What  a  Father's  smile  is  thine; 
What  a  Saviour  died  to  win  thee, — 

Child  of  Heaven,  shouldst  thou  repine '< 

Haste  then  on  from  grace  to  glory, 

Armed  by  faith,  and  winged  by  prayer; 
Heaven's  eternal  day's  before  thee; 

God's  own  hand  shall  guide  thee  there. 
Soon  shall  close  thy  earthly  mission; 

Swift  shall  pass  thy  pilgrim  days; 
Hope  soon  change  to  full  fruition. 

Faith  to  sight,  and  prayer  to  praise. 


ABIDE   WITH  ME. 

Abide  with  me!     Fast  falls  the  eventide; 
The  darkness  deepens:  Lord,  with  me  abide! 
When  other  helpers  fail,  and  comforts  flee, 
Help  of  the  helpless,  0  abide  with  me! 

Swift  to  its  close  ebbs  out  life's  little  day; 
Earth's  joys  grow  dim;  its  glories  pass  away; 
Change  and  decay  in  all  around  I  see; 
0  Thou,  who  changest  not,  abide  with  me! 

Not  a  brief  glance  I  beg,  a  passing  word. 
But  as  Thou  dwell'st  with  thy  disciples.  Lord, 
Familiar,  condescending,  patient,  free, 
Come,  not  to  sojourn,  but  abide,  with  me! 

Come  not  in  terrors,  as  the  King  of  kings; 
But  kind  and  good,  with  healing  in  thy  wings; 
Tears  for  all  woes,  a  heart  for  every  plea, — 
Come,Friendof  sinners,and  thus  abide  with  me! 

Thou  on  my  head  in  early  youth  didst  smile, 
And,though  rebellious  and  perverse  meanwhile. 


JOHN  GIBSON   LOCKHART. 


141 


Thou  hast  not  left  me.  oft  as  I  left  Thee. 
Ou  to  the  close,  0  Lord,  abide  with  me! 

I  need  Thy  presence  every  passing  hour. 
What  but  Thy  grace  can  foil  the  Tempter's 

power  ? 
Who  like  Thyself  mj'  guide  and  stay  can  be? 
Through  cloud  and  sunshine,  O  abide  withuie! 

I  fear  no  foe  ■with  Thee  at  hand  to  bless : 
Ills  have  no  weight,  and  tears  no  bitterness. 


AVhere  is  death's  sting?  where,  grave,  thy  vic- 
tory? 
I  triumph  still,  if  Thou  abide  with  me. 

Hold  Thou  Thy  cross  before  my  closing  eyes; 
Shine  through  the  gloom,  and  point  me  to  the 

skies: 
Heaven's  morning   breaks,  and   earth's  vain 

shadows  flee. 
In  life,  in  death,  0  Lord,  abide  with  mc! 


JOHN    GIBSON    LOCKHAET. 


Born  1794  — Died  1854. 


John  Gibson  Lockhart,  a  poet  of  fine  genius 
and  a  distinguished  miscellaneous  writer,  was 
born  in  the  manse  of  Cambusnethan,  near 
Glasgow,  June  12,  1794.  From  both  his 
parents  he  inherited  an  honourable  descent. 
His  father,  the  Itev.  Dr.  John  Lockhart,  who 
for  nearly  fifty  years  was  minister  of  Black- 
friars'  Church,  Glasgow,  was  well  known  for 
his  remarkable  Avit  and  extreme  absence  of 
mind — two  qualities  which  are  seldom  found 
united  in  the  same  character.  Of  this  pious 
and  amiable  divine  John  Gib.son  Lockhart  was 
the  second  son,  and  the  eldest  by  a  second  mar- 
riage, his  mother  having  been  a  daughter  of 
the  Eev.  Dr.  Gibson,  one  of  the  ministers  of 
Edinburgh.  At  an  early  age  he  prosecuted 
his  studies  at  the  University  of  Glasgow,  and 
with  such  success  that  he  received  one  of  the 
richest  tokens  of  approval  in  a  Snell  exhibition 
to  Baliol  College,  Oxford.  Here  lie  could  pro- 
secute with  increased  facilities  those  classical 
studies  to  which  he  was  most  addicted.  At 
his  graduation,  in  his  eighteenth  year,  he  was 
numbered  in  the  first  class — an  honour  rarely 
attained  by  the  most  accomplished  Oxonians. 

His  studies  at  Baliol,  which  were  directed 
to  the  law,  were  followed  by  a  continental 
tour,  and  on  his  return  to  Scotland  he  Avas 
called  to  the  bar  in  1816.  It  Avas,  however, 
soon  evident  that  Lockhart  Avas  not  likely  to 
Avin  fame  or  fortune  by  the  profession  of  an 
advocate — he  could  not  make  a  speech.  Had 
his  success  depended  upon  Avriting,  or  on  pic- 


torial pleading,  he  would  have  been  the  most 
persuasive  of  sijent  orators,  for  during  the  trial 
of  a  cause  his  pen  was  occupied,  not  in  taking 
notes,  but  in  sketching  caricatures  of  the  pro- 
ceedings, the  drollery  of  Avhich  Avould  have 
overcome  both  judge  and  jury.  As  it  was  he 
proved  a  briefless  barrister,  and  decided  to 
abandon  law  for  literature.  He  made  a  happy 
allusion  to  this  strange  professional  infirmity 
at  a  dinner  Avhich  Avas  given  by  his  friends  in 
Edinburgh  on  his  departure  to  assume  the 
charge  of  the  Quarterly  Bevlem.  He  attempted 
to  address  them,  and  broke  doAvn  as  usual,  but 
coA'ered  his  retreat  Avith,  "  Gentlemen,  you 
knoAv  that  if  I  could  speak  A\'e  Avould  not  have 
been  here." 

In  1817  Blackwood's  Magazine  was  estab- 
lished, and  Lockhart  became,  Avith  John  Wil- 
son, the  principal  contributor.  It  Avas  now 
that  the  Avhole  torrent  of  thought,  Avhich  the 
bar  may  have  kept  in  check,  burst  forth  in 
full  profusion.  Eloquence,  and  wit,  and  learn- 
ing distinguished  his  articles,  and  imparted 
a  character  to  the  Avork  Avhicli  it  long  after 
retained;  but  unfortunately  Avitli  these  attrac- 
tive qualities  there  Avas  often  mingled  a  caus- 
ticity of  satire  and  fierceness  of  censure  that 
engendered  much  bad  feeling  and  hatred.  In 
1819  Lockhart's  first  separate  publication 
appeared,  entitled  Piter's  Letters  to  his  Kins- 
folk— a  Avork  in  Avhich  an  imaginary  Dr.  Morris 
gives  a  series  of  eloquent,  vigorous,  and  truth- 
ful sketches  of  the  more  distinguished  literary 


142 


JOHN   GIBSON   LOCKHART. 


Scotchmen  of  the  period.  Of  this  volume  Sir 
Walter  Scott  thus  wrote  to  its  author: — "  Wliat 
an  acquisition  it  would  have  been  to  our  gene- 
ral information  to  have  had  such  a  work 
■written,  I  do  not  say  fifty,  but  even  five-and- 
twenty  years  ago;  and  how  much  of  grave  and 
gay  might  then  have  been  preserved,  as  it  were, 
in  amber  which  have  now  mouldered  away ! 
When  I  think  tiiat,  at  an  age  not  much  younger 
than  yours,  I  knew  Black,  Ferguson,  Robert- 
son, Erskine,  Adam  Smith,  John  Home,  &c., 
and  at  least  saw  Burns,  I  can  appreciate  better 
than  any  one  the  value  of  a  work  which,  like 
this,  would  have  handed  them  down  to  poste- 
rity in  their  living  colours." 

In  1820  Lockliart  married  Sophia,  Sir  Wal- 
ter's eldest  daughter.  Tlie  marriage  took  place 
at  Edinburgh,  and  the  "Great  Unknown," 
who  was  the  worshipper  as  well  as  recorder  of 
good  old  Scottish  fashions,  caused  the  wedding 
to  be  held  in  the  evening,  and  "gave  a  jolly 
supper  afterwards  to  all  the  friends  and  con- 
nections df  the  young  couple."  Lockhart  and 
Ills  M'ife  took  up  their  abode  at  the  little  cot- 
tage of  Chiefswood,  about  two  miles  from 
Abbotsford,  which  became  their  usual  summer 
residence;  and  thither  Sir  AValter,  Mlien  inun- 
dated by  sightseers  and  hero-worshippers,  Avas 
occasionally  glad  to  escape,  that  he  might 
breathe  in  a  tranquil  atmosphere,  and  write  a 
chapter  of  the  novel  that  was  in  hand,  to 
despatch  to  the  Edinburgh  publisher. 

Continuing  to  furnish  varied  and  sparkling 
contributions  to  Blackwood,  Lockhart  now 
began  to  exhibit  powers  of  prolific  authorship. 
In  the  course  of  a  few  years  he  produced 
Valerius,  one  of  the  most  classical  tales  de- 
scriptive of  ancient  Rome  and  the  manners  of 
its  people  which  the  English  language  has  as 
yet  embodied,  .\fter  this  came  Adam  Blair, 
a  tale  which,  in  spite  of  its  impossible  termi- 
nation, so  opposed  to  all  Scottish  canon  law, 
abounds  with  the  deepest  feeling  as  Avell  as 
descriptive  power.  Tlic  next  Avas  Eetjinald 
Dalton,  a  three-volume  novel,  in  which  he 
largely  brought  forward  his  reminiscences  of 
student  life  at  Oxford,  and  the  town-and-gown 
affrays  Avith  Avhich  it  Avas  enlivened.  The  last 
of  this  series  of  novels  Avas  Mattliew  Wald, 
Avhich  fully  sustained  the  high  character  of 
its  predecessors.  In  1823  he  came  forth  in  a 
new  character    by  his  translations  from  the 


Spanish  ballads ;  and  such  Avas  the  classical 
taste,  melody  of  versification,  and  rich  com- 
mand of  language  Avhicli  these  translations 
evinced,  that  the  regret  Avas  general  that  he 
had  not  been  more  exclusively  a  poet,  instead 
of  a  prose  Avriter.  Tickner,  in  his  Historij  of 
Spanish  Lilerature,  characterizes  the  collection 
as  "  the  admirably  spirited  translations  of 
Mr.  Lockhart.  ...  A  Avork  of  genius 
beyond  any  of  the  sort  known  to  me  in  any 
language;"  and  the  historian  Brescott  alludes 
to  the  poems  as  "Mr.  Lockhart's  picturesque 
version  of  the  Moorish  ballads." 

Lockhart's  next  publications  Avere  in  the 
department  of  biography,  in  Avhich  he  gave 
an  earnest  of  his  fitness  to  be  the  literary 
executor  and  biographer  of  his  illustrious 
father-in-hiAv;  these  Avere  the  Life  of  Boherl 
Burns  and  the  Lfe  of  Napoleon  Bonaparte. 
At  this  period  he  resided  in  Edinburgh,  spend- 
ing some  of  the  summer  months  at  the  cottage 
of  ChiefsAvood.  The  varied  attainments  of 
Lockhart,  and  the  distinction  he  had  Avon  in  so 
many  departments  of  authorship,  obtained  for 
him  at  the  close  of  1825  the  editorship  of  the 
Quarterly  Bevlew,  the  great  champion  of 
Toryism,  a  position  for  Avhich  he  Avas  admir- 
ably fitted,  and  Avhich  he  held  for  more  than  a 
quarter  of  a  century.  On  the  death  of  Sir 
AValter  in  1832  he  became  his  literary  executor, 
and  in  1838  published  the  memoirs  of  his 
father  In-laAv,  Avhich  is  one  of  the  most  inter- 
esting biographies  in  the  language,  and  Avill 
probably  remain  the  best-known  and  most 
enduring  of  Lockhart's  productions.  During 
the  latter  years  of  his  life  his  health  Avas 
greatly  impaired;  but  for  this  his  intellectual 
exertions,  as  Avell  as  family  calamities  and 
bereavements,  Avill  sufficiently  account.  In 
the  last  volume  of  Scott's  memoirs  Lockhart 
thus  mournfully  Avrites: — "Death  has  laid  a 
heavy  hand  upon  that  circle — as  happy  a  circle, 
I  believe,  as  ever  met.  Bright  eyes  now  closed 
in  dust,  gay  voices  for  ever  silenced  seem  to 
haunt  me  as  I  Avrite.  .  .  .  She  Avhom  I 
may  noAV  sadly  record  as,  next  to  Sir  AValter 
himself,  the  chief  ornament  and  delight  at  all 
those  simple  meetings — she  to  Avhose  love  I 
OAved  my  place  in  them — Scott's  eldest  daugh- 
ter, the  one  of  all  his  children  Avho  in  counte- 
nance, mind,  and  manners  most  resembled 
himself,  and  Avho  indeed  Avas  as  like  in  all 


JOHN   GIBSON   LOCKHART. 


143 


things  as  a  gentle,  innocent  woman  can  ever  be 
to  a  great  man,  deeply  tried  and  skilled  in  the 
struggles  and  perplexities  of  active  life — she 
too  is  no  more." 

In  the  summer  of  1853  Locl^hart  resigned 
his  editorship,  and  spent  the  following  winter 
in  Italj-;  but  the  maladies  under  Avhich  he 
laboured,  like  Scott's,  although  assuaged  for  a 
time,  came  back  with  renewed  violence  on  his 
i-eturn  home.     Arranging  his  affairs  in  Lon- 


don he  left  it  never  to  return,  and  went  to 
reside  witli  his  elder  brother,  :Mr.  Lockhart, 
M.P.,  at  Milton  of  Lockhart,  near  Lanark. 
Here  his  strength  rapidly  failed,  and  he  was 
removed  to  Abbotsford,  that  his  dying  pillow 
might  be  smoothed  by  his  only  surviving  child, 
Mi-s.  Hope  Scott.  Here  he  breathed  his  last 
November  25,  1854,  in  his  sixty -first  year. 
His  remains  were  interred  in  Dryburgh  Abbey, 
near  those  of  his  illustrious  father-in-law. 


CAPTAIN    PATON'S    LAMENT.^ 


Touch  once  more  a  sober  measure, 

And  let  punch  and  tears  be  shed, 
For  a  prince  of  good  old  fellows, 

That,  alack-a-day!  is  dead; 
For  a  prince  of  worthy  fellows, 

And  a  pretty  man  also, 
That  has  left  the  Saltmarket, 

In  sorrow,  grief,  and  woe. 
Oh!   we  ne'er  shall  see  the  like  of  Captain 
Paton  no  mo'el 

His  waistcoat,  coat,  and  breeches 

Were  all  cut  off  the  same  web, 
Of  a  beautiful  snuff-colour, 

Or  a  modest  genty  drab; 
The  blue  stripe  in  his  stocking. 

Hound  his  neat  slim  leg  did  go. 
And  his  ruffles  of  the  cambric  fine, 

They  were  whiter  than  the  snow. 
Oh!  we  ne'er  shall  see  the  like  of  Captain 
Paton  no  mo"e! 

His  hair  was  curled  in  order. 

At  the  rising  of  the  sun. 
In  comeiy  rows  and  buckles  smart, 

That  about  his  ears  did  run; 
And  before  there  was  a  toupee. 

That  some  inches  up  did  grow. 
And  behind  there  was  a  long  queue. 

That  did  o'er  his  shoulders  flow. 
Oh!   we  ne'er  shall  see  the  like  of  Captain 
Paton  no  mo'e! 

And  whenever  we  forgather'd, 

He  took  off  his  wee  three-cockit; 
And  he  profFer'd  you  his  snuff-box. 

Which  he  drew  from  his  side-pocket; 
And  on  Burdett  or  Bonaparte 

He  would  make  a  remark  or  so, 
And  then  along  the  plainstones 

Like  a  provost  he  would  go. 
Oh !   we  ne'er  shall  see  the  like  of  Captain 
Paton  no  mo'el 


In  dirty  days  he  picked  well 

His  footsteps  with  his  rattan; 
Oh!  you  ne'er  could  see  the  least  speck 

On  the  shoes  of  Captain  Paton. 
And  on  entering  the  coffee-room 

About  two,  all  men  did  know 
They  would  see  him  with  his  Courier 

In  the  middle  of  the  row. 
Oh!   we  ne'er  shall  see  the  like  of  Captain 
Paton  no  mo'e! 

Now  and  then,  npon  a  Sunday, 

He  invited  me  to  dine 
On  a  herring  and  a  mutton  chop. 

Which  his  maid  dress'd  very  fine. 
There  was  also  a  little  Malmsay, 

And  a  bottle  of  Bordeaux, 
Which  between  me  and  the  Captain 

Pass'd  nimbly  to  and  fro! 
Oh!  I  ne'er  shall  take  potluck  with  Captain 
Paton  no  mo'e! 

Or  if  a  bowl  was  mentioned, 

The  Captain  he  would  ring, 
And  bid  Nelly  run  to  the  Westport, 

And  a  stoup  of  water  bring. 
Then  would  he  mix  the  genuine  stuff. 

As  they  made  it  long  ago. 
With  limes  that  on  his  property 

In  Trinidad  did  grow! 
Oh!  we  ne'er  shall  taste  the  like  of  Captain 
Paton's  punch  no  mo'e! 

And  then  all  the  time  he  Avould  discourse 

So  sensible  and  courteous. 
Perhaps  talking  of  last  sermon 

He  had  heard  from  Dr.  Porteous; 
Of  some  little  bit  of  scandal 

About  Mrs.  So-and-so, 


1  Captain  Paton  was  a  veal  pereonage,  and  lived  for 
many  years  with  two  maiden  sisters  in  a  tenement  of 
liis  own  opposite  the  Old  Exchange,  Glasgow.  He  died 
in  1S07.— Ed. 


144 


JOHN   GIBSON   LOCKHART. 


Which  he  scarce  could  credit,  having  heard 
The  con.  but  not  the^jro./ 
Oh !   Ave  ne'er  shall  see  the  like  of  Captain 
Taton  no  mo'e! 

Or  when  the  candles  were  brought  forth, 

And  the  night  was  fairly  setting  in, 
He  would  tell  some  fine  old  stories 

About  Minden  field  or  Dettingen; 
How  he  fought  with  a  French  major, 

And  despatch'd  him  at  a  blow, 
^Yhile  his  blood  ran  out  like  water 

On  the  soft  grass  below! 
Oh  I  we  ne'er  shall  hear  the  like  from  Captain 
Paton  no  mo'e! 

But  at  last  the  captain  sickened. 

And  grew  worse  from  day  to  daj', 
And  all  miss'd  him  in  the  coffee-room, 

From  which  now  he  staid  away; 
On  Sabbaths,  too,  the  Wynd  Kirk 

Made  a  melancholy  show. 
All  for  wanting  of  the  presence 

or  our  venerable  beau! 
Oh  I   we  ne'er  shall   sec  the  like  of  Captain 
Paton  no  mo'e! 

And  in  spite  of  all  that  Cleghorn 

And  Corkindale  could  do. 
It  was  plain  from  twenty  symptoms 

That  death  was  in  his  view; 
So  the  captain  made  his  test'ment. 

And  submitted  to  his  foe, 
And  we  laid  him  by  the  Ram's-horn  Kirk — 

'Tis  the  way  we  all  must  go! 
Oh !   we  ne'er  shall  see  the  like  of  Captain 
Paton  no  mo'e! 

Join  all  in  chorus,  jolly  boys. 

And  let  punch  and  tears  be  shed, 
For  this  prince  of  good  old  fellows 

That,  alack-a-day!  is  dead; 
7or  this  prince  of  worthy  fellows — 

And  a  pretty  man  also  — 
That  has  left  the  Saltmarket 

In  sorrow^  grief,  and  woe! 
For  it  ne'er  shall  see  the  like  of  Captain  Paton 
no  mo'e! 


BROADSWOPtDS  OF  SCOTLAND. 

Now  there's  peace  on  the  shore,  now  there's 

calm  on  the  sea. 
Fill  a  glass  to  the  heroes  whose  swords  kept  us 

free, 
Right  descendants  of  Wallace,  Montrose,  and 

Dundee. 


Oh!  the  broadswords  of  old  Scotland! 
And  oh!  the  old  Scottish  broadswords. 

Old  Sir  Ralph  Abercromby,  the  good  and  the 

brave — 
Let  him   flee  from  our  board,  let  him  sleep 

with  the  slave. 
Whose  libation  comes  slow  while  we  honour 

his  grave. 

Oh!  the  broadswords,  &c. 

Tho'  he  died  not  like  him  amid  victory's  roar. 
Though  disaster  and  gloom  wove  his  shroud 

on  the  shore; 
Not  the  less  we  remember  the  spirit  of  Moore. 
Oh !  the  broadswords,  &c. 

Yea  a  place  with  the   fallen  the  living  shall 

claim. 
We'll  entwine  in  one  wreath  every  glorious 

name, 
The  Gordon,  the  Ramsay,  the  Hope,  and  the 

Graham. 

All  the  broadswords,  &c. 

Count  the  rocks  of  the  Spey,  count  the  groves 

of  the  Forth— 
Count  the  stars  in  the  clear  cloudless  heaven 

of  the  north ; 
Then  go  blazon  their  numbers,  their  names, 

and  their  worth. 

All  the  broadswords,  &c. 

The  highest  in  splendour,   the  humblest   in 

place. 
Stand  united  in  glory,  as  kindred  in  race; 
For  the  private  is  brother  in  blood  to  his  Grace. 
Oh!  the  broadswords,  &c. 

Then  sacred  to  each  and  to  all  let  it  be, 

Fill  a  glass  to  the  heroes  whose  swords  kept  us 

free. 
Right  descendants  of  Wallace,  Montrose,  and 
Dundee. 

Oh!  the  broadswords  of  old  Scotland! 
And  oh !  the  old  Scottish  broadswords 


THE  LAMENTATION  FOR  CELIN. 

(from   the    SPANISH.') 

At  the  gate  of  old  Grenada,  w  hen  all  its  bolts 
are  barred, 

At  twilight,  at  the  Vega  gate,  there  is  a  tramp- 
ling heard; 

1  "Long  esteemed,"  says  Scrymgeoiir,  "  for  the  spirit 
and  elegance  with  which  the  poet  has  exliibited  the 


JOHN   tJIBSON   LOCKHART. 


145 


There  is  a  trampling  heard,  as  of  horses  tread- 
ing slow. 

And  a  weeping  voice  of  women,  and  a  heavy 
sound  of  woe! 

"AVhat  tower  is  fallen,  what  star  is  set,  what 
chief  come  these  bewailing?" 

"A  tower  is  fallen,  a  star  is  set — Alas  I  alas 
for  Celin!" 

Three  times  they  knock,  three  times  they  cry — 

and  wide  the  doors  they  throw ; 
Dejectedly  they  enter,  and  mournfully  they  go; 
lu  gloomy  lines  they  mustering  stand,  beneath 

the  hollow  porch, 
Each  horseman  grasping  in  his  hand  a  black 

and  flaming  torch ; 
Wet  is  each  eye  as  they  go  by,  and  all  around 

is  wailing, 
For  all  have  heard  the  miserj- — "Alasl  alas 

for  Celin! " 

Him,  yesterday,  a  Jloor  did  slay,  of  Bencer- 

raje's  blood, — 
'Twas   at   the   solemn  jousting — around  the 

nobles  stood; 
The  nobles  of  the  land  were  there,  and  the 

ladies  bright  and  fair 
Looked    from    their    latticed    windows,    the 

haughty  sight  to  share; 
But  now  the  nobles  all  lament— the  ladies  are 

bewailing — 
For  he  was  Grenada's  darling  knight — "Alas! 

alas  for  Celin!" 

Before  him  ride  his  vassals,  in  order  two  by 
two, 

With  ashes  on  their  turbans  spread,  most  piti- 
ful to  view; 

Behind  him  his  four  sisters— each  wrapped  in 
sable  veil — • 

Between  the  tambour's  dismal  strokes,  take  up 
their  doleful  tale; 

When  stops  the  muffled  drum,  ye  hear  their 
brotherless  bewailing, 

And  all  the  people  far  and  near  cry— "Alas! 
alas  for  Celin!" 

Oh!    lovely  lies  he  on   the    bier,   above   tlie 

purple  pall, — ■ 
The  flower  of  all  Grenada's  youth,  the  loveliest 

of  them  all; 
His  dark,  dark  eyes  are  closed,  his  rosy  lip  is 

pale. 
The  crust  of  blood  lies  black  and  dim  upon  his 

burnished  mail; 

peculiar  beauties  of  tliis  literature  in  our  Englisli 
dress;"  and  another  critic  remariss,  "  Fine  spirit-stirring 
strain  in  general,  translated  and  transfused  into  our 
tongue  with  admirable  felicity."— Ed. 

Vol.  II.— K 


And  evermore  the  hoarse  tambour  breaks  in 

upon  their  wailing. 
Its  sound  is  like  no  earthly  sound— "Alas! 

alas  for  Celin!" 


The  Moorish  maid  at  the  lattice  stands,— the 

iloor  stands  at  his  door, 
One  maid  is  wringing  of  her  hands,  and  one  is 

weeping  sore; 
Down  to  the  dust  men  bow  their  heads,  and 

ashes  black  they  strew 
Upon  their   broidered   garments  of  crimson, 

green,  and  blue; 
Before  each  gate  the  bier  stands  still, — then 

bursts  the  loud  bewailing, 
From  door  and  lattice,  high  and  low — "Alas! 

alas  for  Celin!" 

An  old,  old  woman  cometh  forth,  when  she 

hears  the  people  cry, — 
Her   hair  is  white  as  silver,  like   horn   her 

glazed  eye; 
'Twas  she  that  nursed  him  at  her  breast— that 

nursed  him  long  ago; 
She  knows  not  whom  they  all  lament, — but 

soon  she  well  shall  know! 
With  one  deep  shriek,  she  through  doth  break, 

when  her  ears  receive  their  wailing, — 
Let  me  kiss  mv  Celin  ere  I  die — Alas!  alas 

for  Celin!"  " 


BERNARDO  AND  ALPHONSO. 

(from   the   SPANISH.  ^) 

With  some  ten  of  his  chosen  men,  Bernardo 

hath  appear d 
Before  them  all  in  the  palace  hall,  the  lying 

king  to  beard; 
With  cap  in  hand,  and  eye  on  ground,  became 

in  reverend  guise. 
But  ever  and  anon  he  frown'd,  and  flame  broke 

from  his  eyes. 

"A  curse  upon  thee,"  cries  the  king,  "who 

comest  unbid  to  me; 
But  what  from  traitors'  blood  should  spring 

save  traitors  like  to  thee? 
His  sire,  lords,  had  a  traitor's  iieart;  perchance 

our  champion  brave 
May  think  it  were  a  pious  part  to  share  Don 

Pancho's  grave." 

1  These  Spanish  ballads  are  known  to  our  public, 
but  generally  with  inconceivable  advantage,  by  the 
very  fine  and  animated  translations  of  Mr.  Lockhart. 
— Henry  Hallam. 


146 


JOHN  GIBSON   LOCKHART. 


"Whoever  told  this  talc,  the  king  hath  rash- 
ness to  repeat," 

Cries  Bernard;  "here  my  gage  I  fling  before 
THE  Liar's  feet! 

No  treason  was  in  Sancho's  blood,  no  stain  in 
mine  doth  lie — 

Below  the  throne,  what  knight  will  own  the 
coward  calumny  t 

"  The  blood  that  I  like  water  shed,  when  Ro- 
land did  advance, 

By  secret  traitors  hired  and  led,  to  make  us 
slaves  of  France; — 

The  life  of  King  Alphonso  I  saved  at  Ronces- 
val— 

Your  words,  lord  king,  are  recompense  abun- 
dant for  it  all. 

"Your  horse  was  down — your  hope  was  flown; 

I  saw  the  falchion  shine, 
That  soon  had  drunk  your  royal  blood,  had  I 

not  ventured  mine; 
But  memory  soon  of  service  done  deserteth  the 

ingrate, 
And  ye've  thank'd  the  son  for  life  and  crown 

by  the  father's  bloody  fate. 

"Ye  swore  upon  your  kingly  faith  to  set  Don 

Sancho  free; 
But  curse  upon  your  paltering   breath,   the 

light  he  ne'er  did  see — 
He  died  in  dungeon  cold  and  dim,  by  Alphon- 

so's  base  decree, 
And  visage  blind,  and  stiflTen'd  limb,  were  all 

they  gave  to  me. 

"The  king  that  swerveth  from  his  word  hath 
stain'd  his  purple  black; 

No  Spanish  lord  will  draw  the  sword  behind  a 
liar's  back: 

But  noble  vengeance  shall  be  mine,  an  open 
hate  I'll  show — 

The  king  hath  injured  Carpio's  line,  and  Ber- 
nard is  his  foe." — 

"Seize — seize    him!"   loud    the    king    doth 


scream - 


There  are  a  thousand  here- 


Let  his  foul  blood  this  instant  stream — What! 

catiflTs,  do  ye  fear? 
Seize — seize  the   traitor!" — But   not   one   to 

move  a  finger  dareth, — 
Bernardo  standeth  by  the  throne,  and  calm  his 

sword  he  bareth. 

He  drew  the  falchion  from  the  sheath,  and 
held  it  up  on  high. 

And  all  the  hall  was  still  as  death: — Cries 
Bernard,  "  Here  am  I; 

And  here  is  the  sword  that  owns  no  lord,  ex- 
cepting Heaven  and  me — 


Fain  would  I  know  who  dares  his  point — 
king,  CondtJ,  or  grandee!" 

Then  to  his  mouth  the  horn  he  drcAV  (it  hung 

below  his  cloak). 
His  ten  true  men  the  signal  knew,  and  through 

the  ring  they  broke : 
With  helm  on  head,  and  blade  in  hand,  the 

knights  the  circle  brake, 
And  back  the  lordlings  'gan  to  stand,  and  the 

false  king  to  quake. 

"Ha!  Bernard,"  quoth  Alphonso,  "what 
means  this  warlike  guise? 

Ye  know  fall  well  I  jested— ye  know  your 
worth  I  prize." — 

But  Bernard  turn'd  upon  his  heel,  and  smil- 
ing, pass'd  away; 

Long  rued  Alphonso  and  his  realm  the  jesting 
of  that  day. 


ZAKA'S   E.\R- RINGS. 

(from   the   SPANISH.') 

"My  ear-rings!  my  ear-rings!  they've  dropped 

into  the  well. 
And  what  to  say  to  Mu?a  I  cannot,  cannot 

tell."— 
'Twas  thus,  Grenada's  fountain  by,  spoke  Al- 

buharez'  daughter, 
"  The  well  is  deep — far  down  they  lie,  beneath 

the  cold  blue  water; 
To  me  did  Mu?a  give  them,  Avhen  he  spake  his 

sad  farewell, 
And  what  to  say  when  he  comes  back,  alas! 

I  cannot  tell. 

"My  car-rings!    my   ear-rings!  —  they   were 

pearls  in  silver  set. 
That,  when  my  Moor  was  far  away,  I  ne'er 

should  him  forget; 
That  I  ne'er  to  other  tongue  should  list,  nor 

smile  on  other's  tale. 
But  remember  he  my  lips  had  kissed,  pure  as 

those  ear-rings  pale. 
When  he  comes  back,  and  hears  that  I  have 

dropped  them  in  the  well, 
Oh!  what  will  Mu?a  think  of  me — I  cannot, 

cannot  tell! 

"My  ear-rings!  my  ear-rings! — he'll  say  they 
should  have  been 

I  "All  other  translations  fade  away  before  them," 
says  Allan  Cunningham;  and  Miss  Mitford  speaks  of 
"  Mr.  Lockhart's  siiirited  volume  of  Spanish  ballads,  to 
which  the  art  of  the  modern  translator  has  given  the 
charm  of  the  vigorous  old  poets."— Ed. 


JOHN   GIBSON  LOCKHART. 


14/ 


Not  of  pearl  and  of  silver,  but  of  gold  and 

glittering  sheen, 
Of  jasper  and  of  onyx,  and  of  diamond  shining 

clear. 
Changing  to  the  changing  light,  with  radiance 

insincere; 
That  changeful  mind  unchanging  gems  are  not 

befitting  well: 
Thus  will  he  think, — and  what  to  say,  alas! 

I  cannot  tell. 

"  He'll  think,  when  I  to  market  went,  I  loi- 
tered by  the  way; 

He'll  think  a  willing  ear  I  lent  to  all  the  lads 
might  say; 

He'll  think  some  other  lover's  hand  among  my 
tresses  noosed, 

From  the  ears  where  he  had  placed  them  my 
rings  of  pearl  unloosed; 

He'll  tJiink  when  1  w;;s  sporting  so  beside  this 
marble  well, 

My  pearls  fell  in, — and  what  to  say,  alas!  1 
cannot  tell. 

"  He'll  say  I  am  a  Avoman,  and  we  are  all  the 

same; 
He'll  say  I  loved  when  he  was  here  to  whisper 

of  his  flame, — 
But  when  he  went  to  Tunis  my  virgin  troth 

had  broken, 
And  thought  no  more  of  Jlu^a,  and  cared  not 

for  his  token. — - 
My  ear-rings!    my  ear-rings! — oh!   luckless, 

luckless  well. 
For  what  to  say  to  Mu9a,  alas!  I  cannot  tell. 

"I'll  tell  the  truth  to  Mu?a — and  I  hope  he 
will  believe — • 

That  I  thought  of  him  at  morning,  and  thought 
of  him  at  eve: 

That,  musing  on  my  lover,  when  down  the  sun 
was  gone. 

His  ear-rings  in  my  hand  I  held,  by  the  foun- 
tain all  alone; 

And  that  my  mind  was  o'er  the  sea,  when  from 
my  hand  they  fell, — 

And  that  deep  his  love  lies  in  my  heart,  as 
they  lie  in  tlie  well!" 


BEYOND. 

When  youthful  faith  hath  fled. 
Of  loving  take  thy  leave; 

Be  constant  to  the  dead, — • 
The  dead  cannot  deceive. 


Sweet  modest  flowers  of  spring, 
How  fleet  your  balmy  day! 

And  man's  brief  year  can  bring 
No  secondary  May.  — 

No  earthly  burst  again 
Of  gladness  out  of  gloom; 

Fond  hope  and  vision  wane, 
Ungrateful  to  the  tomb. 

But  'tis  an  old  belief 

That  on  some  solemn  shore. 

Beyond  tiie  sphere  of  grief. 

Dear  friends  shall  meet  once  more. 

Beyond  the  sphere  of  time, 
And  sin  and  fate's  control, 

Serene  in  endless  prime 
Of  body  and  of  soul. 

That  creed  I  fain  would  keep. 

That  hope  I'll  not  forego; 
Eternal  be  the  sleep. 

Unless  to  waken  so. 


LINES  WRITTEN  ON  TWEEDSIDE, 
September  the  18th,  1831. 

A  day  I've  seen  whose  brightness  pierced  the 
cloud 
Of  pain  and  sorrow,  both  for  great  and  small ; 
A  night  of  flowing  cups,  and  pibrochs  loud, 
Once  more  within  the  minstrel's  blazon'd 
hall. 

"  Upon  this  frozen  hearth  pile  crackling  trees; 

Let  every  silent  clarshach  find  its  strings; 
Unfurl  once  more  the  banner  to  the  breeze; 

No  warmer  welcome  for  the  blood  of  kings!" 

From  ear  to  ear,  from  eye  to  glistening  eye, 
Leap  the  glad  tidings,  and  the  glance  of  glee; 

Perish  the  hopeless  breast  that  beats  not  high 
At  thought  beneath  his  roof  that  guest  to 

sse! 

What  prince) v  stranger  comes? — what  e.\iled 
lord 
From  the  far  East  to  Scotia's  strand  returns. 
To  stir  with  Joy  the  towers  of  Abbotsford, 
And  "wake  the  minstrel's  soul?" — The  boy 
of  Burns. 

0,  sacred  Genius!  blessing  on  the  chains. 
Wherein  thy  sympathy  can  minds  entwine! 

Beyond  the  conscious  glow  of  kindred  veins, 
A  power,  a  spirit,  and  a  charm  are  thine. 


148 


JOHN  GIBSON  LOCKHAET. 


Thine  offspring  share  them.     Thou  hast  trod 
the  land — • 
It  breathes  of  thee— and  men,  through  rising 
tears, 
Behold  the  image  of  thy  manhood  stand. 
More  noble  than  a  galaxy  of  peers. 

And  he— his  father's  bones  had  quaked,  I  ween. 
But  that  with  holier  pride  his  heart-strings 
bound. 

Than  if  his  host  had  king  or  kaiser  been, 
And  star  and  cross  on  every  bosom  round. 

High  strains  were  pour'd  of  many  a  Border 
spear. 

While  gentle  fingers  swept  a  throbbing  shell; 
A  manly  voice,  in  manly  notes  and  clear. 

Of  lowly  love's  deep  bliss  responded  well. 

The  children  sang  the  ballads  of  their  sires: — 
Serene  among  them  sat  the  hoary  knight; 

And,  if  dead  bards  have  ears  for  earthly  lyres. 
The  Peasant's  shade  was  near,  and  drank 
delight. 

As  through  the  woods  we  took  our  homeward 
way. 
Fair  shone  the  moon  last  night  on  Eildon 
Hill; 
Soft  rippled  Tweed's  broad  wave  beneath  her 
i"ay. 
And  in  sweet  murmurs  gush'd  the  Huntly 
rill. 

Heaven  send  the  guardian  genius  of  the  vale 
Health   yet,   and   strength,  and   length  of 
honoured  days. 
To  cheer  the  world  Avith  many  a  gallant  tale, 
And  hear  his  children's  children  chant  his 
lays. 

Through  seas  unruffled  may  the  vessel  glide. 
That  bears  her  poet  far  from  Melrose'  glen! 

And  may  his  pulse  be  steadfast  as  our  pride, 
AVhen  happy  breezes  waft  him  back  again! 


THE  BRIDAL  OF   ANDALLA 

(from   the   SPANISH. 0 

"  Rise  up,   rise  up,   Xarifa!    lay  the   golden 

cushion  down; 
Rise  up,  come  to  the  window,  and  gaze  with 

all  the  town! 

1  These  translations  derive,  as  I  have  said,  not  a 
little  of  their  excellence  from  Mr.  Lockliart  being  him- 
self a  jioet— of  fine  genius,  clear  in  his  conceptions  and 


From  gay  guitar  and  violin  the  silver  notes  are 
flowing, 

And  the  lovely  lute  doth  speak  between  the 
trumpet's  lordly  blowing; 

And  banners  bright  from  lattice  light  are  Avav- 
ing  everywhere. 

And  the  tall,  tall  plume  of  our  cousin's  bride- 
groom floats  proudly  in  the  air: — 

Rise  up,  rise  up,  Xarifa!  lay  the  golden  cushion 
down; 

Rise  up,  come  to  the  window,  and  gaze  Avitli 
all  the  town ! 

"Arise,  arise,  Xarifa.  I  see  Andalla's  face — 
He  bends  him  to  the  people  with  a  calm  and 

princely  grace: 
Through  all  the  land  of  Xeres,  and  banks  of 

Guadalquivir, 
Rode  bridegroom  forth  so  brave  as  he,  so  brave 

and  lovely  never! 
Yon  tall  plume  waving  o'er  his  brow,  of  purple 

mixed  with  white, 
I  guess  'twas  wreathed  by  Zara,  whom  he  will 

wed  to-night: — 
Rise  up,  rise  up,  Xarifa!  lay  the  golden  cushion 

down ; 
Rise  up,  come  to  the  window,  and  gaze  with 

all  the  town! 

"What   aileth   thee,    Xarifa!  —  what   makes 

thine  eyes  look  down? 
Why  stay  ye  from  the  window  far,  nor  gaze 

with  all  the  town? 
I've  heard  you  say,  on  many  a  day — and  sure 

you  said  the  truth ! — • 
Andalla  rides  without  a  peer,  among  all  Gren- 
ada's youth. 
Without  a  peer  he  rideth,  and  yon  milk-white 

horse  doth  go. 
Beneath  his  stately  master,  with  a  stately  step 

and  slow: — 
Then  rise — oh,  rise,  Xarifa!  lay  the  golden 

cushion  down; 
Unseen  here  through  the  lattice,  you  may  gaze 

with  all  the  town!" 

The  Zegri  lady  rose  not,  nor  laid  her  cushion 

down, 
Kor  came  she  to  the  window,  to  gaze  with  all 

the  town; 
But,  though  her  eyes  dwelt  on  her  knee,  in 

vain  her  fingers  strove. 
And  though  her  needle  pressed  the  silk,  no 

flower  Xarifa  wove: 


masculine  in  execution.  .  .  .  What  was  tame  l.e 
inspired;  wliat  was  lofty  gained  additional  grandeur; 
and  even  the  tender  grew  still  more  pathetic  under  his 
touch.— i>)-.  D.  M.  Moii: 


JANET  HAMILTON. 


149 


One  bonny  rosebud  she  had  traced,  before  the 

noise  drew  nigh, — 
That  bonny  bud  a  tear  effaced,  slow  dropping 

from  her  eye. 
"Xo,  no!"  she  sighs;  "bid  me  not  rise,  nor 

lay  my  cusliion  down, 
To  gaze  upon  Andalhi,  with  all   the  gazing 

town!" 

"Why  rise   ye   not,    Xarifa! — nor   lay   your 

cushion  down? 
Why  gaze  ye  not,  Xarifa!  with  all  the  gazing 

town  ] 


Hear — hear  the  trumpet  how  it  swells,  and 

how  the  people  cry! 
He  Slops  at  Zara's  palace-gate! — why  sit  ye 

still — oh,  why?" 
— "At  Zara's  gate  stops  Zara's  mate!  ia  him 

shall  I  discover 
The  dark-eyed  youth  pledged  me  his  truth, 

with  tears, — and  was  my  lover. 
I  will  not  rise,  with  weary  eyes,  nor  lay  my 

cushion  down, 
To  gaze  on  false  Andalla,  with  all  the  gazing 

town!" 


JANET    HAMILTON, 


Born  1795  -  Died  1873. 


The  Scottish  muse  found  Burns  at  the 
plough  Avhen  turning  over  the  "wee,  modest, 
crimson-tippet  flower,"  and  once  more  she  has 
shown  that  there  is  no  royal  road  to  poetic 
fame,  for  she  "threw  her  inspiring  mantle" 
over  JIrs.  Janet  Hamilton  amid  the  greatest 
poverty  and  under  the  most  unfavourable  cir- 
cumstances, Janet  Thomson  was  born  in  the 
village  of  Corshill,  parish  of  Shotts,  Lanark- 
.shire,  October  12,  1795,  and  on  her  mother's 
side  was  a  descendant  of  the  Covenanter  John 
Whitelaw,  who  was  executed  at  Edinburgh  in 
1683  for  his  share  in  the  battle  of  Bothwell 
Bridge.  At  the  age  of  fourteen  she  married 
John  Hamilton,  a  young  man  Avho  worked 
with  her  father  at  the  trade  of  shoe-making. 
Although  before  the  age  of  nineteen  she  had 
composed  a  few  religious  pieces,  Mrs.  Hamil- 
ton was  fifty  before  she  learned  to  write,  and 
fifty-five  before  she  again  attempted  poetical 
composition.  She  made  her  first  appearance 
as  a  writer  of  verses  in  Cassell's  Working-man's 
Friend.  In  1863  she  published  a  volume  of 
Poems  and  Sonffs;  in  1865  Poems  and  Sketches 
appeared;  three  yeai-s  later  Poems  and  Ballads 
was  issued;  and  in  1871  she  increased  her 
fame  by  bringing  out  a  fourth  volume,  being 
in  part  a  reprint  of  her  former  collections  of 
poetical  and  prose  sketches.  Prefixed  to  the 
work  is  a  portrait  of  the  venerable  poetess, 
who,  though  poor,  old,  and  blind,  seems  to 
have   bated  no  jot  of  either  poetic  heart  or 


hope.  Early  on  Thursday,  October  27,  1873, 
the  day  of  her  death,  Jlrs.  Hamilton  made 
reference  to  a  proposed  testimonial  in  happy 
and  cheery  tones,  evidently  gratified  by  the 
interest  being  taken  in  her  affairs  by  a  number 
of  wealthy  friends  and  admirers;  and  during 
the  afternoon  of  the  same  day  her  blindness 
had  passed  away.  She  entered  into  the  light  of 
that  sinless  land  of  which  she  had  so  often  and 
so  sweetly  sung.  Her  remains  were  honoured 
with  a  public  funeral,  at  which  some  five 
iiundred  persons  were  present,  including  all 
the  clergymen  of  the  place. 

Janet  Hamilton,  the  daughter,  wife,  and 
mother  of  working  men,  all  struggling  with 
the  vicissitudes  of  life,  received  her  education 
at  a  shoemaker's  hearth,  her  only  teacher 
being  a  hard-working  mother,  who,  Mhile  she 
plied  the  spinning-wheel,  taught  her  daughter 
by  her  side  to  read  the  Bible,  the  only  educa- 
tion that  either  ever  received.  She  furnishes 
the  world  with  another  examjde  of  success  in 
the  pursuit  of  knowledge  under  the  greatest 
difficulties.  Her  handwriting,  viewed  at  arm's 
length,  seems  something  akin  to  Greek  manu- 
script written  with  a  very  blunt  pen.  She 
composed  some  good  English  verses,  but  it  is 
to  her  Scottish  poems  that  she  owes  her  fame 
as  more  than  a  local  writer.  In  the  introduc- 
tion to  her  last  volume  Dr.  Alexander  Wallace 
says — "  It  is  remarkable  that  she  has  never 
seen  a  mountain,  nor  the  sea,  nor  any  river  but 


150 


JANET   HAMILTON. 


the  Clyde,  the  Falls  of  which  she  never  visited, 
and  she  has  never  been  the  distance  of  twenty 
miles  from  her  dwelling.  Her  region  of  song, 
so  far  as  scenery  is  concerned,  has  been  very 
limited.  It  may  be  comprised  in  the  glen  of  the 
Calder  and  the  bosky  dells  and  breckan-covered 
banks  of  her  favourite  stream,  the  Luggie  (poor 
David  Gray"s  Luggie),  before  it  was  polluted 
withtlie  refuse  of  the  furnaces,  and  its  'sweet 


wilding  flowers'  covered  with  slag."  It  is  not 
easy  to  understand  how  the  Coatbridge  poetess 
— certainly  one  of  the  most  remarkable  Scot- 
tish singers  of  the  present  century — could  have 
lived  to  such  a  comparatively  great  age  before 
her  poetic  genius  was  evinced,  and  it  is  hard 
to  say  what  she  might  have  accomplished  had 
she  enjoyed  the  early  advantages  of  a  Joanna 
Baillie  or  Lady  Nairne. 


THE  SKYLAEK— CAGED  AXD  FREE. 

Sweet  minstrel  of  the  summer  dawn. 
Bard  of  the  sky,  o'er  lea  and  lawn 
Thy  rapturous  anthem,  clear  and  loud. 
Rings  from  the  dim  and  dewy  cloud 
That  swathes  the  brow  of  infant  morn. 
Dame  Nature's  first  and  fairest  born! 
From  grassy  couch  I  saw  thee  spring. 
Aside  the  daisy  curtains  fling, 
Shake  the  bright  dew-drops  from  thy  breast, 
Prune  thy  soft  wing,  and  smooth  thy  crest — 
Then,  all  the  bard  within  thee  burning, 
Heaven  in  thine  eye,  the  dull  earth  spurning; 
Thou  soar'dst  and  sung,  till  lost  on  high 
In  morning  glories  of  the  sky! 

Not  warbling  at  thine  own  sweet  will. 
Far  up  yon  "  heaven-kissing  hill." 
AVith  quivering  wing,  and  swelling  throat, 
On  waves  of  ambient-air  afloat — - 
Not  so,  I  saw  thee  last,  sweet  bird; 
I  heard  thee,  and  my  heart  was  stirred, 
Above  the  tumult  of  a  street, 
AVhere  smoke  and  sulphurous  gases  meet; 
Where,  night  a  id  day,  resounds  the  clamour 
Of  shrieking  steam,  of  wheel,  and  hammer — 
A  Babel  rude  of  many  a  tongue : 
There,  high  o'erhead,  thou  blithely  sung. 
Caged,  "cribb'd,  confin'd,"  j'et  full  and  clear, 
As  silver  flute,  fell  on  my  ear 
Tliy  joyous  song:  as  void  of  sorrow 
As  when,  to  bid  the  sun  good  morrow. 
Just  rising  from  his  couch  of  gold. 
Thou  sung,  and  soar'dst  o"er  mead  and  wold. 
Thy  prison  song,  0  bird  beloved, 
^ly  heart  hath  strangely,  deeply  moved. 
In  reverie,  a  waking  dream 
Steals  o'er  my  senses,  and  I  seem 
The  joyous  girl  that  knew  no  care, 
"When  fields  were  green,  and  skies  were  fair; 
And,  sweetest  of  the  Avarbling  throng, 
The  thrilling,  gushing,  voice  of  song 
I  seem  to  hear— Ah!  'tis  the  lark, 


That,  mounting,   "sings  at  heaven's  gate," 

hark ! 
These  rapturous  notes  are  all  his  own; 
Bard  of  the  sky,  he  sings  alone! 

Sweet  captive,  though  thy  fate  be  mine, 
I  will  not  languish,  will  not  pine; 
Nor  beat  my  wings  against  the  wires. 
In  vain  regrets,  and  strong  desires 
To  roam  again,  all  blythe  and  free. 
Through  Nature's  haunts — again  to  see 
The  blooming,  bright,  and  beauteous  things 
That  in  her  train  each  season  brings: 
Spring's  bursting  buds  and  tender  leaves, 
The  summer  flowers,  the  autumn  sheaves, 
The  purple  hills,  the  shining  streams, 
AVhere  lingering  memory  broods  and  dreams; 
But,  never  more — ah!  never  more 
To  climb  the  hill,  or  tread  the  shore 
With  foot  untiring,  swift  and  free — 
It  may  not — nay,  it  cannot  be. 
Ah!  cannot  be!  my  eyes  are  dark — 
A  prisoner  too,  like  thee,  sweet  lark: 
But  I  have  sought  and  found  content; 
And  so  our  songs  shall  oft  be  blent — 
I,  singing  in  my  hermitage. 
Thou,  warbling  in  thy  prison  cage. 
Aspire!  thou  to  thine  own  blue  skj', 
I  to  a  loftier  sphere  on  high ! 


GRAN'FAITHER  AT   CAM'SLANG. 

He  donn'd  his  bannet  braid  and  blue. 
His  hame-spun  suit  o'  hodden  gray, 

His  blue  boot-hose  drew  o'er  his  knees. 
An'  teuk  the  gate  at  skreigh  o'  day. 

His  Bible  had  he  in  his  pouch, 

O'  scones  an'  cheese  a  guidly  whang; 

An'  staflf  in  haun',  he's  off"  to  see. 
The  godly  wark  at  auld  Cam'slang. 


THOMAS   CAELYLE. 


151 


"  The  lingcrin'  star  that  greets  the  morn"' 
Was  twinkliu'  thro'  the  misty  blue; 
The  muireoek  craw'd,  the  paitriek  whirr' tl, 
An'  rouu'  his  head  the  peesweep  flew. 

He  trampit  on  ower  muir  an'  moss 
Fortliritty  miles  an'  mair,  I  ween, 

Till  to  the  kirk  o'  auld  Cam'slang 
He  cam'  on  Saturday  at  e'en. 

He  lodged  him  in  a  hamely  hoose, 
Syne  daunerd  oot  intil  the  nicht; 

The  mune  was  down,  the  win's  were  lown, 
But  a'  the  lift  wi'  stars  was  bricht. 

Nae  soon'  o'  youngsters  oot  at  e'en, 
Nae  voice  o'  whisp'ring  lovers  there; 

He  heard  nae  soun'  but  that  o'  praise — 
He  heard  nae  voice  but  that  o'  prayer. 

By  ilka  bush  o'  whin  or  broom. 

By  lown  dyke  back  or  braeside  green, 

Folk  greetin'.  prayin',  praisin'  there, 
A'  sittin',  kneelin',  roun'  war  seen. 

He  teuk  the  bannet  aff  his  heid, 
An'  liftit  up  to  heaven  his  e'e; 

Wi'  solemn  awe,  an'  holy  fear, 
His  heart  was  fu'  as  fu'  could  be. 

He  kneel'd  ahint  a  boortree  bush, 
Whaur  but  the  e'e  o'  God  could  see, 

Whaur  but  the  ear  o'  God  could  hear— 
An'  pray'd  baith  lang  and  fervently. 


Neist  day,  frae  a'  the  kintra  roun'. 
By  tens  o'  hunners  folk  cam  there. 

To  hear  the  words  o'  grace  and  truth 
Frae  preachers  in  the  open  air. 

He  thocht  to  sit  within  the  kirk 

He  rather  wad  than  sit  ootbye, 
Sae  in  lie  gaed,  an'  there  he  sat 

Till  stars  were  blinkin'  in  the  sky. 

Xae  cries  he  heard,  nae  fits  he  saw, 
But  sabs  were  rife,  an'  tearfu'  een 

That  ne'er  leuk'd  aff  tiie  preacher's  face, 
Was  a'  that  could  be  heard  or  seen. 

The  dews  were  fa'in  on  the  yirth — 
On  mony  a  heart  the  dews  o'  grace 

Had  fa'en  that  day,  e'en  while  they  sat 
At  Jesus'  feet,  in  Mary's  place. 

At  dawnin'  o'  the  morn  he  rose 

On  Monday— hame  he  bou'd  to  gang; 

\nd  a'  his  days  he  ne'er  forgat 

That  Sabbath-day  at  auld  Cam'slang. 

Wlien  years  had  gane,  a  printed  beuk 
Cani'  oot,  whilk  I  hae  aften  seen, 

An'  it  was  seal'd,  an'  it  was  sign'd, 
By  ministers  a  guidly  whccn. 

It  said  that  mony  hunner  souls,  ^ 
What  time  the  wark  was  at  Cam  slang, 

War  turn'd  to  God,  an'  a'  their  days 

Had  leev'd  an'  gane  as  saints  shoud  gang. 


THOMAS    CAELYLE. 


Thomas  Carlyle,  the  "  censor  of  the  age,' 
who  has  rather  tried  than  exercised  his  powers 
as  a  poet,  belongs  to  the  common  people,  and 
like  his  countryman  Robert  Burns  comes  from 
the  better  class  of  the  Scottish  peasantry.    He 
was  born  at  Ecclefechan,  near  Annan  in  Dum- 
friesshire, December  4,  1795,  and  so  has  lived 
to  complete   fourscore  years.       Proud  of  his 
birth,  at  once  popular  and  noble,  he  could  say 
of  himself  what  in  one  of  his  works  he  says 
of  Burns  and  Diderot,  two  plebeians  like  him- 
self—"  How  many  kings,  how  many  princes 
are   there,    not   so   well    born!"      In   Sartor 
Besnrtm  he  tells  us  of  the  impressions  of  his 


childhood,  and  the  influence  which  those  im- 
pressions, such  as  places,  landscapes,  and  sur- 
rounding scenery,  made  upon  his  mind.     The 
cattle-fairs  to  which  his  father  sometimes  took 
him   the  apparition  of  the  mail-coach  passing 
twice  a  day  through  the  village,  seeming  to 
him  some  strolling  world,  coming  from  he  knew 
not  where,  and  going  he  knew  not  whither- 
all  this  he   describes  with   a  freshness   and 
vivacity  which  clearly  indicate  that  they  are 
the  ineffaceable  impressions  of  childhood.    Be- 
sides this  education  Carlyle  received  another 
at  the  high -school  of  Annan,  where  he  ac- 
quired the  rudiments  of  his  scholastic  training. 


152 


THOMAS   CAELYLE. 


Here  he  had  for  a  schoolfellow  Edward  Irving, 
the  distinguished  orator  and  divine,  whom 
Carlyle  afterwards  nobly  delineated. 

It  was  the  ambition  of  liis  parents  to  see 
Thomas  "wag  his  pow  in  a  poopit,"  and  he 
was  accordingly,  after  the  necessary  prepara- 
tion, sent  to  the  University  of  Edinburgh, 
where  his  life  was  one  of  comparative  poverty 
and  privation.  After  having  graduated,  he 
was  for  several  years  tutor  in  a  gentleman's 
family.  He  could  not  like  this  office — in 
many,  and  indeed  most  families,  one  of  de- 
pendence and  drudgery,  unbefitting  a  strong- 
hearted,  self-reliant  man,  and  accordingly  he 
abandoned  it,  launching  out  in  1823  on  the 
career  of  a  man  of  letters — a  calling  which  he 
has  so  well  described  as  "an  anarchic,  nomadic, 
and  entirely  aerial  and  ill-conditioned  profes- 
sion." His  first  efforts  were  published  in  a 
country  paper ;  then  came  translations  of 
Legendre's  Geometrij  and  Goethe's  Wilhelm 
Melster,  followed  by  hXa  Life  of  Schiller,  which 
led  to  a  lengthened  correspondence  between 
him  and  Goethe.  Then  appeared  some  of  his 
finest  essays,  and  Sartor  Resartus,  which  was 
published  in  Fraser's  Magazine.  His  brilliant 
articles  on  "Burns,"  "Charactei-istics,"  and 
"Signs  of  the  Times,"  contributed  to  the  Edln- 
hurcjh  lieview,  marked  the  advent  of  a  man  of 
genius.  Finding  the  inconvenience  of  residing 
among  the  moors  of  Dumfriesshire,  he  decided 
to  remove  to  London,  the  great  centre  of  books, 
of  learning,  and  intellectual  movement.  Here 
he  has  since  resided  at  Cheyne  Row,  Chelsea, 
producing  his  French  Revolution,  Past  and 
Present,  Oliver  Cromwell,  and  many  other 
valuable  contributions  to  literature,  including 
his  remarkable  Life  of  Frederick  the  Great. 
His  latest  work,  The  Earlij  Kings  of  Norioay, 
appeared  in  1874. 

In  November,  186.5,  Carlyle  was  elected  to 
the  rectorship  of  the  Edinburgh  University, 
which,  in  spite  of  his  stoicism,  real  or  assumed, 
must  have  sent  a  thrill  of  pleasure  to  his  heart. 
Throughout  many  of  his  works  there  is  to  be 


found  a  deep  under-current  of  affection  for  his 
native  land,  and  although  so  many  years 
absent  from  her  heathery  hills,  he  has  not  for- 
gotten Scotland,  nor  has  Scotland  forgotten 
her  gifted  son.  If  one  thing  more  than  another 
could  gratify  him  in  his  declining  years,  it 
must  have  been  this  public  recognition  of  his 
services  to  literature,  and  of  his  talents  as  a 
teacher  of  men,  by  his  native  land. 

After  a  happy  married  life  of  forty  years 
Mr.  Carlyle,  who  is  childless,  lost  his  wife. 
The  epitaph  he  placed  on  her  tombstone  is  one 
of  the  most  eloquent  and  loving  memorials 
ever  penned.  Since  her  death  his  household 
has  been  presided  over  by  his  niece,  Mary 
Carlyle  Aitken,  who  in  1874:  gave  to  the  world 
an  admirable  collection  of  Scottish  song.  In 
1872  the  great  writer  was  called  to  mourn  the 
death  of  his  eldest  brother,  John  Carlyle,  who 
died  in  Canada,  at  the  age  of  eighty-one. 
Another  brother,  tiie  translator  of  Dante,  re- 
sides at  Dumfries,  which  is  also  the  residence 
of  their  sister,  Mrs.  Aitken,  to  whom  the  phi- 
losopher makes  an  annual  visit  after  the  close 
of  the  London  season.  On  his  eightieth  birth- 
day Carlyle  received  from  various  quarters  of 
the  globe,  far  and  near,  congratulatory  ad- 
dresses, epistles,  and  gifts,  commemorative  of 
the  completion  of  fourscore  years. 

The  opinions  of  Carlyle's  youth  are  not  in 
all  cases  the  opinions  of  his  old  age.  In  early 
life  he  had  some  claim  to  the  title  of  a  poet,  as 
the  following  pieces  will  testify,  but  in  1870 
he  wrote  a  characteristic  letter  in  which  he 
gives  it  as  his  mature  opinion  that  the  writing 
of  verse,  in  this  age  at  least,  is  an  unworthy 
occupation  for  a  man  of  ability.  It  is  by  no 
means  impossible  that  the  "Philosopher  of 
Chelsea"  may  be  indebted  to  some  of  the  poets 
whom  in  his  curious  letter  he  beseeches  not  to 
write  except  in  prose,  for  embalming  in  death- 
less strophes  his  own  craggy  and  majestic  char- 
acter, and  transmitting  through  the  magic  of 
rhyme  his  name  and  fame  to  the  remotest 
generations  of  mankind. 


TRAGEDY   OF    THE    NIGHT-MOTH. 

MAGNA  AUSUS. 


'Tis  placid  midnight,  stars  are  keeping 
Their  meek  and  silent  course  in  heaven; 


Save  pale  recluse,  for  knowledge  seeking. 
All  mortal  things  to  sleep  are  given. 


THOMAS   CAELYLE. 


153 


But  see!  a  wandering  nigbt-moth  enters, 
Allured  by  taper  gleaming  bright; 

A  while  keeps  hovering  round,  then  ventures 
On  Goethe's  mystic  page  to  light. 

With  awe  she  views  the  candle  blazing; 

A  universe  of  fire  it  seems 
To  moih-savaute  with  rapture  gazing 

Or  fount  whence  life  and  motion  streams. 

What  passions  in  her  small  heart  whirling, 
Hopes  boundless,  adoration,  dread; 

At  length  her  tiny  pinions  twirling, 

She  darts  and— puflF: — the  moth  is  dead! 

The  sullen  flame,  for  her  scarce  sparkling. 
Gives  but  one  hiss,  one  fitful  glare; 

Now  bright  and  busy,  now  all  darkling, 
She  snaps  and  fades  to  empty  air. 

Her  bright  gray  form  that  spreads  so  slimly, 
Some  fan  she  seemed  of  pigmy  queen; 

Her  silky  cloak  that  lay  so  trimly. 
Her  wee,  wee  eyes  that  looked  so  keen, 

Last  moment  here,  now  gone  for  ever, 
To  naught  are  passed  with  fiery  pain; 

And  ages  circling  round  shall  never 
Give  to  this  creature  shape  again! 

Toor  moth !  near  weeping  I  lament  thee, 
Thy  glossy  form,  thy  instant  woe; 

'Twas  zeal  for  "things  too  high"  that  sent  thee 
From  cheery  earth  to  shades  below. 

Short  speck  of  boundless  space  was  needed 
For  home,  for  kingdom,  world  to  thee! 

Where  passed,  unheeding  as  unheeded. 
Thy  little  life  from  sorrow  free. 

But  syren  hopes  from  out  thy  dwelling 
Enticed  thee,  bade  thee  earth  explore,— 

Thy  frame  so  late  with  rapture  swelling, 
is  swept  from  earth  for  evermore! 

Foor  moth!  thy  fate  my  own  resembles; 

Me  too  a  restless  asking  mind 
Hath  sent  on  far  and  weary  rambles, 

To  seek  the  good  I  ne'er  shall  find. 

Like  thee,  with  common  lot  contented. 
With  humble  joys  and  vulgar  fate, 

I  might  have  lived  and  ne'er  lamented, 
Moth  of  a  larger  size,  a  longer  date! 

But  nature's  majesty  unveiling 

AVhat  seemed  her  wildest,  grandest  charms, 
Eternal  truth  and  beauty  hailing, 

Like  thee,  I  rushed  into  her  arms. 


What  gained  we,  little  motli?     Thy  ashes, 
Thy  one  brief  parting  pang  may  show; 

And  thoughts  like  these,  for  soul  that  dashes 
From  deep  to  deep,  are — death  more  slow ! 


THE   SOWER'S   SOXG. 

Now  hands  to  seedshect,  boys, 

AVe  step  and  we  cast;  old  Time's  on  wing; 

And  would  ye  partake  of  harvest's  joys. 

The  corn  must  be  sown  in  spring. 

Fall  gently  and  still,  good  corn. 
Lie  warm  in  thy  earthy  bed; 
And  stand  so  yellow  some  morn. 
For  beast  and  man  must  be  fed. 

Old  earth  is  a  pleasure  to  see 
In  sunshiny  cloak  of  red  and  green; 
The  furrow  lies  fresh;  this  year  will  be 
As  years  that  are  past  have  been. 
Fall  gently,  &c. 

Old  mother,  receive  this  corn, 
Tlie  son  of  six  thousand  golden  sires; 
All  these  on  thy  kindly  breast  were  born; 
One  more  thy  poor  child  requires. 
Fall  gently,  &c. 

Now  steady  and  sure  again. 

And  measure  of  stroke  and  step  we  keep; 

Thus  up  and  thus  down  we  cast  our  grain; 

Sow  well  and  you  gladly  reap. 

Fall  gently  and  still,  good  corn. 
Lie  warm  in  thy  earthy  bed ; 
And  stand  so  yellow  some  morn, 
For  beast  and  man  must  be  fed. 


ADIEU. 

Let  time  and  chance  combine,  combine, 
Let  time  and  chance  combine: 
The  fairest  love  from  heaven  above. 
That  love  of  yours  was  mine, 
;My  dear. 
That  love  of  yours  was  mine. 

The  past  is  fled  and  gone,  and  gone, 
The  past  is  fled  and  gone; 
If  nought  but  pain  to  me  remain, 
I'll  fare  in  memory  on, 

Jily  dear, 
I'll  fare  in  memory  on. 

The  saddest  tears  must  fall,  must  fall. 
The  saddest  tears  must  fall; 


154 


THOMAS   CARLYLE. 


In  weal  or  woe,  in  this  world  below, 
I  love  you  ever  and  all, 

M}'  dear, 
I  love  you  ever  and  all. 

A  long  road  full  of  pain,  of  pain, 

A  long  road  full  of  pain; 

One  soul,  one  heart,  sworn  ne'er  to  part^ 

AVe  ne'er  can  meet  again, 

j\ly  dear. 
We  ne'er  can  meet  again. 

Hard  fate  will  not  allow,  allow. 
Hard  fate  will  not  allow; 
We  blessed  were  as  the  angels  arc, — 
Adieu  for  ever  now, 

Jly  dear, 
Adieu  for  ever  now. 


CUI    BONO] 

What  is  hope?  A  smiling  rainbow 
Children  follow  through  the  wet; 

'Tis  not  here,  still  yonder,  yonder; 
Never  urchin  found  it  yet. 

What  is  life?  A  thawing  iceboard 
On  a  sea  with  sunny  shore; — ■ 

Gay  we  sail;  it  melts  beneath  us; 
We  are  sunk,  and  seen  no  more. 

What  is  man?     A  foolish  baby. 

Vainly  strives,  and  fights,  and  frets; 

Demanding  all,  deserving  nothing; — 
One  small  grave  is  what  he  gets. 


PSALM  XLVI. 

(from   the   GERMAN    OF   MARTIX   LUTHER. 

A  safe  stronghold  our  God  is  still, 
A  trusty  shield  and  weapon; 
He'll  help  us  clear  from  all  the  ill 
That  hatli  us  now  o'ertaken. 
The  ancient  prince  of  hell 
Hath  risen  with  purpose  fell; 
Strong  mail  of  craft  and  power 
He  weareth  in  this  hour — • 

On  earth  is  not  his  fellow. 

By  force  of  arms  we  nothing  can — 
Full  soon  were  we  down-ridden; 
But  for  us  fights  the  proper  man 
Whom  God  himself  hath  bidden. 


Ask  ye,  Who  is  this  same? 
Christ  Jesus  is  his  name. 
The  Lord  Zebaoth's  Son — 
He  and  no  other  one 

Shall  conquer  in  the  battle. 

And  were  this  world  all  devils  o'er. 
And  watching  to  devour  us. 
We  lay  it  not  to  heart  so  sore — 
Not  they  can  overpower  us. 
And  let  the  prince  of  ill 
Look  grim  as  e'er  he  will, 
He  harms  us  not  a  whit; 
For  why?     His  doom  is  writ — 

A  word  shall  quickly  slay  him. 

God's  word,  for  all  their  craft  and  force, 
One  moment  will  not  linger; 
But,  spite  of  hell,  shall  have  its  course- 
'Tis  written  by  His  finger. 
And  though  they  take  our  life. 
Goods,  honour,  children,  wife. 
Yet  is  their  profit  small; 
These  things  shall  vanish  all— 
The  city  of  God  remaineth. 


MASON-LODGE. 

(from  the  GERMAN   OF   GOETHE.^) 

The  mason's  ways  are 
A  type  of  existence. 
And  his  persistence 
Is  as  the  days  are 
Of  men  in  this  world. 

The  Future  hides  in  it 
Gladness  and  sorrow: 
We  press  still  thorow. 
Nought  that  abides  in  it 
Daunting  us, — onward. 


1  Originally  published  in  Past  and  Present,  and 
introduced  there  by  the  following  words:—"  My  ingenu- 
ous readei-s,  we  will  march  out  of  this  Third  Book  with 
a  rhythmic  word  of  Goethe's  on  our  lips— a  word  which 
perhaps  has  already  sung  itself,  in  dark  hours  and  in 
bright,  through  many  a  heart.  To  me,  finding  it 
devout,  yet  wholly  credible  and  veritable  ;  full  of  pity, 
jet  free  of  cant:  to  me,  joyfully  finding  much  in  it,  and 
joyfully  missing  so  much  in  it,  this  little  snatch  of 
music,  by  the  greatest  German  man,  sounds  like  a 
stanza  in  the  grand  '  Road  Song'  and  '  Marching  Song' 
of  our  great  Teutonic  Kindred— winding,  winding, 
valiant  and  victorious,  through  the  undiscovered  Deeps 
of  Time!  lie  calls  it  Mason-lodge,  not  Psalm  or  Hymn." 
—Ed. 


DANIEL  WEIR. 


155 


And  solemn  before  us, 
Veiled,  the  dark  Portal, 
Goal  of  all  mortal: — 
Stars  silent  rest  o'er  us, 
Graves  under  us  silent! 

While  earnest  thou  gazest, 
Comes  boding  of  terror, 
Comes  phantasm  and  error. 
Perplexes  the  bravest 
AVith  doubt  and  misgiving. 

But  heard  are  the  voices, 
Heard  are  the  sages. 
The  Worlds  and  the  Ages 
Choose  well :  your  choice  is 
Brief  and  yet  endless; 

Here  eyes  do  regard  you, 
In  Eternity's  stillness: 
Here  is  all  fulness, 
Ye  brave,  to  reward  you : 
AVork,  and  despair  not. 


THE  FROG  AXD  THE  STEER. 

(FKOM    the    GERMAN    OF    ULKICH    BONER.) 

A  frog  with  frogling  by  his  side 

Came  hopping  through  the  plain,  one  tide; 

There  he  an  ox  at  grass  did  spy: 

Much  angered  was  the  frog  thereby: 

He  said:  "  Lord  God,  what  was  my  sin, 

Thou  madest  me  so  small  and  thin? 

Likewise  I  have  no  handsome  feature, 

And  all  dishonoured  is  my  nature, 

To  other  creatures  far  and  near. 

For  instance,  this  same  grazing  steer." 

The  frog  would  fain  with  bullock  cope, 

'Gan  brisk  outblow  himself  in  hope. 


Then  spake  his  frogling:  "  Father  o'  me, 

It  boots  not,  let  tliy  blowing  be; 

Thy  nature  hath  forbid  this  battle. 

Thou  canst  not  vie  with  the  black  cattle." 

Nathless  let  be  the  frog  would  not. 

Such  prideful  notion  had  he  got; 

Again  to  blow  right  sore  'gan  he, 

And  said,  "  Like  ox  could  I  but  be 

In  size,  within  this  world  there  were 

No  frog  so  glad  to  tiiee,  I  swear." 

The  son  spake:  "Father,  me  is  woe 

Thou  shouldst  torment  thy  body  so: 

I  fear  thou  art  to  lose  thy  life : 

Come,  follow  me,  and  leave  this  strife: 

Good  father,  take  advice  of  me, 

And  let  thy  boastful  blowing  be." 

Frog  said:  "  Thou  needst  not  beck  and  nod, 

I  will  not  do  it,  so  help  me  God! 

Big  as  this  ox  is,  I  must  turn, 

]\Iine  honour  now  it  doth  concern." 

He  blew  himself,  and  burst  in  twain; 

Such  of  that  blowing  was  his  gain. 

The  like  hath  oft  been  seen  of  such 
AVho  grasp  at  honour  overmuch; 
They  must  with  none  at  all  be  doing, 
But  sink  full  soon,  and  come  to  ruin. 
He  that,  with  wind  of  pride  accurst, 
Much  puffs  himself,  will  surely  burst; 
He  men  miswishes  and  misjudges. 
Inferiors  scorns,  superiors  grudges, 
Of  all  his  equals  is  a  hater. 
Much  grieved  he  is  at  any  better; 
Therefore  it  were  a  sentence  wise. 
Were  his  whole  body  set  with  eyes, 
WIio  envy  hath,  to  see  so  well 
What  lucky  hap  each  man  befell. 
That  so  he  filled  were  with  fury, 
And  burst  asunder  in  a  hurry; 
And  so  full  soon  betid  him  this 
Which  to  the  frog  betided  is. 


DANIEL    WEIK. 


Born  1796  — Died  1831. 


Daniel  Weir,  a  poetical  bookseller  of  Green- 
ock, was  born  in  that  town,  March  31,  1796. 
Of  humble  parentage,  he  received  but  a  limited 
education,  and  at  the  age  of  twelve  years  he 
M-as  apprenticed  to  a  bookseller  in  his  native 
place.     Here  he  enjoyed  many  opportunities 


for  improving  his  education  by  reading,  and 
of  gratifying  his  verse- making  propensities. 
At  nineteen  he  left  his  amiable  employer  to 
follow  the  calling  on  his  own  account.  Weir 
contributed  several  pleasing  songs  to  Smith's 
Scottish  Minstrel,  and  himself  edited  for  a  Glas- 


156 


DANIEL  WEIR 


gow  firm  tlircro  volumes  of  songs  unchr  the 
titles  of  The  National  Minstrel,  The  Sacred 
Lyre,  and  Lyrical  Gems.  In  these  compila- 
tions a  majority-  of  his  own  poems  first  appeared, 
while  others  were  published  in  the  Glasgow 
newspapers.  In  1829  the  poet  published  a 
History  of  the  Town  of  Greenock,  and  at  his 
death  (November  11,  1831)  left  behind  him 
numerous  unpublished  pieces,  and  a  long  MS. 
poem  entitled  "  The  Pleasures  of  Religion." 

"Possessed,"  -writes  Rev.  Charles  Rogers, 
"of  a  fine  genius,  a  brilliant  fancy,  and  much 
gracefulness  of  expression,  Weir  has  decided 
claims  to  remembrance.  His  conversational 
talents  were  of  a  remarkable  description,  and 
attracted  to  his  shop  many  persons  of  taste,  to 
whom  his  poetical  talents  were  unknown.  He 
was  familiar  with  the  whole  of  the  British 
poets,  and  had  committed  their  best  passages 


to  memory.  Possessing  a  keen  relish  for  the 
ludicrous,  he  had  at  command  a  store  of 
delightful  anecdote,  which  he  gave  forth  with 
a  quaintness  of  look  and  utterance,  so  as  to 
render  the  force  of  the  humour  totally  irresis- 
tible. His  sarcastic  wit  was  an  object  of  dread 
to  his  opponents  in  burgh  politics.  His 
appearance  was  striking.  Rather  malformed, 
he  was  under  the  middle  size;  his  head  seemed 
large  for  his  person,  and  his  shoulders  Avere  of 
unusual  breadth.  His  complexion  was  dark, 
and  his  eyes  hazel;  and  when  his  countenance 
was  lit  up  on  the  recitation  of  .some  witty  tale 
he  looked  the  impersonation  of  mirthfulness. 
Eccentric  as  were  some  of  his  habits  and  modes 
of  action,  he  was  seriously  impressed  by  reli- 
gious principle.  Some  of  his  devotional  com- 
positions are  admirable  specimens  of  sacred 
poetry." 


THE    MIDNIGHT    WIND. 


I've  listened  to  the  midnight  wind, 

Which  seem'd,  to  fancy's  ear. 
The  mournful  music  of  the  mind, 

The  echo  of  a  tear; 
And  still  methought  the  hollow  sound. 

Which,  melting,  swept  along, 
The  voice  of  other  days  had  found. 

With  all  the  powers  of  song. 

I've  listened  to  the  midnight  wind, 

And  thought  of  friends  untrue — 
Of  hearts  that  seem'd  so  fondly  twined. 

That  nought  could  e'er  undo; 
Of  cherish'd  hopes  once  fondly  bright — 

Of  joys  Avhich  fancy  gave — 
Of  youthful  eyes,  whose  lovely  light 

Were  darken'd  in  the  grave. 

I've  listen'd  to  the  midnight  wind 

When  all  was  still  as  death; 
When  nought  was  heard  before,  behind — 

Xot  e'en  the  sleeper's  breath. 
And  I  have  sat  at  such  an  hour. 

And  heard  the  sick  man's  sigh; 
Or  seen  the  babe,  like  some  sweet  flow'r. 

At  that  lone  moment  die. 

I've  listen'd  to  the  midnight  wind, 

And  wept  for  others'  woe; 
Nor  could  the  heart  such  music  find 

To  bid  its  tear-drops  flow. 


The  melting  voice  of  one  we  loved. 
Whose  voice  was  heard  no  more, 

Seem'd,  when  those  fancied  chords  were  moved. 
Still  breathing  as  before. 

I've  listen'd  to  the  midnight  wind, 

And  sat  beside  the  dead. 
And  felt  those  movings  of  the  mind 

AVhich  own  a  secret  dread. 
The  ticking  clock,  which  told  the  hour. 

Had  then  a  sadder  chime; 
And  tiiese  winds  seem'd  an  unseen  pow'r. 

Which  sung  the  dirge  of  time. 

I've  listen'd  to  the  midnight  wind, 

AVhen,  o'er  the  new-made  grave 
Of  one  whose  heart  was  true  and  kind. 

Its  rudest  blasts  did  rave. 
Oh !  there  was  something  in  the  sound — 

A  mournful,  melting  tone — 
AVhich  led  the  thoughts  to  that  dark  ground 

Where  he  was  left  alone. 

I've  listen'd  to  the  midnight  wind. 

And  courted  sleep  in  vain, 
While  thoughts  like  these  have  oft  combined 

To  rack  the  wearied  brain. 
.\nd  even  when  slumber,  soft  and  deep. 

Has  seen  the  eyelid  close. 
The  restless  soul,  which  cannot  sleep. 

Has  stray 'd  till  morning  rose. 


WILLI.\:M   MOTHERWELL. 


157 


ON   THE  DEATH  OF  A   CHILD. 

Oh!  weep  not  thus,  though  the  child  thou  hast 
loved, 

Still,  still  as  the  grave,  in  silence  sleeps  on; 
'Midst  the  teare  that  are  shed,  his  eye  is  unmoved, 

And  the  beat  of  that  bosom  for  ever  is  gone; 
Then  weep  not  thus,  for  the  moment  is  blest 
When  the  wand'rer  sleeps  on  his  couch  of  rest! 

The  woi'ld,  to  him,  with  its  sorrows  and  sighs. 
Has  fled  hke  a  dream  when  the  morn  appears; 

WhUe  the  spirit  awakes  in  the  light  of  the  skies, 
No  more  to  revisit  this  valley  of  tears; — 

Then  weep  not  thus,  for  the  moment  is  blest 

When  the  wand"rer  sleeps  on  his  couch  of  rest ! 

Few,  few  were  liis  years;  but,  had  they  been  more. 
The  sunshine  which  smiled  might  have  vanished 
awaj'. 
And  he  might  have  fallen  on  some  far  friendless 
shore, 
Or  been  wreck'd  amidst  storms  in  some  desolate 
baj" 
Then  weep  not  thus,  for  the  moment  is  blest 
WTien  the  wand'rer  sleeps  on  his  couch  of  rest  I 

Like  a  rosebud  of  promise.when  fresh  in  the  morn, 
Was  the  child  of  thy  heart  while  he  lingered 
here; 

But  now  from  thy  love,  from  thine  anus  he  is  torn. 
Yet  to  bloom  in  a  lovelier,  happier  sphere: 

Then  weep  not  thus,  for  the  moment  is  blest 

When  the  wand'rer  sleeps  on  his  couch  of  rest ! 

How  happy  the  pilgrim  whose  journey  is  o'er, 
"Who,  musing,  looks  back  on  its  dangers  and 
woes; 

Then  rejoice  at  his  rest,  for  son-ow  no  more 
Can  start  on  his  di-eams,  or  disturb  his  repose : 

Then  weep  not  thus,  for  the  moment  is  blest 

\Mien  the  wand'rer  sleeps  on  his  couch  of  rest! 

Who  would  not  recline  on  the  breast  of  a  friend, 
When  the  night-cloud  has  lower'd  o'er  a  sor- 
rowful day  • 

WTio  would  not  rejoice  at  his  journey's  end, 
When  perils  and  toils  encompass'd  his  way  ? 


Then  weep  not  thus,  for  the  moment  is  blest 
When  the  wand'rer  sleeps  on  his  couch  of  rest! 


'XEATH   THE  WAVE. 

'Neath  the  wave  thy  lover  sleeps, 

And  cold,  cold  is  his  pillow; 
O'er  bis  bed  no  maiden  weep^, 

Where  rolls  the  white  billow. 
And  though  the  winds  have  sunk  to  rest 
Upon  the  troubled  ocean's  breast, 
Yet  still,  oh  still  there's  left  behind 
A  restless  storm  in  Ellen's  mind. 

Her  heart  is  on  yon  dark'ning  wave, 

Where  all  she  lov'd  is  lying, 
And  where,  around  her  William's  grave. 

The  sea-bird  is  crying. 
And  oft  on  Jura's  lonely  .'ihore, 
Where  surges  beat  and  billows  roar, 
She  sat — but  grief  has  nipt  her  bloom, 
And  there  they  made  young  Ellen's  tomb. 


RAVEN'S   STREAM. 1 

Jly  love,  come  let  us  wander 
Where  Raven's  streams  meander, 
And  where,  in  simple  grandeur, 

The  daisy  decks  the  plain. 
Peace  and  joy  our  hours  .shall  measure; 
Come,  oh  come,  my  soul's  best  treasure! 
Then  how  sweet,  and  then  how  cheerie, 
Raven's  braes  will  be,  my  dearie. 

The  silver  moon  is  beaming, 
On  Clyde  her  light  is  streaming, 
And,  while  the  world  is  dreaming. 

We'll  talk  of  love,  my  dear. 
None,  my  Jean,  will  share  this  bosom, 
Where  thine  image  loves  to  blossom, 
.\nd  no  storm  will  ever  sever 
That  dear  flower,  or  part  us  ever. 


WILLIAM    MOTHEEWELL. 


Born  1797  — Died  1835. 


William  Motherwell,  an  antiquary,  jour- 
nalist, and  poet,  and  the  author  of  two  Scot- 
tish ballads  unsurpassed  for  tenderness  and 


pathos,    was  born   in   Glasgow,   October   13, 


1 A  small  stream  in  tlieneighbouihoodof  Greenock.— Ed. 


158 


WILLIAM  MOTHERWELL. 


1797.  His  father  was  an  ironmonger  in  that 
city,  and  came  of  a  Stirlingshire  family  who 
for  thirteen  generations  had  possessed  a  small 
property  named  Muirmill  on  the  banks  of  the 
Carron.  His  mother  was  the  daughter  of  a 
prosperous  Perthshire  farmer,  from  whom  she 
inherited  a  considerable  property.  The  family 
removed  to  Edinburgh  early  in  the  century, 
and  in  1805  William  became  a  pupil  of  Mr.  W, 
Lennie,  in  whose  school  he  met  the  heroine  of 
his  beautiful  song.  The  year  following  he 
entered  the  high -school,  but  was  soon  after 
sent  to  reside  with  an  uncle  at  Paisley,  where 
he  completed  his  education  at  the  grammar- 
school,  with  the  exception  of  attending  the 
Latin  and  Greek  classes  in  the  University  of 
Glasgow  during  the  session  of  1818-19.  He 
was  placed  as  an  apprentice  in  the  office  of  the 
sheriff-clerk  of  Paisley,  and  his  ability  and 
diligence  combined  secured  for  him  at  the  age 
of  twenty-one  the  honourable  position  of 
sherifF-clerk  depute  of  Renfrewshire. 

While  fulfilling  the  duties  of  this  office 
Motherwell  steadily  pursued  those  literary 
occupations  upon  which  his  claims  to  public 
notice  are  founded.  He  early  evinced  a  taste 
for  poetry,  and  in  his  fourteenth  year  had  pro- 
duced the  first  draft  of  "Jeanie  Morrison.'" 
In  1818  he  contributed  to  a  small  work  pub- 
lished at  Greenock  called  the  Visitor,  and  in 
the  following  year  he  edited  an  edition  of  the 
Harp  of  Renfren'sliire ,  a  valuable  collection 
of  songs.  In  1827  he  published  his  Minstrelsy, 
A  ncient  and  Modern,  a  work  of  great  merit  and 
research,  which  at  once  gave  him  rank  and  influ- 
ence as  a  literary  antiquary.  In  the  introduc- 
tion Motherwell  exhibits  a  thorough  acquaint- 
ance with  the  ballad  and  romantic  literature  of 
his  native  land.  In  1828  he  commenced  the 
PaisZej/Tl/aj/rt^/ne,  the  pagesof  which  heenriched 
with  some  of  his  best  poetical  productions;  and 
during  the  same  year  he  assumed  the  editor- 
ship of  the  Paisley  Advertiser,  a  Tory  news- 
paper previously  under  the  management  of 
his  friend  William  Kennedy.  In  January, 
1830,  he  was  appointed  editor  of  the  Glasrjoiv 
Courier,  an  influential  journal  conducted  on 
Tory  principles.  In  his  hands  the  journal 
maintained  its  high  character  as  an  able 
exponent  of  ultra-Tory  opinions,  and  he  con- 
tinued its  editorship  up  to  the  date  of  iiis 
death. 


In  1832  there  appeared  from  the  press  of  his 
friend  David  Robertson  a  small  volume  of  his 
best  poetical  compositions,  entitled  Poems, 
Narrative  and  Lyrical.  With  the  publication 
of  this  little  book,  containing  such  lyrics  as 
"Jeanie  Morrison,"  "My  Held  is  like  to  rend, 
Willie,"  and  "  Wearie's  Well,"  compositions 
which  for  soft  melancholy  and  touching  ten- 
derness of  expression  have  never  been  excelled, 
William  Motherwell  at  once  took  rank  among 
Scotland's  sweetest  singers.  Miss  Mitford 
says — "Burns  is  the  only  poet  with  whom, 
for  tenderness  and  pathos,  Jlotherwcll  can  be 
compared.  The  elder  bard  has  written  much 
more  largely,  is  more  various,  more  fiery,  more 
abundant;  but  I  doubt  if  there  be  in  the  whole 
of  his  collection  anything  so  exquisitely  fin- 
ished, so  free  from  a  line  too  many  or  a  word 
out  of  place,  as  the  two  great  lyric  ballads  of 
Motherwell ;  and  let  young  writers  observe, 
that  this  finish  was  the  result,  not  of  a  curious 
felicity,  but  of  the  nicest  elaboration.  By 
touching  and  re-touching,  during  many  years, 
did  'Jeanie  Morrison'  attain  her  perfection, 
and  yet  how  completely  has  art  concealed  art! 
How  entirelj'  does  that  charming  song  appear 
like  an  inexpressible  gush  of  feeling  that  would 
find  A'ent.  In  'My  Held  is  like  to  rend, 
Willie,'  the  appeai'ance  of  spontaneity  is  still 
more  striking,  as  the  passion  is  more  intense — 
intense,  indeed,  almost  to  painfulness." 

In  1835,  in  conjunction  with  the  Ettrick 
Shepherd,  Motherwell  edited  an  edition  of 
Burns,  to  which  he  contributed  the  principal 
part  of  the  biography,  with  copious  notes;  and 
he  was  collecting  material  for  a  life  of  Tanna- 
hill,  when  he  Avas  suddenly  struck  down  by 
apoplexy,  and  died  after  a  few  hours'  illness, 
Nov.  1,  1835,  in  the  thirty-eighth  year  of  his 
age.  His  remains  were  interred  in  the  Glasgow 
Kecropolis,  where  an  elegant  monument  with 
a  life-like  bust  has  been  erected  to  his 
memory. 

As  a  poet  Jlotherwell  was  happiest  in  pathe- 
tic and  sentimental  lyrics,  though  his  own 
inclinations  led  him  to  prefer  the  chivalrous 
and  martial  style  of  the  old  minstrels.  The 
translations  of  Scandinavian  poetry  which  he 
produced  are  among  the  most  successful  and 
vigorous  which  have  appeared.  After  his 
death  a  new  edition  of  his  poems  was  published, 
accompanied  by  a  memoir  written  by  his  friend 


WILLIAM   MOTHERWELL. 


159 


and  physician  James  Jl'Coneclij-,  who  con- 
cludes with  the  following  paragraph: — "  Upon 
the  whole  his  place  as  a  minor  poet  is  a  distin- 
guished one.  He  has  undoubtedly  enriched  the 
language  with  many  noble  specimens  of  manly 
song;  and  when  it  is  remembered  that  he  pro- 
secuted his  poetical  studies  in  silence  and 
retirement,  animated  alone  by  the  love  of  his 
art,  and  sustained  through  many  long  years  of 
trial  by  the  distant  gleam  of  posthumous  fame, 
it  will  not  be  disputed  that  his  motives  to 
action  were  exalted,  and  his  exertions  in  the 
cause  of  human  improvement  disinterested." 
Another  competent  critic — Christopher  North 
— said  of  Motherwell:  "All  his  perceptions 
are  clear,  for  all  his  senses  are  sound:  he  has 
fine  and  strong  sensibilities,  and  a  powerful 


intellect,  lie  has  been  led  by  the  natural 
bent  of  his  genius  to  the  old  haunts  of  inspi- 
ration— the  woods  and  glens  of  his  native 
country — and  his  ears  delight  to  drink  the 
music  of  her  old  songs.  Many  a  beautiful 
ballad  has  blended  its  pensive  and  plaintive 
pathos  with  his  day-dreams,  and  while  reading 
some  of  his  happiest  effusions  we  feel — 

'  Tlie  ancient  spirit  is  not  dead, — 
Old  times,  we  say,  aio  breathing  there.' 

His  style  is  simple,  but  in  his  tenderest  move- 
ments masculine:  he  strikes  a  few  bold  knocks 
at  the  door  of  the  heart,  which  is  instantly 
opened  by  the  master  or  mistress  of  the  house, 
or  by  son  or  daughter,  and  the  welcome  visitor 
at  once  becomes  one  of  the  family." 


THE    MASTER    OF   WEEMYS. 


The  Master  of  Weemys  has  biggit  a  ship, 

To  saile  upon  the  sea; 
And  four-and-twenty  bauld  marineres, 

Doe  beare  him  companie. 

They  have  hoistit  sayle  and  left  the  land, 

They  have  saylit  mylis  three; 
When  up  there  lap  the  bonnie  merniayd. 

All  in  the  Norland  sea. 

"0  whare  saile  ye,"  quo'  the  bonnie  mermayd, 

"  Upon  the  saut  sea  faem  1" 
"It's  we  are  bounde  until  NorroAvay, 

God  send  us  skaithless  hame!" 

"Oh  Norroway  is  a  gay  gay  strande, 
And  a  merrie  land  1  trowe; 
But  nevir  nane  sail  see  Norroway 
Gin  the  mermayd  keeps  her  vowe!" 

Down  doukit  then  the  mermayden, 

Deep  intil  the  middil  sea; 
And  merrie  leuch  that  master  bauld, 

With  his  jollie  companie. 

They  saylit  awa',  and  they  saylit  awa', 

They  have  saylit  leagues  ten; 
When  lo!   uplap  by  the  gude  ship's  side 

The  self-same  mermayden. 

Shee  held  a  glass  intil  her  richt  hande, 
In  the  uthir  shee  held  a  kame. 

And  shee  kembit  her  haire,  and  aye  she  sang 
As  shee  flotterit  on  the  faem. 


And  shee  gliskit  round  and  round  about, 

Upon  the  waters  wan; 
0  nevir  againe  on  land  or  sea 

Shall  be  seen  sik  a  faire  woman. 

And  shee  shed  her  haire  aff  her  milk-white 
bree 

Wi'  her  fingers  sac  sma'  and  lang; 
And  fast  as  saylit  that  gude  ship  on,  • 

Sae  louder  was  aye  her  sang. 

And  aye  shee  sang,  and  aye  shee  sang 
As  shee  rade  upon  the  sea; 
"If  ye  bee  men  of  Christian  moulde 
Throwe  the  master  out  to  mee. 

"Thro we  out  to  mee  the  master  bauld 
If  ye  bee  Christian  men; 
But  an'  ye  faile,  though  fast  ye  sayle, 
Ye'll  nevir  see  land  agen!" 

"Sayle  on,  sayle  on,  sayle  on,"  said  shee, 
"Sayle  on  and  nevir  blinne. 
The  winde  at  will  your  saylis  may  fill. 
But  the  land  ye  shall  never  win  ! " 

It's  never  word  spak  that  master  bauld, 
But  a  loud  laugh  leuch  the  crewe; 

And  in  the  deep  then  the  mermayden 
Doun  drappit  frae  their  viewe. 

But  ilk  ane  kythit  her  bonnie  face. 

How  dark  dark  grew  its  lire; 
And  ilk  ane  saw  her  bricht  bricht  eyne 

Leming  like  coals  o'  fire. 


160 


WILLIAM  MOTHERWELL. 


And  ilk  ane  saw  her  lang  bricht  hair 
Gae  flashing  through  the  tide, 

And  tiie  sparkles  o'  the  glass  shee  brake 
Upon  that  gude  ship's  side. 

"Steer  on,  steer  on,  thou  master  bauld. 

The  wind  blaws  unco  hie;" 
"0  there's  not  a  sterne  in  a'  the  lift 

To  guide  us  through  the  sea!" 

"Steer  on,  steer  on,  thou  master  bauld, 

The  storm  is  coming  fast;'' 
"Then  up,  then  up,  my  bonnie  boy, 

Unto  the  topmost  mast. 

« 

"Creep  up  into  the  tallest  mast, 
Gae  up,  my  ae  best  man; 
Climb  up  until  the  tall  top-mast 
And  spy  gin  ye  see  land." 

"Oh  all  is  mirk  towards  the  eist, 
And  all  is  mirk  be  west; 
Alas  there  is  not  a  spot  of  light 
Where  any  eye  can  rest! " 

"Looke  oute,  looke  oute,  my  bauldest  man, 
Locke  out  unto  the  storme. 
And  if  ye  cannot  get  sicht  o'  land, 
Do  ye  see  the  dawin  o'  morn]" 

"Oh  alace!  alace!  my  master  deare," 

Spak'  then  that  ae  best  man; 
"Nor  licht,  nor  land,  nor  living  thing, 

Do  I  spy  on  any  hand." 

"  Looke  yet  agen,  my  ae  best  man, 

And  tell  me  what  ye  do  see;" 
"  0  Lord  !  1  spy  the  false  mermayden 

Fast  say  ling  out  owre  the  sea! " 

"How  can  j^e  spy  the  fause  mermayden 
Fast  sayling  on  the  mirk  sea. 
For  there's  neither  mune  nor  mornin'  licht — 
In  troth  it  can  nevir  bee." 

"0  there  is  neither  mune  nor  mornin'  licht, 
Nor  ae  star's  blink  on  the  sea; 
But  as  I  am  a  Christian  man, 
That  witch  woman  I  see! 

"Good  Lord!  there  is  a  .scaud  o'  fire 
Fast  coming  out  owre  the  sea; 
And  fast  therein  the  grim  mermayden 
Is  sayling  on  to  thee! 

"Shec  hailes  our  ship  wi'  a  shrill  shrill  cry — 

Shee  is  coming,  alace!  more  near:" 
"Ah  wae  is  me  now,"  .said  the  ma.ster  bauld, 
"For  I  both  do  see  and  hear! 


'Come  doun,  come  doun,  my  ae  best  man, 
For  an  ill  weird  I  maun  drie; 

Yet,  I  reck  not  for  my  .sinful  .self, 
But  thou  my  trew  companie!  " 


THE  WOOING  SONG. 

Bright  maiden  of  Orkney,  star  of  the  blue  sea! 
I've  swept  o'er  the  waters  to  gaze  upon  thee; 
I've  left  spoil  and  slaughter,  I've  left  a  far 

strand, 
To  sing  how  I  love  thee,  to  kiss  thy  small  hand! 
Fair  daughter  of  Einar,  golden-liaired  maid  ! 
The  lord  of  yon  brown  bark,  and  lord  of  this 

blade; 
The  joy  of  the  ocean,  of  warfare  and  wind, — 
Hath  bonne  him  to  woo  thee,  and  thou  must 

be  kind. 
So  stoutly  Jarl  Egill  wooed  Torf  Einar's  daughter. 

In  Jutland,  in  Iceland,  on  Neustria's  shore, 
Where'er  the  dark  billow  my  gallant  bark  bore. 
Songs  spoke  of  thy  beauty,  harps  sounded  thy 

praise. 
And  my  heart  loved  thee  long  ere  it  thrilled  in 

thy  gaze. 
Aye,  daughter  of  Einar,  right  tall  mayst  thou 

stand ; 
It  is  a  Vikingir  who  kisses  thy  hand; 
It  is  a  Vikingir  that  bends  his  proud  knee. 
And  swears  by  great  Freya  his  bride  thou  must 

be! 
So  Jarl  Egill  swore  when  his  great  heart  was 

fullest. 

Thy  white  arms  are  locked  in  broad  bracelets 

of  gold; 
Thy    girdle-stead's    gleaming   with    treasures 

untold; 
The  circlet  that  binds  up  thy  long  yellow  hair, 
Is  starred  thick  with  jewels,  that  bright  are 

and  rare; 
But  gifts  yet  more  princely  Jarl  Egill  bestows: 
For  girdle,  his  great  arm  around  thee  lie  throws; 
The  bark  of  a  sea-king,  for  palace,  gives  he, 
While  mad  waves  and  winds  shall  thy  true 

subjects  be. 
So  richly  Jarl  Egill  endowed  his  bright  bride. 

Nay,  frown  not,  nor  shrink  thus,  nor  toss  so 

thy  head, 
'Tic  a  Vikingir  asks  thee,  land-maiden,  to  wed! 
He  skills  not  to  woo  thee,  in  trembling  and  fear. 
Though  lords  of  the  land  may  thus  troop  with 

the  deer. 
The  cradle  he  rocked  in  so  sound  and  so  long, 
Hath  framed  him  a  heart  and  a  hand  that  are 

strong; 


WILLIAM   MOTHERWELL. 


IGl 


He  comes  then  as  Jarl  should,  sword  belted  to 

side, 
To  win  thee  and  wear  thee  with  gloi-y  and  pride. 
So  sternly  Jarl  Egill  wooed,  and  smote  his  long; 

brand. 

Thy  father,  thy  brethren,  thy  kin  keep  from 

me. 
The  maiden  I've  sworn  shall  be  Queen  of  the 

sea! 
A  ti'uco  with  that  folly, — yon  sea-strand  can 

show 
If  this  eye  missed  its  aim,  or  this  arm  failed 

its  blow; 
I  had  not  well  taken  three  strides  on  this  land, 
Ere  a  Jarl  and  his  six  sons  in  death  bit  the  sand. 
Nay,  weep  not,  pale  maid,  though  in  battle 

should  fall 
The  kemps  who  would  keep  thy  bridegroom 

from  the  hall. 
So  carped  Jarl  Egill,  and  kissed  the  bright  weeper. 

Through  shadows  and  horrors,  in  worlds  un- 
derground, 

Through  sounds  that  apjjaU  and  through  sights 
that  confound, 

I  sought  the  weird  women  within  theh  dark 
cell, 

And  made  them  surrender  futurity's  spell ; 

I  made  them  rune  over  the  dim  scroll  so  free, 

And  mutter  how  fate  sped  with  lovers  like  me; 

Yes,  maiden,  I  forced  them  to  read  forth  my 
doom. 

To  say  how  I  should  fare  as  jolly  bridegroom. 
So  Jarl  Egill's  love  dared  the  world  of  grim  siia- 
dows. 

They  waxed  and  they  waned,  they  passed  to 

and  fro. 
While  lurid  fires  gleamed  o'er  their  faces  of 

snow; 
Their  stony  eyes,  moveless,  did  glare  on  me 

long. 
Then  sullen  they  chanted:   "The  sword  and 

the  song 
Prevail  with  the  gentle,  sore  chasten  the  rude, 
And  sway  to  their  purpose  each  evil-shaped 

mood!" 
Fair  daughter  of  Einar,  I've  sung  the  dark  lay 
That  the  weird  sisters  runed,  and  which  thou 

mu.st  obey. 
So  fondly  Jarl  Egill  loved  Einar's  proud  daughter. 

The  curl  of  that  proud  lip,  the  flash  of  that  eye, 
The  swell  of  that  bosom,  so  full  and  so  high. 
Like  foam  of  sea-billow  thy  white  bosom  shows. 
Like  flash  of  red  levin  thine  eagle  eye  glows; 
Ha!  firmly  and  boldly,  so  stately  and  free. 
Thy  foot  treads  this  chamber,  as  bark  rides 
the  sea; 

Vol.  II.— L 


This  likes  me, — this  likes  me,  stout  maiden  of 

mould. 
Thou  wooest  to  purpose;  bold  hearts  love  the 

bold. 
So  shouted  Jarl  Egill,  and  clutched  the  prouil 

maiden. 

Away  and  away  then,  I  have  thy  small  hand; 
J.y  with  me,— our  tall  bark  now  bears  toward 

the  strand; 
I  call  it  the  Raven,  the  wing  of  black  night, 
That  shadows  forth  ruin  o'er  islands  of  light; 
Once  more  on  its  long  deck,  behind  us  the  gale. 
Thou  shalt  see  how  before  it  great  kingdoms 

do  quail; 
Thou  shalt  see  then  how  truly,  my  noble-souled 

maid. 
The  ransom  of  kings  can  be  won  by  this  blade. 
So  bravely  Jarl  Egnll  did  soothe  the  pale  trembler. 

Aye,  gaze  on  his  largo  hilt,  one  wedge  of  red 

gold; 
But  doat  on  its  blade,  gilt  with  blood  of  the 

bold. 
The  hilt  is  i-ight  seemly,  but  nobler  the  blade, 
That  swart  Vehnt's  hammer  with  cunning  spells 

made. 
I  call  it  the  adder,  death  lurks  in  its  bite. 
Through  bone  and  proof-harness  it  scatter., 

pale  light. 
Fair  daughters  of  Einar,  deem  high  of  the  fate 
That  makes  thee,  like  this  blade,  proud  Egill's 

loved  mate ! 
So  Jarl  Egill  bore  off  Torf  Einar's  bright  daughter. 


THE  MERRY  SUMMER  MOXTHS. 

They  come!    the   merry  summer   months  of 

beauty,  song,  and  flowers; 
They  come!  the  ghuisorae  montlis  that  bring 

thick  leafiness  to  bowers. 
Up,  up,  my  heart!    i^nd  walk  abroad;   fling 

cark  and  care  aside; 
Seek  silent  hills,  or  rest  thyself  where  peaceful 

waters  glide; 
Or,  underneath  the  shadow  vast  of  patriarchal 

tree, 
Sean  through  its  leaves  the  cloudless  sky  in 

rapt  tranquillity. 

The  grass  is  soft,  its  velvet  toucli  is  grateful 

to  the  hand; 
And,  like  the  kiss  of  maiden  love,  the  breeze 

is  sweet  and  bland  ; 
The   daisy   and    the   buttercup   are   nodding 

courteously; 
It  stirs  their  blood  with  kindest  love,  to  bless 

and  welcome  thee; 


162 


WILLIAM  MOTHERWELL. 


And  mark  how  with  thine  own  thin  locks — 
they  now  are  silvery  gray — 

That  blissful  breeze  is  wantoning,  and  whis- 
pering, '  •  Be  gay ! " 

There  is  no  cloud  that  sails  along  the  ocean  of 

yon  sky, 
But  hath  its  own  winged  mariners  to  give  it 

melody; 
Thou  seest  their  glittering  fans  outspread,  all 

gleaming  like  red  gold; 
And  hark!  with  shrill  pipe  musical,  their  merry 

course  they  hold. 
God  bless  them  all,  these  little  ones,  who,  far 

above  this  earth, 
Can  make  a  scoff"  of  its  mean  joys,  and  vent  a 

nobler  mirth. 

But  soft!  mine  ear  upcaught  a  sound, — from 

yonder  wood  it  camel 
The  spirit  of  the  dim  green  glade  did  breathe 

his  own  glad  name;— 
Yes,  it  is  he!  the  hermit  bird,  that,  apart  from 

all  his  kind. 
Slow  spells  his  beads  monotonous  to  the  soft 

western  wind ; 
Cuckoo!  cuckoo!  he  sings  again, — his  notes  are 

void  of  art; 
But  simplest  strains  do  soonest  sound  tJie  deep 

founts  of  the  heart. 

Good  Lord!  it  is  a  gracious  boon  for  thought- 
crazed  wight  like  me. 

To  smell  again  these  summer  flowers  beneath 
this  summer  tree! 

To  suck  once  more  in  every  breath  their  little 
souls  away. 

And  feed  my  fancy  with  fond  dreams  of  youtii's 
bright  summer  da}', 

When,  rushing  forth,  like  untamed  colt,  the 
reckless  truant  boy 

Wandered  through  greenwoods  all  day  long,  a 
mighty  heart  of  joy! 

I'm  sadder  now — I  have  had  cause;  but,  oh! 

I'm  proud  to  think 
That  each  pure  joy-fount,  loved  of  yore,  I  yet 

delight  to  drink;  — 

1  Tlie  heroine  of  this  sonpr.  Miss  Jane  Morrison,  after- 
wards Mrs.  Murdoch,  was  daughter  of  Mr.  Ebeuezer 
Morrison,  brewer  in  Alloa.  lu  the  autumn  of  1807, 
when  in  her  seventh  year,  she  became  a  pupil  of  Mr. 
Lennie,  and  for  sever;il  months  occupied  the  same 
class  room  w  ith  young  Motherwell.  Of  the  flame  wliich 
she  had  e.xcited  in  the  susceptible  lieart  of  lier  boy- 
lover  she  was  totally  unconscious.  Mr.  Lennie,  how- 
ever, in  a  statement  published  by  the  editor  of  Mother- 
well's poems,  refers  to  the  strong  impression  which  she 
made  on  the  young  poet;  he  describes  her  as  "a  pretty 


Leaf,  blossom,  blade,  hill,  valley,  stream,  the 

calm,  unclouded  sky. 
Still  mingle  music  with  my  dreams,  as  in  the 

days  gone  by. 
When  summer's  loveliness  and  light  fall  round 

me  dark  and  cold, 
I'll  bear  indeed  life's  heaviest  curse — a  heart 

that  hath  waxed  old! 


JEAIflE  MOEKISON.i 

I've  wandered  east,  I've  wandered  west. 

Through  mony  a  weary  way; 
But  never,  never  can  forget 

The  luve  o'  life's  young  day! 
The  fire  that's  blawn  on  Beltane  e'en 

May  weel  be  black  gin  Yule; 
But  blacker  fa'  awaits  the  heart 

Where  first  fond  luve  grows  cule. 

0  dear,  dear  Jeanie  Morrison, 
The  thochts  o'  bygane  years 

Still  fling  their  shadows  ower  my  path. 

And  blind  my  een  wi'  tears: 
They  blind  my  een  wi'  saut,  saut  tears. 

And  sair  and  sick  I  pine. 
As  memory  idly  summons  up 

Tlie  blithe  blinks  o'  lang.syne. 

'Twas  then  we  luvit  ilk  ither  weel, 

'Twas  then  we  twa  did  part; 
Sweet  time — sad  time!  twa  bairns  at  scule, 

Twa  bairns,  and  but  ae  heart! 
'Twas  then  we  sat  on  ae  laigh  bink. 

To  leir  ilk  ither  leir; 
And  tones  and  looks  and  smiles  were  shed, 

Ecmembered  evermair. 

1  wonder,  Jeanie,  aften  yet, 
When  sitting  on  that  bink. 

Cheek  touchin'  cheek,  loof  locked  in  loof. 
What  our  Avee  heads  could  think. 

When  baith  bent  doun  ower  ae  braid  page, 
Wi'  ae  bulk  on  our  knee. 

Thy  lips  were  on  thy  lesson,  but 
My  lesson  was  in  thee. 

girl,  and  of  good  capacity."  "Her  hair,"headds,  "was 
of  a  lightish  brown,  approaching  to  fair;  her  eyes  were 
dark,  and  had  a  sweet  and  gentle  expre.«sion;  her  tem- 
per was  mild,  and  her  manners  unassuming."  In  1823 
Miss  Morrison  became  the  wife  of  Mr.  John  Murdoch, 
commission-agent  in  Glasgow,  who  died  in  1820.  She 
never  met  the  poet  in  after  life,  and  the  ballad  of 
"Jeanie  Morrison"  had  been  published  for  several 
years  before  she  became  aware  that  she  was  the  heroine. 
—Ra-.  Charles  Rogen. 


WILLIAM  MOTHERWELL. 


163 


0,  mind  ye  how  we  hung  our  heads, 

How  cheeks  brent  red  \\i  sliame, 
Whene'er  the  scule-weans,  laughin',  .said 

We  cleeked  thegitlier  hame  ? 
And  mind  ye  o'  the  Saturdays 

(Tiie  seule  then  skail't  at  noon), 
When  we  ran  uff  to  speel  the  braes, — 

The  brooiny  braes  o'  June? 

My  head  rins  round  and  round  about — 

JMy  heart  flows  like  a  sea. 
As  ane  by  ane  the  thochts  rush  back 

0'  sculetime  and  o'  thee. 

0  mornin'  life!  0  mornin'  hive! 
0  lichtsome  days  and  lang, 

When  hinnied  hopes  around  our  hearts 
Like  simmer  blossoms  sprang! 

O,  mind  ye,  luve,  how  aft  we  left 

The  deavin',  dinsome  toun, 
To  wander  by  the  green  burn  side, 

And  hear  its  waters  croon? 
The  simmer  leaves  hung  ower  our  heads, 

The  flowers  burst  round  our  feet, 
And  in  the  gloamin'  o'  the  wood 

The  throssil  whusslit  sweet; 

The  throssil  whiisslit  in  the  wood. 

The  burn  sang  to  the  trees — 
And  we,  with  nature's  heart  in  tune, 

Concerted  harmonies; 
And  on  the  knowe  abune  the  burn 

For  hours  thegither  sat, 
In  the  silentness  o'  joy,  till  baith 

AVi'  very  gladness  grat. 

Ay,  ay,  dear  Jeanie  Morrison, 

Tears  trinkled  doun  your  cheek 
Like  dew-beads  on  a  rose,  yet  nane 

Had  ony  power  to  speak ! 
That  was  a  time,  a  blessed  time. 

When  hearts  wei-e  fresh  and  young, 
When  freely  gushed  all  feelings  forth, 

Unsyllabled — unsung! 

1  mai'vel,  Jeanie  Morrison, 
Gin  I  hae  been  to  thee 

As  closely  twined  wi'  earliest  thochts 

As  ye  hae  been  to  me? 
0,  tell  me  gin  their  music  fills 

Thine  ear  as  it  does  mine! 
0,  say  gin  e'er  your  heart  grows  grit 

Wi'  dreamings  o'  langsyne? 

I've  wandered  east,  I've  wandered  west, 

I've  borne  a  weary  lot; 
But  in  my  wanderings,  far  or  near. 

Ye  never  were  forgot. 
The  fount  that  first  burst  frae  this  heart 

Still  travels  on  its  way. 


And  channels  deeper,  as  it  rins, 
The  hive  o'  life's  young  day. 

0,  dear,  dear  Jeanie  Jlorrison, 

Since  we  were  sindered  young 
I've  never  seen  your  face,  nor  heard 

Tiie  music  o'  your  tongue; 
But  I  could  hug  all  wretchedness;, 

And  happy  could  I  die. 
Did  I  but  ken  your  heart  still  dreamed 

0'  bygane  days  and  me! 


MY  HEID  IS  LIKE  TO  REND,  AVILLIE. 

My  heid  is  like  to  rend,  Willie — 

My  heart  is  like  to  break; 
I'm  wearin'  aff  my  feet,  AVillie — 

I'm  dyiu'  for  your  sake! 
0,  lay  your  cheek  to  mine,  Willie, 

Your  hand  on  my  briest-bane, — 
0,  say  ye'll  think  on  me,  Willie, 

When  I  am  deid  and  gane! 

It's  vain  to  comfort  me,  Willie, — 

Sair  grief  maun  hae  its  will; 
But  let  me  rest  upon  your  briest 

To  sab  and  greet  my  fill. 
Let  me  sit  on  your  knee,  Willie, — 

Let  me  shed  by  your  hair, 
And  look  into  the  face,  AVillie, 

I  never  sail  see  mair! 

I'm  sittin'  on  j'our  knee,  AVillie, 

For  the  last  time  in  my  life, — 
A  puir  heart-broken  thing,  AVillie, 

A  mither,  yet  nae  wife. 
Aj',  press  your  hand  upon  my  heart. 

And  press  it  mair  and  mair, — 
Or  it  will  burst  the  silken  twine, 

Sae  Strang  is  its  despair. 

0,  wae's  me  for  the  hour,  AVillie, 

AVhen  we  thegither  met, — 
0,  wae's  me  for  the  time,  AVillie, 

That  our  first  tryst  was  set! 
0,  wae's  me  for  the  loanin'  green 

AVhere  Ave  were  wont  to  gae, — 
And  wae's  me  for  the  destinie 

That  gart  me  luve  thee  sae! 

0,  dinna  mind  my  words,  AVillie — 

I  downa  seek  to  blame; 
But  0,  it's  hard  to  live,  AVillie, 

And  dree  a  warld's  shame! 
Ilet  tears  are  hailin'  OAver  your  cheek. 

And  hailin'  ower  your  chin: 


164 


WILLIAM   MOTHERWELL. 


Wliy  weep  ye  sue  for  wortlilessness, 
For  .sonow,  and  for  sin? 

I'm  weary  o'  this  warld,  Willie, 

And  sick  v,i  a'  I  see, 
I  canna  live  as  I  hae  lived. 

Or  be  as  I  should  be. 
But  fauld  unto  rour  lieart,  Willie, 

The  heart  that  still  is  thine, — 
And  kiss  ance  mair  the  white,  white  cheek 

Ye  said  was  red  langsyne. 

A  stoiin'  gaes  through  my  heid,  Willie — ■ 

A  sair  stoun'  through  my  heart; 
Oh,  hand  me  up,  and  let  me  kiss 

That  brow  ere  we  twa  pairt. 
Anither,  and  anither  yet!  — 

How  fast  my  life-strings  break ! — 
Fareweel,  fareweel !  through  yon  kiikyard 

Step  lichtly  for  my  sake! 

The  laverock  in  the  lift,  Willie, 

That  lilts  far  ower  our  heid, 
Will  sing  the  morn  as  merrilie 

Abune  the  clay-cauld  deid; 
And  this  green  turf  we're  sittin'  on, 

Wi'  dew-draps  shimmerin'  sheen, 
Will  hap  the  heart  that  luvit  thee 

As  warld  has  seldom  seen. 

But  0,  remember  me,  AVillie, 

On  land  where'er  ye  be — 
And  0,  think  on  the  leal,  leal  heart, 

Tliat  ne'er  luved  ane  but  thee! 
And  0,  think  on  the  cauld,  cauld  mools 

That  fill  my  yellow  hair, — 
That  kiss  the  cheek,  and  kiss  the  chin 

Ye  never  sail  kiss  mair! 


THE   MERMAIDEX. 

"  The  nicht  is  mirk,  and  the  wind  blaws  shill, 

And  the  white  faem  weets  my  bree, 
And  my  mind  misgi'es  me,  gay  maiden. 

That  the  land  we  sail  never  see! " 
Then  up  and  spak'  the  mermaiden, 

And  she  spak'  blythe  and  free, 
"  I  never  said  to  my  bonny  bridegroom, 

That  on  land  we  sud  weddit  be. 

"  Oh!  I  never  said  that  ane  crthlie  preest 

Our  bridal  blessing  should  f^d'e, 
And  I  never  said  that  a  landwart  bouir 

Should  bald  my  luve  and  me." 
' '  And  whare  is  that  preest,  my  bonny  maiden, 

If  ane  erthlie  wicht  is  na  hei" 
"  Oh!  the  wind  will  sough,  and  the  sea  will  rair, 

When  weddit  we  twa  sail  be." 


"  And  whare  is  that  bouir,  my  bonnie  maiden, 

If  on  land  it  sud  na  be  ? " 
"Oh!   my  blythe  bouii-  is  low,"  said  the  mer- 
maiden, 

"  In  the  bonny  green  howes  o'  the  sea: 
My  gay  bouir  is  biggit  o'  the  gude  ships'  keels, 

And  the  banes  o'  the  drowned  at  sea: 
The  fisch  are  the  deer  that  fill  my  parks. 

And  the  water  waste  my  dourie. 

"  And  my  bouir  is  sklaitit  wi'  the  big  blue  waves, 

And  paved  wi'  the  yellow  sand; 
And  in  my  chaumers  grow  bonnie  white  flowers 

That  never  grew  on  land. 
And  have  ye  e'er  seen,  my  bonnie  bridegroom, 

A  leman  on  earth  that  wud  gi'e 
Aiker  for  aiker  o'  the  red  plough'd  land. 

As  I'll  gie  to  thee  o'  the  sea? 

' '  The  mune  will  rise  in  half  ane  hour, 

And  the  wee  bricht  sternes  will  scliine; 
Then  we'll  sink  to  my  bouir  'neath  the  wan  water 

Full  fifty  fathom  and  nine." 
A  wild,  wild  skreich  gied  the  fey  bridegroom. 

And  a  loud,  loud  laugh  the  bride; 
For  the  mune  raise  up,  and  the  twa  sanli  down 

Under  the  silver'd  tide. 


WEARIE'S   AVELL. 

In  a  saft  simmer  gloamin', 

In  yon  dowie  dell. 
It  was  there  we  twa  first  met, 

By  AVearie's  cauld  well. 
We  sat  on  the  broom  bank. 

And  looked  in  the  burn, 
But  sidelang  we  look'd  on 

Ilk  ither  in  turn. 

The  corncraik  was  chirming 

His  sad  eerie  cry, 
And  the  Avee  stars  were  dreaming 

Their  path  through  the  sky ; 
The  burn  babbled  freely 

Its  love  to  ilk  flower, 
But  we  heard  and  we  saw  nought 

In  that  blessed  hour. 

We  heard  and  we  saw  nought. 

Above  or  around; 
We  felt  that  our  love  lived, 

And  loathed  idle  sound. 
I  gazed  on  your  sweet  face 

Till  tears  filled  my  e'e, 
And  they  drapt  on  your  wee  loof — 

A  warld's  wealth  to  mc. 


WILLIAM  MOTHERWELL. 


IGil 


Now  the  winter  snaw's  fa'ing 

On  bare  holm  and  lea, 
And  the  caiild  wind  is  strippia' 

Ilk  leaf  afF  the  tree. 
But  the  snaw  fa's  not  faster, 

Kor  leaf  disna  part 
Sae  sune  frae  th-e  bough,  as 

Faith  fades  in  your  heart. 

Ye've  waled  out  anither 

You're  bridegroom  to  be; 
But  can  his  heart  luve  sae 

As  mine  luvit  thee? 
Ye' 11  get  biggings  and  mailings, 

And  mony  braw  claes; 
But  they  a'  winna  buy  back 

The  peace  o'  past  days. 

Fareweel,  and  for  ever, 

My  first  luve  and  last; 
Jlay  thy  joys  be  to  come — 

Jline  live  in  the  past. 
In  sorrow  and  sadness 

This  hour  fa's  on  me; 
But  light,  as  thy  luve,  may 

It  fleet  over  thee! 


THE   MIDNIGHT   "WIND. 

Mournfully!  0,  mournfully 

This  midnight  wind  doth  sigh, 
Like  some  sweet  plaintive  melody 

Of  ages  long  gone  by! 
It  speaks  a  tale  of  other  years, — 

Of  hopes  that  bloomed  to  die,— 
Of  sunny  smiles  that  set  in  tears. 

And  loves  that  mouldering  lie! 

Mournfully!  0,  mournfully. 

This  midnight  wind  doth  moan! 
It  stirs  some  chord  of  memory 

In  each  dull,  heavy  tone; 
The  voices  of  the  much-loved  dead 

Seem  floating  thereupon, — 
All,  all  my  fond  heart  cherished 

Ere  deaUi  had  made  it  lone. 

Mournfully!  0,  mournfully 

This  midnight  wind  doth  swell 

With  its  quaint,  pensive  minstrelsy,— 
Hope's  passionate  farewell 

To  the  dreamy  joys  of  early  years. 
Ere  vet  grief's  canker  fell 

On  the^earfs  bloom— ay!  well  may  tear- 
Start  at  that  parting  knell ! 


THE  DYING  POET.i 

When  I  beneath  the  cold  red  earth  am  sleephig, 

Life's  fever  o'er, 
Will  there  for  me  be  any  bright  eye  weeping 

That  I'm  no  more  • 
Will  there  be  any  heart  still  memory  keeping 

Of  heretofore  .- 

When  the  great  winds,  through  leafless  forests 
rushing, 

Like  hxW  hearts  break, 
When  the  swollen  streams,  o'er  crag  and  gully 
gushmg, 

Sad  music  make; 
Will  there  be  one  whose  heart  despair  is  cnishing 
Mourn  for  my  sake^ 

When  the  bright  sun  upon  that  spot  is  shining 

With  purest  ray, 
And  the  small  flowers,  their  buds  and  blossoms 
twining. 

Burst  through  that  clay; 
Will  there  be  one  still  on  that  spot  repining 

Lost  hopes  all  day  1 

^^^le^  the  night  shadows,  with  the  ample  sweeping 

Of  her  dark  pall; 
The  world  and  all  its  manifold  creation  sleeping, 

The  great  and  small — 
Will  there  be  one,  even  at  that  dread  hour,  weeping 

For  me — for  all  ? 

Vv'hcn  no  star  twinkles  with  its  eye  of  glory. 

On  that  low  mound; 
And  wintry  storms  have  with  their  ruins  hoary 

Its  loneness  crowned; 
Will  there  be  then  one  versed  in  misery's  story 

Pacing  it  roimd? 


It  may  be  so,— but  this  is  selfish  sorrow 

To  ask  such  meed, — 
A  weakness  and  a  wickedness  to  borrow, 

From  hearts  that  bleed, 
The  wailings  of  to-day,  for  what  to-morrow 

Shall  never  need. 

Lay  me  then  gently  in  my  naiTow^  dwelling, 
Thou  gentle  heart; 


1  This  pathetic  poem  was  written  the  very  month  of 
the  poef  s  death.  He  handed  it  to  a  friend  a  few  days 
before  his  decease.  On  its  first  publication  in  a  Glasgow 
paper  it  was  accompanied  by  the  remark  that  no  slight 
interest  had  been  excited  in  that  city  in  noticing  how 
the  prophetic  yearning  of  the  dying  poet  for  the  memory 
of  affection  had  been  realized -his  grave  having  been 
frequently  visited  by  a  young  female,  keeping  fresh  the 
floral  memo:ials  of  love  and  grief  offered  there.- Ed. 


106 


DAVID   MACBETH  MOIR. 


And  though  thy  bosom   should  with   grief  be 
sweUing, 

Let  no  tear  start; 
It  were  in  vain,  for  time  hath  long  been  knelling— 
Sad  one,  depart! 


THE   CAVALIER'S   SOXG. 

A  steed!  a  steed  of  mutchlesse  speed! 

A  sword  of  metal  keene! 
All  else  to  noble  heartes  is  drosse — • 

All  else  on  earth  is  meane. 
The  neighynge  of  the  war-horse  prowde, 

The  rowlinge  of  the  drum, 
The  clangour  of  the  trumpet  lowde — 

Be  soundes  from  heaven  that  come. 


And,  oh!  the  thundering  presse  of  knightes, 

When  as  their  war-cryes  swelle, 
May  tole  from  heaven  an  angel  bright.. 

And  rowse  a  fiend  from  hell. 

Then  mounte!  then  mounte,  brave  gallants  all, 

And  don  your  heimes  amaine; 
Deathe's  couriers,  fame  and  honour,  call 

Us  to  the  field  againe. 
No  shrewish  tears  shall  fill  our  eye 

"When  the  sword-hilt's  in  our  hand; 
Hearte-whole  we'll  parte,  and  no  wliit  sighe 

For  the  fayrest  of  the  land. 
Let  piping  swaine,  and  craven  wight, 

Thus  weepe,  and  puling  crye; 
Our  businesse  is  like  men  to  fighte. 

And  like  to  Iicrocs,  die! 


DAYID    MACBETH    MOIE. 


Born  1798  — Died  1851. 


David  Macbeth  ]\Ioir,  an  accomplished 
poet  and  miscellaneous  writer,  was  born  at 
Musselburgh,  Jan.  5,  1798.  He  received  his 
education  at  the  grammar-school  of  his  native 
town,  and  subsequently  attended  the  medical 
classes  of  the  University  of  Edinburgh.  In 
his  eighteenth  year  he  obtained  the  diploma 
of  surgeon,  and  entered  into  partnership  with 
Dr.  Brown  of  Musselburgh.  Dr.  Moir  wrote 
verses  from  an  early  age,  and  in  1816  pub- 
lished anonymously  a  volume  called  The  Bom- 
hordment  of  Algiers,  and  other  Poems,  which 
was  distributed  almost  Avholly  amongst  his 
friends.  From  its  commencement  he  was  a 
contributor  to  Constable's  Edinhiinjh  Maga- 
zine, and  during  a  long  series  of  years  wrote 
for  Blackwood's  Magazine,  subscribing  his 
graver  pieces  for  the  latter  witli  the  Greek  letter 
A  (Delta).  In  1821  he  published  his  Legend 
of  Genevieve,  icith  other  Tales  and  Poems, 
Avhich  comprised  selections  from  his  contribu- 
tions to  the  magazines  and  several  new  pieces. 
His  next  volume  was  an  admirable  imitation 
of  the  style  of  Gait,  under  the  title  Juto- 
hiography  of  Mansie  Waugli,  Tailor  in  Dal- 
keith, ilost  of  this  amusing  book  had  pi-e- 
viously  appeared   in   Blackicood's  Magazine, 


and  it  was  greatly  relished  for  its  simplicity, 
shrewdness,  and  exhibition  of  genuine  Scottish 
character.  Moir's  biographer  says  of  this  en- 
tertaining autobiography:  "  Burns  has  almost 
completely  missed  those  many  peculiar  features 
of  the  national  character  and  manners  which 
are  broughtout  so  inimitably  inil/foi-s/e  Wauch. 
Mansie  himself  is  a  perfect  portraiture;  and 
how  admirably  in  keeping  with  tlie  central 
autobiographer  are  the  characters  and  scenes 
which  revolve  around  his  needle!" 

In  1831  appeared  Outlines  of  the  Ancient 
History  of  Medicine.  During  the  fearful  visi- 
tation of  cholera  which  swept  over  Europe  at 
this  time,  when  many  physicians  abandoned 
their  duty  in  despair  or  fled  from  it  in  terror, 
Moir  was  to  be  found  daily  and  hourly  at  the 
bedsides  of  the  infected,  endeavouring  to  alle- 
viate the  sufl'erings  of  the  sick  by  the  resources 
of  his  skill,  or  to  comfort  the  dying  with  the 
consolations  of  religion.  In  1832  he  issued  a 
pamphlet  entitled  Practiced  Observations  on 
Malignant  Cholera,  which  he  followed  by 
Proofs  of  the  Contagion  of  Malignant  Cholera. 
In  1843  another  volume  of  poems  appeared, 
entitled  Domestic  Verses.  In  1851  he  de- 
livered a  course  of  six  lectures  at  the  Edin- 


Engraved  by  W  Hotfe  from  a  Photojrapli. 


[D)/Sv 


DEL' 


DAVID   MACBETH   MOIE. 


16^ 


burgli  Philosophical  Institution  on  the  poeti- 
cal literature  of  the  pa^*t  half  century,  whicii 
was  afterwards  publislied  and  met  with  a  very 
large  sale.  In  June  of  that  year  his  health 
became  mucli  impaired,  and  in  July  he  pro- 
ceeded to  Dumfries  for  a  change  of  air  and 
scene,  but  he  died  there  suddenly,  July  6,  1851. 
His  remains  were  interred  in  his  native  place, 
where  a  beautiful  monument  has  been  erected 
to  his  memory. 

After  Dr.  Moir's  death  a  collected  edition  of 
his  best  poems  was  publislied  in  Edinburgh, 
under  the  editorial  superintendence  of  Thomas 
Aird,  who  prefixed  to  the  work  an  interesting 
memoir  of  his  friend.  Lord  Jeffrey  in  a  letter 
to  Moir  said  of  his  Domestic  Verses,  a  new 
edition  of  which  appeared  recently,  "I  cannot 
resist  the  impulse  of  thanking  you  with  all 
my  heart  for  the  deep  gratification  you  have 
afforded  me,  and  the  soothing,  and  I  hope 
bettering,  emotions  which  you  have  excited.  I 
am  sure  that  Avhat  you  have  written  is  more 
genuine  pathos  than  anything  almost  I  have 
ever  read  in  verse,  and  is  so  tender  and  true, 
so  sweet  and  natural,  as  to  make  all  lower  re- 
commendations indiflferent."  JeflTrey  has  very 
correctly  set  forth  the  character  of  Moir's 
poetry.      "  Casa  AVappy,"   perhaps  the   best 


known  of  his  poems,  was  written  by  Dr.  Moir 
on  tlie  death  of  his  favourite  child,  Charles 
Bell— familiarly  called  by  him  "Casa  Wappy," 
a  self-conferred  pet  name— who  died  at  the  age 
of  four  years.  It  is  one  of  the  most  tender  and 
touching  effusions  in  the  Engli.sh  language. 

We  cannot  conclude  this  notice  of  the  Chris- 
tian poet  and  accomplished  gentleman  without 
quoting  a  few  lines  from  an  old  volume  of 
Mat/a:  "His,  indeed,  was  a  life  far  more  de- 
voted to  the  service  of  others  than  to  liis  own 
personal  aggrandizement— a  life  whose  value 
can  only  be  appreciated  now,  when  he  has  been 
called  to  receive  his  reward  in  that  better  world, 
the  passport  to  which  he  sought  so  diligentlj' — 
in  youth  as  in  manhood,  in  happiness  as  in  sor- 
row— to  obtain.  Bright  as  the  flowers  may  be 
which  are  twined  for  the  coronal  of  the  poet, 
they  have  no  glory  when  placed  beside  the  wreath 
which  belongs  to  the  departed  Christian.  We 
have  represented  Delta  as  he  was — as  he  must 
remain  ever  in  the  affectionate  memory  of  his 
friends:  and  with  this  brief  and  unequal  tribute 
to  his  surpassing  worth  we  take  farewell  of  the 
gentlest  and  kindest  being,  of  the  most  true 
and  single-hearted  man,  whom  we  may  ever 
hope  to  meet  with  in  the  course  of  this  earthly 
pilgrimage. " 


CASA    WAPPY. 


And  hast  thou  sought  thy  heavenly  home, 

Our  fond  dear  boy — • 
The  realms  where  sorrow  dare  not  come, 

Where  life  is  joy? 
Pure  at  thy  death  as  at  thy  birth. 
Thy  spirit  caught  no  taint  from  earth, 
Even  by  its  bliss  we  mete  our  dearth, 
Casa  Wappy! 

Despair  was  in  our  last  farewell, 

As  closed  thine  eye; 
Tears  of  our  anguish  may  not  tell 

When  thou  didst  die; 
Words  may  not  paint  our  grief  for  thee, 
Sighs  are  but  bubbles  on  the  sea 
Of  our  unfathom'd  agony, 

Casa  Wappy! 

Thou  wert  a  vision  of  delight 

To  bless  us  given; 
Beauty  embodied  to  our  sight, 

A  type  of  heaven. 


So  dear  to  us  thou  wert,  thou  art 
Even  less  thine  own  self  than  a  part 
Of  mine  and  of  thy  mother's  heart, 
Casa  Wappy ! 

Tliy  bright,  brief  day  knew  no  decline — 

'Twas  cloudless  joy; 
Sunrise  and  night  alone  were  thine. 

Beloved  boy! 
This  morn  beheld  thee  blithe  and  gay; 
That  found  thee  prostrate  in  decay; 
And  ere  a  third  shone,  clay  was  clay, 
Casa  Wappy: 

Gem  of  our  hearth,  our  household  pride. 

Earth's  undefiled, 
Could  love  have  saved,  thou  hadst  not  died. 

Our  dear,  sweet  ciiild! 
Humbly  we  bow  to  Fate's  decree: 
Yet  had  we  hoped  that  Time  should  see 
Thee  mourn  for  us,  not  us  for  thee, 
Casa  Wappy! 


138 


DAVID   MACBETH   MOIE. 


Do  what  I  maj',  go  where  I  will, 

Thou  meet'st  my  siglit; 
There  dost  thou  glide  before  me  still  — 

A  form  of  light! 
I  feel  thy  breath  upon  my  cheek — 
I  see  thee  smile,  I  hear  thee  speak. — 
Till  oh!  my  heart  is  like  to  break, 
Casa  Wappy! 

ilethiuks  thou  smil'st  before  me  now, 

AVith  glance  of  stealth; 
The  hair  thrown  back  from  thy  full  brow 

In  buoyant  health: 
I  see  thine  eyes'  deep  violet  light — 
Thy  dimpled  cheek  carnationed  bright — 
Thy  clasping  arms  so  round  and  white — 
Casa  "Wappy I 

The  nursery  shows  thy  pictured  wall. 

Thy  bat— tiiy  bow— 
Thy  cloak  and  bonnet — club  and  ball; 

But  where  art  tliou  ? 
A  corner  holds  thine  empty  ciiair; 
Thy  playthings,  idly  scatterd  there. 
But  speak  to  us  of  our  despair, 

Casa  Wappy! 

Even  to  the  last,  thy  every  word — 

To  glad — to  grieve — 
AVas  sweet,  as  sweetest  song  of  bird 

On  summer's  eve; 
In  outward  beauty  iindecayed. 
Death  o'er  thy  spirit  cast  no  shade, 
And,  like  the  rainbow,  thou  didst  fade, 
Casa  AVappy! 

We  mourn  for  thee,  when  blind,  blank  night 

Tlie  chamber  fills; 
AVc  pine  for  tiiee,  when  morn's  first  light 

Eeddens  the  hills; 
The  sun,  the  moon,  the  stars,  the  sea, 
All — to  the  wallflower  and  wild  pea — 
Aro  changed;  we  saw  the  world  thro'  thee, 
Casa  AVappy! 

And  though,  perchance,  a  smile  may  gleam 

Of  casual  mirth. 
It  doth  not  own,  wiiate'er  may  seem. 

An  inward  birth; 
AVe  miss  thy  small  step  on  the  stair; — 
AA'e  miss  thee  at  thine  evening  prayer; 
All  day  we  miss  thee — everywhere — 
Casa  AVappy! 

Snows  mufllcd  earth  wlien  thou  didst  go. 

In  life's  spring  bloom, 
Down  to  the  appointed  house  below — 

Tiie  silent  tomb. 
Dut  now  the  green  leaves  of  the  tree, 


The  cuckoo,  and  "the  busy  lee," 
Return — but  with  them  bring  not  thee, 
Casa  AYappy! 

'Tis  so;  but  can  it  be — while  flowers 

I'evive  again — 
]\Ian's  doom,  in  death  that  we  and  ours 

For  aye  remain? 
Oh!  can  it  be,  that,  o'er  the  grave, 
The  grass  renewed  should  yearly  wave, 
Vet  Cod  forget  our  child  to  save? — 
Casa  AVappy! 

It  cannot  be;  for  were  it  so 

Thus  man  could  dife. 
Life  were  a  mockerj' — thought  were  woe  — 

And  truth  a  lie; — 
Heaven  were  a  coinage  of  the  brain — 
I'eligion  frenzy — virtue  vain — 
And  all  our  hopes  to  meet  again, 

Casa  Wappy! 

Then  be  to  us,  0  dear,  lost  child! 

AVith  beam  of  love, 
A  star,  death's  uncongenial  wild 

Smiling  above! 
Soon,  soon  thy  little  feet  have  trod 
The  skyward  path,  the  seraph's  road, 
That  led  thee  back  from  man  to  God, 
Casa  AA'appy! 

Yet,  'tis  sweet  balm  to  our  despair, 

Fond,  fairest  boy. 
That  heaven  is  God's,  and  thou  art  there, 

AVith  him  in  joy; 

There  past  are  death  and  all  its  woes. 

There  beauty's  stream  for  ever  flows. 

And  pleasure's  day  no  sunset  knows, 

Casa  AVappy! 

Farewell  then — for  a  while,  farewell — 

Pride  of  my  heart! 
It  cannot  be  that  long  we  dwell, 

Thus  torn,  apart. 
Time's  shadows  like  the  shuttle  flee: 
And,  dark  how'e'er  life's  night  may  be. 
Beyond  the  grave  I'll  meet  with  thee, 
Casa  AVappy! 


TIIE  AVIXTER  AVILD. 

How  sudden  hath  the  snow  come  down! 

Last  night  the  now  moon  show'd  her  horn, 
And,  o'er  December's  moorland  brown, 

Rain  on  the  breeze's  wing  was  borne; 
But,  when  I  ope  my  shutters,  lo! 

Old  earth  hath  changed  her  garb  again, 


DAVID   MACBETH  MOIR. 


169 


And,  with  its  fleecy  whitening,  snow 
O'ermantles  hill  and  cumbers  plain. 

Briijht  snow,  pure  snow,  I  love  thee  well, 

Thou  art  a  friend  of  ancient  days; 
Whene'er  mine  eyes  upon  thee  dwell, 

Long-buried  thoughts  'tis  thine  to  raise; — 
Far — to  remotest  infancy — 

My  pensive  mind  thou  hurriest  hack, 
When  first,  pure  blossoms  of  the  sky, 

I  watch'd  to  earth  your  mazy  track — 

And  upward  look'd,  with  wondering  eyes. 

To  see  the  heavens  with  motion  teem. 
And  buttei-flies,  a  thousand  ways 

Down  flaking  in  an  endless  stream ; 
The  roofs  around  all  clothed  with  white, 

And  leafless  trees  with  feathery  claws, 
And  horses  black  with  drapery  bright— 

Oh,  what  a  glorious  sight  it  was! 

Each  season  had  its  joys  in  store, 

From  out  whose  treasury  boyhood  chose; 
What  though  blue  summer's  reign  was  o'er, 

Had  winter  not  its  storms  and  snows '. 
The  giant  then  aloft  was  piled. 

And  balls  in  mimic  war  were  toss'd, 
And  thumps  dealt  round  in  trickery  wild, 

As  felt  the  passer  to  his  cost. 

The  wintry  day  was  as  a  spell 

Unto  the  spirit— 'twas  delight 
To  note  its  varying  aspects  well, 

From  dawn  to  noon,  from  noon  to  night, 
Pale  morning  on  the  hills  afar — 

The  low  sun's  ineffectual  gleam — 
The  twinkling  of  the  evening  star 

Reflected  in  the  frozen  stream: 

And  when  the  silver  moon  shone  forth 

O'er  lands  and  lakes,  in  white  array'd, 
And  dancing  in  the  stormy  North 

The  red  electric  streamers  play'd; 
'Twas  ecstasy,  'neath  tinkling  trees, 

All  low-born  thoughts  and  cares  exiled, 
To  listen  to  the  Polar  breeze. 

And  look  upon  "  the  winter  wild." 

Hollo!  make  way  along  the  line:  — 

Hark  how  the  peasant  scuds  along— 
His  iron  heels,  in  concord  fine. 

Brattling  afar  their  under-song: 
And  see,  that  urchin,  ho-ieroe! 

His  truant  legs  they  sink  from  under, 
And  to  the  quaking  sheet  below, 

Down  thwacks  he,  with  a  thud  like  thunder! 

The  skater  then,  with  motion  nice, 
In  semicirque  and  graceful  wheel, 

Chalks  out  upon  the  dark  clear  ice 
His  chart  of  voyage  with  his  heel; 


Now  skimming  underneath  the  boughs — 
Amid  the  crowd  now  gliding  lone— 

Where  down  the  rink  the  curler  throws, 
With  dext'rous  arm,  his  booming  stone. 

Eehold!  upon  the  lapsing  stream 

The  frost-work  of  the  night  appears— 
Beleaguer'd  castles  round  which  gleam 

A  thousand  glittering  crystal  spears; 
Here  galleys  sail  of  shape  grotes(iue; 

There  hills  o'erspread  with  palmy  trees; 
And,  mixed  with  temples  Arabesque — 

Bridges  and  pillar'd  towers  Chinese. 

Ever  doth  winter  bring  to  me 

Deep  reminiscence  of  the  past; 
The  opening  flower  and  leafing  tree— 

The  sky  without  a  cloud  o'ercast — 
Themselves  of  beauty  speak,  and  throw 

A  gleam  of  present  joy  around. 
But,  at  each  silent  fall  of  snow, 

Our  hearts  to  boyhood's  pulses  bound — 

To  boyhood  turns  reflection  back. 

With  mournful  pleasure  to  behold 
Life's  early  morn,  the  sunny  track 

Of  feet,  now  mingled  with  the  mould; 
Where  are  the  playmates  of  those  years  ? 

Hills  rise  and  oceans  roll  between: 
We  call— but  scarcely  one  appears— 

No  more  shall  be  what  once  hath  been. 

Yes!  gazing  o'er  the  bleak,  green  sea, 

The  snow-clad  peaks  and  desert  plain, 
Mirror'd  in  thought,  methinks  to  me 

The  spectral  past  comes  back  again: 
Once  more  in  retrospection's  eyes, 

As  'twere  to  second  life  restored, 
The  perish'd  and  the  past  arise, 

The  early  lost,  and  long  deplor'd! 


HEIGH-HO! 

A  pretty  young  maiden  sat  on  the  grass- 
Sing  lieigh-ho !  sing  heigh-ho ! — 

And  by  a  blythe  young  shepherd  did  pass, 
In  the  summer  morning  so  early. 

Said  he,  "  My  lass,  will  you  go  with  me, 

My  cot  to  keep  and  my  bride  to  be; 

Sorrow  and  want  shall  never  touch  thee, 
And  I  will  love  you  rarely." 

"  0!  no,  no,  no!"  the  maiden  said- 
Sing  heigh-ho!  sing  heigh-ho! — 
And  bashfully  turn'd  aside  her  head. 
On  that  summer  morning  so  early. 
"  My  mother  is  old,  my  mother  is  frail. 
Our  cottage  it  lies  in  yon  green  dale; 


170 


DAVID   MACBETH   MOIE. 


I  dare  not  list  to  any  such  tale, 

For  I  love  my  kind  mother  rarely." 

The  shepherd  took  her  lily-white  hand- 
Sing  heigh-ho!  sing  heigh-ho! 

And  on  her  beauty  did  gazing  stand, 
On  that  summer  morning  so  early. 
"Thy  mother  I  ask  thee  not  to  leave, 

Alone  in  her  frail  old  age  to  grieve; 

But  my  home  can  hold  us  all,  I  believe — 
Will  that  not  please  thee  fairly? " 

"  (J,  no,  no,  no!     I  am  all  too  young" — 

Sing  heigh-ho!  sing  heigh-ho! — 
"  I  dare  not  list  to  a  young  man's  tongue, 
On  a  summer  morning  so  early." 
But  the  shepherd  to  gain  her  heart  was  bent; 
Oft  she  strove  to  go,  but  she  never  went; 
And  at  length  she  fondly  blush'd  consent— 
Heaven  blesses  true  lovers  so  fairly. 


TO   MY  INFANT. DAUGHTER. 

There  is  no  sound  upon  the  night. 
As  by  the  shaded  lamp  I  trace, 

My  babe,  in  smiling  beauty  bright. 
The  changes  of  thy  sleeping  face. 

Hallow'd  to  us  shall  be  the  hour, 

Yea,  sacred  tlirough  all  time  to  come, 

Wliich  gave  us  thee, — a  living  flower. 
To  bless  and  beautify  our  home! 

Thy  presence  is  a  charm,  which  wakes 

A  new  creation  to  my  sight; 
Gives  life  anotlier  liue,  and  makes 

The  wither'd  green — the  faded  bright. 

Pure  as  a  lily  of  the  brook. 

Heaven's  signet  on  thy  foreliead  lies; 
And  Heaven  is  read  in  every  look; 

My  daughter,  of  thy  soft  blue  eyes. 

In  sleep,  thy  little  spirit  seems 

To  some  bright  realm  to  wander  back; 

And  seraphs,  mingling  with  thy  dreams. 
Allure  thee  to  their  shining  track. 

Already,  like  a  vernal  flower, 
I  see  thee  opening  to  the  light, 

And  day  by  day,  and  hour  by  hour. 
Becoming  more  divinely  bright. 

Yet  in  my  gladness  stirs  a  sigh. 
Even  for  the  blessing  of  thy  birth, 

Knowing  how  sins  and  sorrows  try 
Mankind,  and  darken  o'er  the  earth  I 

Ah!  little  dost  thou  ween,  my  child, 
The  dangers  of  the  way  before; 


How  rocks  in  every  path  are  piled, 

AVhich  few  unharm'd  can  clamber  o'er. 

Sweet  bud  of  beauty!  how  wilt  thou 
Endure  the  bitter  tempest's  .strife? 

Shall  thy  blue  eyes  be  dimm'd  —  thy  brow 
Indented  by  the  cares  of  life? 

If  years  are  destined  thine,  alas! 

It  may  be — ah!  it  must  be  so; 
For  all  that  live  and  breathe,  the  glass 

Which  must  be  quaf}"d,  is  drugg'd  with 
woe. 

Yet,  could  a  father's  prayers  avail, 
So  calm  thy  skies  of  life  should  be. 

That  thou  should' st  glide  beneath  the  fail 
Of  virtue,  on  a  stormless  sea: 

And  ever  on  thy  thoughts,  my  child. 
His  sacred  truth  should  be  impres.s'd — 

Grief  clouds  the  soul  to  sin  beguiled. 
Who  liveth  best,  God  loveth  best. 

Across  thy  path  Religion's  star 
Should  ever  shed  its  healing  ray. 

To  lead  thee  from  this  world's  vain  jar. 
To  scenes  of  peace,  and  purer  day. 

Shun  vice— the  breath  of  her  abode 

Is  poison'd,  though  with  roses  strewn! — 

And  cling  to  virtue;  though  the  road 
Be  thorny,  boldly  travel  on! 

Yes:  travel  on — nor  turn  thee  round. 

Though  dark  the  way  and  deep  the  shade; 

Till  on  that  shore  thy  feet  be  found. 

Where  bloom  the  palms  that  never  fade. 

For  thee  I  ask  not  riches — thou 

AVert  wealthy  with  a  spotless  name: 

I  ask  not  beauty — for  thy  brow 
Is  fair  as  fancy's  wish  could  claim. 

Be  thine  a  spirit  loathing  guilt. 
To  duty  wed,  from  malice  free: 

Be  like  thy  mother, — and  thou  wilt 
Be  all  my  soul  desires  to  see. 


MARY  DHU, 

Sweet,  sweet  is  the  rose-bud 

Bathed  in  dew; 
But  sweeter  art  thou, 

My  JIary  dhu. 
Oh!  the  skies  of  night. 
With  their  eyes  of  light, 
Are  not  so  bright 

As  my  Slary  dhu. 


DAVID  MACBETH  MOIR. 


171 


Whenever  thy  radiant  face  I  see, 
The  clouds  of  sorrow  depart  from  me; 

As  the  shadows  fly 

From  day's  bright  eye. 

Thou  lightest  life's  sky, 
My  Mary  dhu! 

Sad,  sad  is  my  heart, 

When  I  sigh.  Adieu! 
Or  gaze  on  thy  parting. 

My  ]\Iary  dhu! 
Then  for  thee  I  mourn, 
Till  thy  steps'  return 
Bids  my  bosom  burn, — 

]\[y  Mary  dhu. 
I  think  but  of  thee  on  the  broom-clad  hills, 
I  muse  but  of  thee  by  the  moorland  rills; 
In  the  morning  light. 
In  the  moonshine  bright, 
Thou  art  still  in  my  sight, 

My  Mary  dhu. 

Tliy  voice  trembles  through  me 

Like  the  breeze. 
That  ruffles,  in  gladness, 

The  leafy  trees; 
'Tis  a  wafted  tone 
From  heaven's  high  throne. 
Making  hearts  thine  own, 
My  JNIary  dhu. 
Be  the  flowers  of  joy  ever  round  thy  feet, 
AVith  colours  glowing  and  incense  sweet; 
And  when  thou  must  away, 
Jtlay  life's  rose  decay 
In  the  west  wind's  sway, 
My  Mary  dhu! 


MOONLIGHT   CHURCHYARD. 

Round  thee,  pure  moon,  a  ring  of  snowy  clouds 
Hover,  like  children  round  their  mother  dear 
In  silence  and  in  joy,  for  over  near 
The  footsteps  of  her  love.    Within  their  shrouds, 
Lonely,  the  slumbering  dead  encompass  nie! 
Thy  silver  beams  the  mouldering  Abbey  float, 
Black  rails,  memorial  stones,  are  strew'd  about; 
And  the  leaves  rustle  on  the  hollow  tree. 
Shadows  mark  out  the  undulating  graves; 
Tranrpiilly,  tranquilly  the  departed  lie!— 
Time  is  an  ocean,  and  mankind  the  waves 
That  reach  the  dim  shores  of  eternity; 
Death   strikes;    and   silence,   'mid  the   evening 

gloom, 
Sits  spectre-like  the  guardian  of  the  tomb! 


RURAL  SCENERY. 

Receded  hills  afar  of  softened  blue. 
Tall  bowering  trees,  through  which  the  sun- 
beams shoot 
Down  to  the  waveless  lake,  birds  never  mute. 
And  wild  flowers  all  around  of  every  hue — 
Sure  'tis  a  lovely  scene.  There,  knee-deep  stand. 
Safe  from  the  fierce  sun,  the  o'ershadowed  kine, 
And  to  the  left,  where  cultured  fields  expand, 
'JMid  tufts  of  scented  thorn,  the  sheep  recline, 
Lone  quiet  farmsteads,  haunts  that  ever  please; 
0  how  inviting  to  the  traveller's  eye 
Ye  rise  on  yonder  uplands,  'mid  your  trees 
Of  shade  and  shelter !     Every  sound  from  these 
Is  eloquent  of  peace,  in  earth  and  sky. 
And  pastoral  beauty  and  Arcadian  case. 


THE  SABBATH. 

If  earth  hath  aught  that  speaks  to  us  of  heaven, 
'Tis  when,  within  some  lone  and  leafy  dell, 
Solemn  and  slow,  we  list  the  Sabbath  bell 

On  music's  wings  through  the  clear  ether  driven; 
Say  not  the  sounds  aloud,  "  Oh  man,  'twere 
well 

Hither  to  come,  nor  walk  in  sins  nnshnven! 
Haste  to  this  temple,  tidings  ye  shall  hear, 

Ye  who  are  sorrowful,  and  sick  in  soul. 

Your  doubts  to  chase— your  downeastness  to 

cYlQQY' 

To  bind  affliction's  wounds,  and  make  you  whole; 

Hither— come  hither;  thongh,  with  Tynan  dye 
Guilt  hath  polluted  you,  yet,  white  as  snow. 
Cleansed  by  the  streams  that  from  this  altar 
flow,  ,  „ 

Home  yo  shall  pass  to  meet  your  Maker  s  eye. 


THE  SCHOOL   BANK. 

Upon  this  bank  we  met,  my  friend  and  I— 
A  lapse  of  years  had  intervening  pass'd 
Since  I  had  heard  his  voice  or  seen  him  last; 
The  starting  tear-drop  trembled  in  his  eye. 
Silent  we  thought  upon  the  school-boy  days 
Of  mirth  and  happiness  for  ever  flown; 
When  rushing  out  the  careless  crowd  did  raise 
Their  thoughtless  voices— now,  we  were  alone. 
Alone  amid  the  landscape— 'twas  the  same; 
Where  were  our  loud  companions?     Some,  alas! 
Silent  reposed  among  the  church-yard  grass. 
And  some  were  known,  and  most  unknown,  tc 

fame : 
And  some  were  wanderers  on  the  homeless  deep; 
And  where  they  all  were  happy— we  did  weep. 


172 


ALEXANDEK  SMAET. 


ALEXANDER    SMAET 


Born  1 798— Died  1866. 


Alexander  Smart,  tlie  author  of  numerous 
excellent  songs,  was  born  at  Montrose,  April 
26,  179S.  A  portion  of  his  school  education 
Avas  received  from  one  Korvai,  a  teacher  in  the 
Jlontrose  Academy,  and  a  model  of  tlie  tyrant 
pedagogues  of  the  past,  whose  mode  of  infusing 
knowledge  was  afterwards  satirized  by  Smart 
in  hfs  poem  entitled  "  Ivecollections  of  Auld 
Langsyne."  He  was  apprenticed  to  a  watch- 
maker in  his  native  town, and  on  the  completion 
of  Ills  time  of  service  removed  to  Edinburgh, 
where  he  followed  the  vocation  of  a  compositor. 
In  183i  he  issued  a  volume  of-  poems  and 
songs,  entitled  Ramhllng  E/njmes,  from  Avhich 
we  make  the  subjoined  selections.  His  vol- 
ume attracted  considerable  attention,  and 
Francis  Jeffrey  wrote  to  its  author  in  the  fol- 
lowing terms: — "I  had  scarcely  read  any  of 
your  little  book  when  I  acknowledged  thereceipt 
of  it.  I  have  now,  however,  gone  tlirough 
every  word  of  it,  and  find  I  have  more  to  thank 
you  for  than  I  was  then  aware  of.  I  do  not 
allude  so  much  to  the  very  flattering  sonnet 
you  have  been  pleased  to  inscribe  with  my 
name,  as  to  the  many  passages  of  great  poetical 
beauty,  and  to  tlie  still  greater  number  expres- 


sive of  (and  inspired  by)  those  gentle  affections, 
and  just  and  elevated  sentiments,  which  it  is 
so  delightful  to  find  in  the  works  of  persons  of 
the  middling  class,  on  whose  time  the  calls  of 
a  necessary  and  often  laborious  industry  must 
press  so  heavily.  I  cannot  tell  you  the  pride 
and  the  pleasure  I  have  in  such  indications, 
not  of  cultivated  intellect  only,  but  of  moral 
delicacy  and  elegant  taste,  in  the  tradesmen 
and  artisans  of  our  country."  A  second  and 
enlarged  edition  was  issued  in  18-1.5.  Smart 
is  also  the  author  of  numerous  excellent  prose 
sketches,  some  of  which  have  appeared  in 
Hogij's  Instructor.  He  died  at  Morningside, 
near  Edinburgh,  October  19,  1866,  after  a 
protracted  mental  illness,  bringing  to  a  close 
a  life  of  strenuous  toil,  generous  thoughts,  and 
noble  aspirations.  Many  of  Smart's  sweetest 
lyrics  were  the  offspring  of  his  happy  domestic 
relationships  and  his  tender  friendships.  Seve- 
ral of  his  short  pieces,  such  as  "  Better  than 
Gold"  and  "The  Empty  Chair,"  breathe  a 
spirit  of  true  poetry.  His  Songs  of  Labour 
contain  many  admirable  compositions,  and  in 
his  Elnjines  for  Little  Headers  the  fables  of 
yEsop  are  admirably  versified. 


SPRING-TIME. 


Tlie  catild  north  wind  has  soiiglicd  awa', 

The  snaw  has  left  the  hill. 
And  briskly  to  the  wastlin'  breeze 

Reels  round  yon  bonny  mill; 
The  cheery  spring,  in  robes  o"  green, 

Comes  laughin'  ower  the  lea, 
While  burnies  by  their  flowery  bankrs 

Ivin  singin'  to  the  sea. 

Tiie  Untie  whids  amang  the  whins, 

Or  whistles  on  the  thorn; 
The  bee  comes  liummiu'  frae  his  byke, 

And  tunes  his  bugle-horn; 
The  craik  rins  rispiu"  through  the  corn, 

The  hare  scuds  down  the  furrow; 
The  merry  lav'rock  frae  the  lift 

Pipes  out  his  biythe  gude-morrow. 


Now  springs  the  docken  by  the  dyke, 

The  nettle  on  the  knowe; 
The  puddock's  croakin'  in  the  pool. 

Where  green  the  rushes  grow; 
The  primrose  nods  its  yellow  head. 

The  gowan  sports  its  charms; 
The  Ijurrie  thistle  to  the  breeze 

Flings  out  its  prickly  arras. 

Now  moudiewarts  begin  to  ho«  k 

And  bore  the  tender  fallow; 
And  deuks  are  paidlin'  in  the  pool, 

AVhere  skims  the  gapiu'  swallow; 
The  clockin'  hen,.wi'  clamorous  din. 

The  midden  scarts  an'  scrubs; 
The  guse  brings  a'  her  gaislius  out. 

To  daidle  through  the  dubs. 


ALEXANDER  SMART. 


17:i 


Xow  bairns  get  aff  tlieir  hose  an'  shoon, 

And  riu'  tlier'out  a'  barctit; 
But  rantiu'  through  the  bioomin'  wliins, 

The  rogues  get  niony  a  ?air  fit. 
Ill  fares  it  then,  by  busli  or  brake, 

If  on  th&  nest  they  light, 
Of  buntlin'  wi'  the  tuneless  beak, 

Or  ill  starred  yellow-yitc. 

The  gowk's  heard  in  the  leafy  wood, 

The  lambs  frisk  o'er  the  field; 
The  wee  bird  gathers  taits  o'  woo. 

To  busk  its  cozy  bield; 
The  corbie  croaks  upon  the  tree. 

His  auld  paternal  tower; 
While  the  sentimental  cushie  doo 

Croods  in  her  greenwood  bower. 

The  kye  gae  lowin'  o'er  the  loan, 

As  cheery  daylight  fades; 
And  bats  come  flaffin'  through  tlie  fauld, 

And  birds  gae  to  tlieir  beds; 
Then  jinkin'  out  by  bent  an'  brae, 

When  they  are  seen  by  no  man, 
The  lads  and  lasses  blithely  meet, 

And  cuddle  in  the  gloamin'. 

The  cauld  nortli  wind  has  soughed  awa', 

Tlie  snaw  has  left  the  hill, 
And  briskly  to  the  Avastlin"  breeze 

Eeels  round  j'on  bonny  mill; 
The  cheery  spring,  in  robes  o'  green. 

Comes  laugh  in'  ower  the  lea. 
While  burnies  by  tlieir  flowery  banks 

l»ia  siniiin'  to  tlie  sea. 


MADIE'S   SCHULE. 

When  weary  wi'  toil,  or  when  cankered  wi'  care, 
Remembrance  takes  wing  like  a  bird  o'  the  air, 
And  free  as  a  thought  that  ye  canna  confine, 
It  flees  to  the  pleasures  o'  bonnie  langsyne. 
In  fancy  I  bound  o'er  the  green  sunny  braes, 
And  di-ink  up  the  bliss  o'  the  lang  summer  days, 
Or  sit  sae  demure  on  a  wee  creepy  stool, 
And  con  ower  my  lesson  in  auld  Jladie's  schule. 

Up  four  timmer  stairs,  in  a  gaiTet  fu'  clean, 
In  awful  authority  Madie  was  seen; 
Her  close-lug-git  mutch  towered  aloft  in  its  pride, 
Her  lang  winsey  apron  flowed  down  by  her  side. 
The  taws  on  her  lap  like  some  dreaded  snake  lay. 
Aye  watchin'  an'  ready  to  spring  on  its  prey; 
The  wheel  at  her  foot,  an'  the  cat  on  her  knee, — 
Nae  queen  on  her  throne  mair  majestic  than  she! 


To  the  whir  o'  the  wheel  while  auld  bandrons 

would  sing, 
On  stools,  wee  an'  muckle,  a'  ranged  in  a  ring. 
Ilk  idle  bit  ui'chin,  wha  glowered  aff  his  book. 
Was  caught  in  a  twinklin'  by  Madie's  dread  look. 
She  ne'er  spak'  a  word,  but  the  taws  she  would 

fling! 
The  sad  leather  whang  up   the  cul;rit   maun 

bring, 
While  bis  sair  bluthered  face,  as  the  palniies 

would  fa'. 
Proclaimed  through  the  schule  an  example  to  a'. 

But  though  Madie  cculd  punish,  .she  wcel  could 

reward, 
The  gude  and  the  eydant  aye  won  her  regard — 
A  Saturday  penny  she  freely  would  gi'e, 
And  the  second  best  scholar  got  aye  a  bawbee. 
It  .sweetened  the  joys  o'  that  dear  afternoon. 
When  free  as  the  breeze  in  the  blossoms  o'  June, 
And  bly  the  as  the  lav'rock  that  sang  ower  the  lea. 
Were  the  happy  wee  laddies  frac  bondage  set  free. 

And  then  when  she  washed  we  were  sure  o'  the 

play, 
And  Wednesday  aj-e  brought  the  gi-and  washin' 

day, 
W^hen  Madie  relaxed  frae  her  sternness  a  wee. 
And  announced  the  event  wi'  a  smile  in  her  e'e; 
The  tidings  were  hailed  wi'  a  thrill  o'  delight— 
E'en  dro.wsyauld  baudrons  rejoiced  at  the  sight, 
While  Madie,  dread  Madie!  would  laugh  in  her 

chair. 
As  in  order  we  tript  down  the  lang  timmer  stair. 

But  the  schule  is  now  skailt,  and  will  ne'er  again 

meet — 
Nae  mair  on  the  timmer  stair  sound  our  wee  feet; 
The  taws  and  the  penny  are  vanished  for  aye, 
And  gane  is  the  charm  o'  the  dear  washin'  day. 
Her  subjects  are  scattered — some  lang  dead  and 

gane — 
But  dear  to  remembrance  wi'  them  wha  remain, 
Are  the  days  when  they  sat  on  a  wee  creepy  stool. 
An'  conned  ower  their  lesson  in  auld  Madie's 

schule. 


on,  LE.WE  ME  KOT. 

Oh,  leave  me  not!  the  evening  hour, 

So  soft,  so  still,  is  all  our  own; 
The  dew  descends  on  tree  and  flower, 

They  breathe  their  sweets  for  thee  alone. 
Oh.  go  not  yet!  the  evening  star, 

The  ri.sing  moon,  all  bid  thee  stay; 
And  dying  eciioes,  faint  and  far, 

Invite  our  lingering  steps  to  stray. 


174 


JOANNA  B.   PICKEN. 


Far  from  the  city's  noisy  din, 

Beneath  the  pale  moon's  trembling  light, 
That  lip  to  press,  those  smiles  to  win. 

Will  lend  a  rapture  to  the  night. 


Let  fortune  fling  her  favours  free 
To  whom  she  will,  I'll  ne'er  repine; 

Oh,  what  is  all  the  world  to  me 

While  thus  I  clasp  and  call  thee  mine! 


JOANNA    B.    PICKEN. 


BoRX  1798  — Died  1859. 


Joanna  Belfrage  Picken,  authoress  of 
several  admired  Scottish  songs  and  vers  de 
society,  was  born  at  Edinburgh,  May  8,  1798. 
She  was  a  daughter  of  the  "Poet  of  Paisley," 
as  Ebenezer  Picken  was  familiarly  called,  and 
Robina,  sister  of  the  Eev.  Dr.  Henry  Belfrage, 
the  Christian  author  and  philanthropist.  Her 
earliest  poems  were  contributed  to  iheGlasgoio 
Courier  and  Free  Press  in  1828.  Miss  Picken 
emigrated  to  Canada  in  1842,  settling  in  the 


city  of  Montreal,  and  during  her  residence 
there  contributed  under  the  signature  of 
"Alpha"  to  the  Llterarn  Garland  and  Tran- 
script. She  maintained  herself  principally  by- 
teaching  music,  in  which  art  she  was  a  thorough 
proficient.  Miss  Picken  died  at  Montreal, 
March  21,  1859.  Her  poems  were  never  col- 
lected for  publication  in  a  volume,  and  the 
manuscript  of  some  forty-five  pieces  is  now  in 
the  possession  of  her  brother  H.  B.  Picken. 


AN  AULD  FPJEXD  WF  A  NEW  FACE. 


A  queer  kind  o'  lott'ry  is  marriage — 
Ye  never  ken  what  ye  may  draw, 
Ye  may  get  a  braw  hoose  an'  a  carriage. 
Or  maybe  get  nae  hoose  ava. 
I  say  na  'tis  best  to  be  single. 
But  ae  thing's  to  me  unco  clear: 
Far  better  sit  lane  by  the  ingle 
Than  thole  what  some  wives  hae  to  bear. 
It's  braw  to  be  dancin'  and  gaffin' 
As  lang  as  nae  trouble  befa' — 
But  hech!  she  is  sune  ower  wi'  daffin' 
That's  woo'd,  an'  married,  an'  a'. 

She  maun  labour  frae  sunrise  till  dark, 
An'  aft  tho'  her  means  be  but  sma'. 
She  gets  little  thanks  for  her  wark — 
Or  as  aften  gets  nae  thanks  ava. 
She  maun  tak  just  whatever  may  come, 
An'  say  nocht  o'  her  fear  or  her  hope; 
There's  nae  use  o'  lievin'  in  Pome, 
An'  tryin'  to  fecht  wi'  the  Pope. 
Hectored  an'  lectured  an'  a, 
Snubbed  for  Avhate'er  may  befa', 
Than  this,  she  is  far  better  afF — 
That  never  gets  married  ava'. 

Oh,  then  come  the  bairns  without  number, 
An'  there's  naething  but  kisses  an'  licks — 
Adieu  then  to  sleep  an'  to  slumber. 


An'  the  Pa  is  as  cross  as  twa  sticks. 

A'  the  week  she  is  makin'  their  parritcli. 

An'  turnin'  auld  frocks  into  new; 

An'  on  Sunday  she  learns  them  their  carritch, 

Puir  wife!  there's  nae  rest-day  for  you. 

Warkin'  an'  fechtin'  awa, 

Saturday,  Sunday,  an'  a'; 

In  troth  she  is  no  that  ill  afF 

That  never  gets  married  ava. 

In  nae  time  the  cauld  an'  the  wheesles 

Get  into  your  family  sae  sma'. 

An'  the  chincough,  the  croup,  or  the  measles 

Is  sure  to  tak'  aflf  ane  or  twa. 

An'  wi'  them  gang  the  puir  mither's  joys, 

Nae  comfort  seems  left  her  ava — 

As  she  pits  by  the  claes  an'  the  toys 

That  belanged  to  the  wee  things  awa'. 

Doctors  an'  drugs  an'  a', 

Bills  an'  buryin's  an'  a', 

Oh  surely  her  heart  may  be  lichtcr 

That  never  was  married  ava. 

The  married  maun  aft  bear  man's  scornin', 
An'  humour  his  capers  an'  fykes; 
But  the  single  can  rise  in  the  mornin', 
An'  gang  to  her  bed  when  .she  likes; 
An'  when  ye're  in  sickness  and  trouble. 
Just  tell  me  at  wha's  door  ye  ca'; 


EESKINE   CONOLLY. 


175 


It's  no  whar  ten  bairns  mak'  a  bubble, 
But  at  hers  that  has  nae  bairns  ava. 
Usefu',  an'  peacefu',  an'  cantie, 
Quiet,  an'  canny,  an'  a'. 
It's  glide  to  ha'e  sister  or  auntie 
That  never  was  married  ava. 

A  wife  maun  be  humble  an'  hamely, 

Aye  ready  to  rise,  or  to  rin; 

An'  oh!  when  she's  brocht  up  a  family, 

It's  then  her  warst  sorrows  begin; 

For  the  son,  he  maun  e'en  ha'e  a  wife; 

An'  the  dochter  a  hoose  o'  her  ain; 

An'  then,  thro'  tlie  battle  o'  life, 

They  ne'er  may  forgather  again. 
Cantie,  an'  quiet,  an'  a', 
Altho'  her  bit  niailin  be  sma', 
In  truth  she  is  no  that  ill  aft' 
That  never  gets  married  ava. 

It's  far  better  still  to  keep  single 

Than  sit  wi'  yer  face  at  the  wa', 

An'  greet  ower  the  sons  and  the  dochters 

Ye've  buried  and  married  aAva'. 

I  fain  wad  deny,  but  I  canna, 

Altho'  to  confess  it  I  grieve, 

Folks  seldom  care  muekle  for  grannie, 

Unless  she  has  something  to  leave. 

It's  nae  that  I  seek  to  prevent  ye, 
For  that  wad  be  rhyme  thrown  awa'; 
But,  lassies,  I  pray,  just  content  ye, 
Altho'  ve're  ne'er  married  ava. 


THE   DEATH-WATCH. 

Tie,  tic,  tic! — 
I've  a  qiiarrel  to  pick 
AYith  thee,  thou  little  elf— 


For  my  heart  beats  quick 
As  thy  tic,  tic,  tic, 
Eesounds  from  the  old  green  shelf. 

AVhcn  I  cease  to  weep. 

When  I  strive  to  sleep, 
Tiiou  art  there  with  thy  tiny  voice; 

And  thoughts  of  the  past 

Come  rushing  fast, 
E'en  with  that  still,  small  voice. 

'Tis  said  thou  hast  power. 

At  the  midnight  hour. 
Of  death  and  of  doom  to  tell ; 

Of  rest  in  the  grave. 

That  the  world  ne'er  gave, 
And  I  love  on  this  theme  to  dwell. 

Dost  thou  call  me  home? — 

Oh!  I  come,  I  come; 
For  never  did  lone  heart  pine 

For  a  quiet  berth 

In  its  mother  earth, 
With  a  deeper  throb  than  mine. 

Then  tic,  tic,  tic — 

Let  thy  work  be  quick; 
I  ask  for  no  lengthen'd  day — 

'Tis  enough,  kind  one. 

If  thy  work  be  done 
In  the  merry  month  of  May. 

For  birds  in  the  bowers, 

And  the  blooming  flowers, 
Then  gladden  the  teeming  earth; 

And  methinks  that  I 

Would  like  to  die 
In  the  month  that  gave  me  birth. 


EESKINE    CONOLLY. 


Born  1798  — Died  1843. 


Erskine  Coxolly,  author  of  the  popular 
song  of  "Mary  Macneil,"  was  born  at  Crail, 
Fifeshire,  June  12,  1798.  He  was  educated 
at  the  burgh-school  of  his  native  place,  and 
afterwards  apprenticed  to  a  bookseller  in  An- 
struther — the  birthplace  of  Chalmers,  Ten- 
nant,  and  Charles  Gray.  He  then  started 
business  on  his  own  account  as  a  bookseller  in 


the  small  town  of  Colinsburgh,  but  after  a  few 
years  gave  it  up  and  went  to  Edinburgh. 
Here  he  became  a  messenger-at-arms — a  voca- 
tion, it  would  naturally  be  inferred,  of  all 
others  unsuited  for  a  poet;  but  in  "Auld 
Eeekie"  a  great  part  of  the  messenger's  busi- 
ness consists  in  serving  merely  formal  writs, 
and  he  is  rarely  a  witness  to  scenes  of  real 


17G 


ERSKINE   CONOLLY. 


distress.  Cono'.ly's  manner  was  exceedingly 
gentle  and  refined — his  disposition  amiable 
and  affectionate.  He  never  married,  and  his 
friends  surmised  that  some  mystery  in  this 
respect  overshadowed  his  life.  He  was  a 
favourite  in  society,  and  had  a  Avide  circle  of 
friends,  among  whom  may  be  mentioned  the 
poets  Gilfillan,  Gray,  Tedder,  and  Latto,  to 
the  last-mentioned  of  whom  the  Editor  is  chiefly 
indebted  for  the  information  contained  in  this 
brief  notice.     ConoUy  did  not  write  much,  but 


had  considerable  versatility;  he  could  be  witty, 
quizzical,  dignified,  or  sentimental,  as  the 
humour  prompted.  In  his  piece  "The  Greetin' 
Bairn"  there  is  much  weird  power,  and  several 
of  liis  songs  and  poems  are  highly  finished. 
He  was  fastidious  in  polishing  his  verses,  and 
had  a  happy  faculty  of  imitating  some  of  the 
early  bards,  especially  "Peter  Pindar"  and 
the  author  of  "Anster  Fair."  Conolly's  poems 
were  never  collected  or  published.  He  died 
at  Edinburgh,  January  7,  1S43. 


THE  GREETIN'  BAIRN. 

Why  hies  yonder  wicht  wi'  sic  tremblin'  speed 
Whar  the  saughs  and  tlie  fir-trees  grow  ? 

And  why  stands  he  wi'  sic  looks  o'  dreid 
Whar  the  waters  wimplin  flow  ? 

0  eerie  the  tale  is  that  I  could  impart, 
How  at  Yule's  black  and  dreary  return 

Cauld  curdles  the  bluid  at  the  bauldest  heart, 
As  it  crosses  the  Dennan  Burn! 

'Twas  Yule's  dread  time,  when  the  spirits  hae 
power 

Through  the  dark  yetts  o'  death  to  return ; — 
'Twas  Yule's  dread  time,  and  the  midnieht  hour 
When  the  witches  astride  on  the  whirlwinds  ride 

On  theii-  way  to  the  Dennan  Burn! 


weary 


The  ill-bodin'  howlet  screight  eerily  by, 
And  loudly  the  tempest  was  ravin', 

When   shrill    on    the   blast    cam'  the 
woman's  cry, 
And  the  screams  o'  the  greetin'  bairn! 

"0,  open  the  door,  for  I've  tint  my  gate, 
And  the  frost  winds  snelly  blaw! 
0  save  my  wee  bairn  frae  a  timeless  fate, 
Or  its  grave  is  the  driftin'  snaw!" 

"Now  get  on  your  gate,  j-e  fell  weird  wife— 
Ower  my  hallan  ye  sail  na  steer; 
Though  ye  sicker  can  sweep  thro'  the  tempest's 

strife, 
On  my  lintel-stane  is  the  rowan-tree  rife, 
And  ye  daurna  enter  here!" 

"0  nippin'  and  cauld  is  the  wintry  blast. 
And  sadly  I'm  weary  and  worn; 
0  save  my  wee  bairn— its  blood's  freezin'  fast. 
And  we'll  baith  live  to  bless  ye  the  morn!" 

"Now  get  on  your  gate,  ye  unco  wife; 
Nae  scoug  to  sic  gentry  I'll  gi'e; 


On  my  lintel  the  red  thread  and  rowan-tree  is 
rife. 
And  ye  daunia  lodge  wi'  me !'' 

Sair,  sair  she  prigget,  but  prigget  in  vain, 
For  the  auld  carle  drove  her  awa' ; 

And  loud  on  the  nicht  breeze  she  vented  her 
mane. 

As  she  sank  wi'  her  bau-n,  ne'er  to  waken  again, 
Whar  the  burn  ran  dark  through  the  snaw. 

And  aften  sin'  .syne  has  her  ghaist  been  seen 
Whar  the  burn  winds  down  by  the  fern ; 

And  aft  has  the  traveller  been  frighted  at  e'en 
By  the  screams  o'  the  greetin'  bairn. 


MARY    MACNEIL. 

The  last  gleam  o'  sunset  in  ocean  was  sinkin', 

Owre  mountain  an'  meadowland  glintin'  fare- 
weel; 
An'  thousands  o'  stars  in  the  heavens  were  blinkin', 

As  bright  as  the  een  o'  sweet  Mary  Macneil. 
A'  glowin'  wi'  gladness  she  leaned  on  her  lover, 

Her  een  tellin' secrets  she  thought  to  conceal; 
And  fondly  they  wander'd  whar  nane  might  dis- 
cover 

The  tryst  o'  yoimg  Ronald  an'  Mary  Macneil, 

Oh!  Mary  was  modest,  an'  pure  as  the  lily, 

That  dew-draps  o'  mornin'  in  fragrance  reveal; 
Nae  fresh  bloomin'  flow'ret  in  hill  or  in  valley 

Could  rival  the  beauty  of  Mary  Macneil. 
She  moved,  and  the  gi-aces  playecl  sportive  aromid 
her; 

She  .smil'd,  and  the  hearts  o'  the  cauldest  wad 
thrill; 
She  sang,  and  the  mavis  cam'  listenin'  in  wonder. 

To  claim  a  sweet  sister  in  Mary  Macneil. 

But  ae  bitter  blast  on  its  fair  promise  blawin', 
Frae  spring  a'  its  beauty  an'  blossoms  will  steal; 


EOBERT  GILFILLAN. 


17' 


An'  ae  sudden  blight  on  the  gentle  heart  fa'in, 
Inflicts  the  deep  wound  nothing  earthly  can 
heal. 
The  simmer  saw  Ronald  on  glory's  path  hicin'; 
The  autumn,  his  corse  on  the  red  battletiel'; 
The  winter  the  maiden  found  heartbroken,  dyin'; 
An'  spring  spread  the  green  turf  owor  Mary 
Macneil. 


TO  MY  FIRST  GRAY   HAIR. 

Herald  of  old  age,  or  offspring  of  care, 
How  shall  I  greet  thee  ?  my  first  gray  hair ! 
Comest  thou  a  soother,  or  censor  i  in  ruth 


For  the  woes,  or  in  ire  for  the  errors  of  youth  f 
To  speak  of  thy  parent's  companionship  past, 
Or  proclaim  that  thy  master  will  follow  thee 
fast? 

Comest  thou  like  ark-dove,  commissioned  to  say 
That  the  waters  of  life  are  fast  ebbing  away, 
And  soon  shall  my  tempest-toss'd  bark  be  at 
rest  ? 
Or,  avenger  of  talent-buds  recklessly  slain. 
Art  thou  sent  like  the  mark  to  the  forehead  of 
Cain  ? 
Thou  art  silent,  but  deeply  my  heart  is  fmpress'd 
\Yith   all    thy    appearance    should    stimulate 

there — 
May  it  cherish  thy  lessons,  my  first  gray  hair ! 


EOBEET    GILFILLAN 


Born  179S  —  Died  1850. 


Robert  Gilfill.vx  was  born,  July  7,  1798, 
at  Dunfermline,  in  tlie  county  of  Fife.  His 
parents  were  in  humble  circumstances,  but 
were  much  respected  in  their  neighbourhood. 
Robert,  their  second  son,  received  the  rudi- 
ments of  his  education  at  a  Dunfermline  school, 
and  at  tiie  age  of  thirteen  his  parents  removed 
to  Leith,  where  he  was  bound  apprentice  to 
the  trade  of  a  cooper.  To  this  handicraft, 
however,  he  seems  never  to  have  taken  kindly; 
yet  he  faithfully  served  his  employers  the  usual 
-period  of  seven  years,  giving  liis  earnings  from 
week  to  week  to  his  mother,  and  enlivening 
his  leisure  hours  by  reading  every  book  lie 
could  borrow,  composing  verses,  and  playing 
on  a  one-keyed  flute,  which  he  purchased  with 
a  small  sum  of  money  found  by  him  in  the 
streets  of  Leith.  It  was  at  this  time,  and  ever 
afterward,  his  practice  to  read  to  his  mother 
and  sister  (he  never  married)  his  songs  as  he 
wrote  them;  and  he  was  entirely  guided  by 
their  judgment  regarding  them.  This  was  an 
improvement  on  Moli^re  and  his  housekeeper. 

At  the  end  of  his  apprenticeship  he  became 
an  assistant  to  a  grocer  in  his  native  town, 
with  whom  he  remained  for  three  years.  He 
subsequently  returned  to  Leith,  and  from  his 
twenty-third  till  his  thirty-ninth  year  acted 
as  clerk  for  an  extensive  wine-merchant. 
YoL.  II.— M 


While  thus  engaged  he  found  time  for  compos- 
ing, and  in  1831  published  a  A-olume  of  Ori'ji- 
nal  Soiiijs,  Avhich  was  favourably  received. 
Encouraged  by  his  succe.ss,  Gilfillan  i.ssued  in 
1835  another  edition,  containing  fifty  addi- 
tional songs.  Soon  after  the  publication  of 
this  volume  lie  was  entertained  at  a  public 
dinner  in  Edinburgh,  when  a  splendid  silver 
cup  was  presented  to  him.  In  1837  he  was 
appointed  collector  of  police-rates  at  Leith — a 
highly  respectable  position,  which  lie  retained 
until  his  death.  In  1839  he  published  a  ihird 
and  still  larger  edition  of  his  original  volume, 
sixty  new  songs  and  poems  being  added  to  the 
collection.  Mr.  Gilfillan  died  of  apoplexy  at 
Hermitage  Place,  Leith,  Dec.  4,  1850,  aged 
fifty -two.  A  handsome  monument  was  erected 
by  a  few  friends  and  admirers  over  his  grave 
in  the  churchyard  of  South  Leith,  where  also 
rest  the  remains  of  John  Home,  the  eminent 
dramatic  poet. 

The  year  after  his  death  a  fourth  edition  of 
his  poetical  works  was  published  in  Edinburgh, 
with  an  interesting  memoir  of  the  gentle  poet, 
who  is  frequently  referred  to  in  the  Xoctes 
Ambrosiauce  by  the  Ettrick  Shepherd  as  the 
"fine  chiel  doun  at  Leith."  His  biographer 
says— "He  fills  a  place  in  Scottish  poetry 
altogether  difterent  and  distinct  from  any  of 


178 


ROBEET   GILFILLAN. 


the  acknowledged  masters  of  Scottish  song. 
He  is  certainly  not  so  universal  as  Burns,  nor 
so  broad  and  graphic  a  delineator  of  Scottish 
manners  as  Eamsaj',  Fergusson,  or  Hogg,  nor 
is  he  so  keenl.y  alive  to  the  beauties  of  external 
nature  as  Eobert  Tanuahiil;  but  in  his  own 


peculiar  walk,  that  (  f  home  and  the  domestic 
affections,  he  has  slo.vn  a  command  of  happy 
thought  and  imagery,  in  which  it  may  be 
truly  said  that  he  has  not  been  excelled  as  a 
poet  of  nature  by  any  of  his  predecessors,  with 
the  exception  only  of  Burns  himself." 


THE  AUTUMN  WINDS  ARE  BLAWING. 

The  autumn  winds  are  bla\\ing,  red  leaves  are 
fa'ing, 
An'  nature  is  mourning  the  simmer's  decay; 
The  wee  birdies  singing,  the  wee  flowerets  spring- 
ing, 
Hae  tint  a'  their  sangs,  an'  wither'd  away! 
I,  too,  am  mourning,  for  death  has  nae  returning, 
Where  are  my  bairnies,  the  young  an'  the  gay! 
^V]ly    should    they    perish?— the    blossoms    we 
cherish — 
The  beautiful  are  sleeping  cauld  in  the  clay! 

Fair  was  their  morning,  their  beauty  adorning, 

The  mavis  sang  sweet  at  the  closing  o'  day; 
Now  the  winds  are  raving,  the  green  grass  is 
waving. 
O'er  the  buds  o'  innocence  canld  in  the  clay! 
Ilka  night  brings  sorrow,  grief  comes  ilk  mori-ow — 
Should  gowden  locks  fade  before  the  auld  an' 
gray? 
But  still,  still  they're  sleeping,  wi'  nae  care  nor 
weeping, 
The  robin  sits  chirping  ower  their  cauld  clay! 

In  loveliness  smiling,  ilka  day  beguiling. 

In  joy  and  in  gladness,  time  murmured  by; 
What  now  were  pleasure,  wi'  a'  the  warld's  trea- 
sure ? 
My  heart's  in  the  grave  where  my  fair  blossoms 
lie! 
The  autumn  winds  are  blawing,  red  leaves  are 
fa'ing. 
Moaning  is  the  gale  as  it  rides  on  its  way; 
A  wild  music's  sighing,  it  seems  a  voice  crying, — 
"  Hapi^y  is  that  land  that  knows  no  decay!" 


0!  WHAT  IS   THIS  WORLD? 

0!  what  is  this  world,  wi'  its  wealth  and  renown, 

If  content  is  awanting  ilk  pleasure  to  crown  ? 

And  where  that  does  dwell,  be't  in  cot  e'er  sae 
low. 

There's  a  joy  and  a  gladness  nae  wealth  can  be- 
stow. 


There's  mony  a  wee  biggin',  in  forest  and  glen, 
Wi'  its  clean  sandit  floor,  an'  its  hut  and  its  ben, 
Where  there's  mair  o'  that  peace  whilk  content- 
ment aye  brings. 
Than  is  found  in  the  palace  o'  princes  or  kings. 

We  canna  get  fortune,  we  canna  get  fame. 
We  canna  behind  us  a'  leave  a  bit  name; 
But  this  we  can  a'  hae,  and  0!  'tis  na'  sma', 
A  heart  fu'  o'  kindness  to  ane  and  to  a'! 

They  say  that  life's  short,  and  they  dinna  say 

wrang, 
For  the  langest  that  live  can  ne'er  ca'  it  lang; 
Then,  since  it  is  sae,  make  it  pleasant  the  while; 
If  it  gang  by  sae  soon,  let  it  gang  wi'  a  smile. 

Wha  e'er  climbs  the  mountain  maun  aye  risk  a  fa', 

While  he  that  is  lowly  is  safe  frae  it  a', 

The  flower  blooms  unscathed  in  the  valley  sae 

deep. 
While  the  storm  rends  the  aik  on  its  high  reeky 

steep! 

My  highest  ambition — if  such  be  a  crime — 
Is  quietly  to  glide  down  the  swift  stream  o'  time; 
And  when  the  brief  voyage  in  safety  is  o'er. 
To  meet  with  loved  friends  on  the  far  distant 
shore! 


MANOR  BRAES. 

Where  Manor  stream  rins  blithe  and  clear, 
And  Castlehill's  white  wa's  appear, 
I  spent  ae  day,  aboon  a'  days. 
By  Manor  stream,  'mang  Manor  braes. 
The  purple  heath  was  just  in  bloom. 
And  bomiie  waved  the  upland  broom. 
The  flocks  on  flowery  braes  lay  still. 
Or,  heedless,  wander'd  at  their  will. 

'Twas  there,  'mid  Nature's  calm  repose, 
Where  Manor  clearest,  saftest  flows, 
I  met  a  maiden,  fair  to  see, 
Wi'  modest  look  and  bashfu'  e'e; 
Her  beauty  to  the  mind  did  bring 
A  morn  when  summer  blends  wi'  spring, 


EGBERT  GILFILLAN. 


179 


So  bright,  so  pure,  so  calm,  so  fair, 
'Twas  bliss  to  look — to  linger  there! 

Ilk  word  cam  frae  her  bosom  warm, 
Wi'  love  to  win  and  sense  to  charm, 
So  much  of  nature,  nought  of  art, 
She'll  live  enthroned  within  my  heart! 
Aboon  her  head  the  laverock  sang. 
And  'neath  her  feet  the  wild-flowers  sprang. 
Oh!  let  me  dwell  where  beauty  strays, 
By  Manor  stream  an'  Manor  braes. 

I  speir'd  gif  ane  sae  young  an'  fair 

Knew  aught  of  love,  wi'  a'  its  care? 

She  said  her  heart  frae  love  was  free, 

But  aye  she  blush'd  wi'  douncast  e'e. 

The  parting  cam,  as  partings  come, 

Wi'  looks  that  speak,  though  tongues  be  dumb; 

Yet  I'll  return,  ere  many  days. 

To  live  and  love  'mang  Manor  braes! 


Nae  doot,  we  have  hacn  our  ain  sorrows  and 
troubles, 
Aften  times  pouchestoom,  and  hearts  fu'o'care; 
But  still,  wi'  our  crosses,  our  sorrows  and  losses. 
Contentment,  be  thankit,hasaycbeeuourshare! 
I've  an'  auld  rusty  sword  that  was  left  by  my  father, 
Whilk  ne'er  shall  be  drawn  till  our  king  has  a 
fae; 
We  ha'e  friends  ane  or  twa,  that  aft  gie  us  a  ca'. 
To  laugh  when  we're  happy,  or  grieve  when 
we're  wae. 

The  laird  may  ha'e  gowd  mair  than  schoolmen 
can  reckon. 

An'  flunkies  to  watch  ilka  glance  o'  his  e'e; 
His  lady,  aye  braw,  may  sit  in  her  ha', 

But  are  they  mair  happy  than  Janet  an  me? 
A'  ye  wha  ne'er  kent  the  straught  road  to  be  happy, 

Wha  are  nae  content  wi'  the  lot  that  ye  dree, 
Come  down  to  the  dwallin'  of  whilk  I've  been 
telling, 

Ye'se  learn  it  by  looking  at  Janet  an'  me! 


JANET   AN'   ME. 

0,  wha  are  sae  happy  as  me  and  my  Janet? 

O,  wha  are  sae  happy  as  Janet  and  me? 
We're  baith  turning  auld,  and  our  walth  is  soon 
tauld, 
But  contentment  ye'U  find  in  our  cottage  sae 
wee. 
She  spins  the  lang  day  when  I'm  out  wi'  theowsen. 
She  croons  i'  the  house  while  I  sing  at  the  plough; 
And  aye  her  blithe  smile  welcomes  me  frae  my 
toil, 
As  up  the  lang  gleu  I  come  wearied,  I  trow! 

When  I'm  at  a  beuk  she  is  mending  the  cleading, 
She's  darning  the  stockings  when  I  sole  ihe 
shoon ; 
Our  cracks  keep  us  cheery— we  work  till  we're 
weary, 
And  syne  we  sup  sowans  when  ance  we  are 
done. 
She's  baking  a  scone  while  I'm  smoking  my  cutty. 
While  I'm  i'  the  stable  she's  milking  the  kye; 
I  envy  not  kings  when  the  gloaming  time  brings 
The  canty  fireside  to  my  Janet  and  I! 

Aboon  our  auld  heads  we've  a  decent  clay  bigging. 
That  keeps  out  the  cauld  when  the  simmer's 
awa' ; 
We've  twa  wabs  o'  Unen,  o'  Janet's  ain  spinning, 
As  thick  as  dog  lugs,  and  as  white  as  the  snaw! 
We've  a  kebbuck  or  twa,  and  some  meal  i'  the 
gimel; 
Yon  sow  is  our  ain  that  plays  grumph  at  the 
door; 
An'  something,  I've  guess'd,  's  in  yon  auld  painted 
kist. 
That  Janet,  fell  bodie,  's  laid  up  to  the  fore! 


THE   HAPPY   DAYS  0'  YOUTH. 

0!  the  happy  days  o'  youth  are  fast  gaun  by, 
And  age  is  coming  on,  wi'  its  bleak  winter  sky; 
An'  whaur  shall  we  shelter  frae  its  stoi-ms  when 

they  blaw, 
Wlien  the  gladsome  daj's  o'  youth  are  flown  awa"  ? 

They  said  that  wisdom  came  wi'  manhood's  riper 

years, 
But  naething  did  they  tell  o'  its  sorrows  and  tears; 
0!  I'd  gie  a'  the  wit,  gif  ony  wit  be  mine. 
For  ae  sunny  morning  o'  bonnie  langsyne. 

I  canna  dow  but  sigh,  I  canna  dow  but  mourn. 
For  the  blithe  happy  days  that  never  can  return; 
When  joy  was  in  the  heart,  an'  love  was  on  the 

tongue. 
An'  mirth  on  ilka  face,  for  ilka  face  was  young. 

01  the  bonnie  waving  broom,  whaur  aften  we  did 

meet, 
Wi'  its  yellow  flowers  that  fell  like  gowd  'mang 

our  feet; 
The  bird  would  stop  its  sang,  but  only  for  a  wee, 
As  we  gaed  by  its  nest,  'neath  its  ain  birk  tree. 

0!  the  sunny  days  o'  youth,  they  couldna  aye 

remain. 
There  was  ower  meikle  joy  and  ower  little  pain; 
Sae  fareweel  happy  days,  an'  fareweel  youthfu' 

glee, 
The  young  may  court  your  smiles,  but  ye're  gane 

frae  me. 


180 


EOBEET   GILFILLAN. 


THE   EXILES   SONG. 

Oh!  why  left  I  my  hame  ? 

Why  did  I  cross  the  deep? 
Oh!  why  left  I  the  land 

Where  my  forefatliers  sleep  ] 
I  sigh  for  Scotia's  shore, 

And  I  gaze  across  the  sea, 
But  I  canna  get  a  blink 

0'  my  ain  countriel 

The  palm-tree  waveth  high, 

And  fair  the  myrtle  springs; 
And,  to  the  Indian  maid, 

The  bulbul  sweetly  sings. 
But  I  dinna  see  the  broom 

Wi'  its  tassels  on  the  lea, 
Nor  hear  the  lintie's  sang 

0'  my  ain  countriel 

Oh!  here  no  Sabbath  bell 

Awakes  the  Sabbath  morn, 
Nor  song  of  reajjers  heard 

Amang  the  yellow  corn; 
For  the  tyrant's  voice  is  here, 

And  the  wail  of  slaverie; 
But  the  sun  o'  freedom  shines 

In  my  ain  countrie! 

There's  a  liope  for  every  woe, 

And  a  balm  for  every  pain. 
But  the  first  joys  o'  our  heart 

Come  never  back  again. 
There's  a  track  upon  the  deep. 

And  a  path  across  the  sea; 
But  the  weary  ne'er  return 

To  their  ain  countriel 


FARE   THEE  WELL.i 

Fare  thee  well,  for  I  must  leave  thee. 

But,  oh!  let  not  our  parting  grieve  thee; 

Happier  days  may  yet  be  mine. 
At  least  I  wish  them  thine — believe  me ! 

We  part — but,  by  those  dew-drops  clear. 
My  love  for  tliee  will  last  for  ever; 

I  leave  thee — but  thy  image  dear. 
Thy  tender  smiles,  will  leave  me  never. 
Fare  thee  well,  &c. 

1  Gilfillan  used  to  say  that  the  first  idea  of  fame 
whic)i  he  ever  entertained  was  wlien  Iiis  sister  and  a 
young  lady,  a  cousin  of  his  own,  wept  on  hearing  him 
read  tliis  pathetic  song. — Ed. 


0!  dry  those  pearly  tears  that  flow — 
One  farewell  smile  before  we  sever; 

The  only  balm  for  parting  woe 
Is — fondly  hope  'tis  not  for  ever. 
Fare  thee  well,  &c. 

Though  dark  and  dreary  lowers  the  night, 
Calm  and  serene  may  be  the  morrow; 

The  cup  of  pleasure  ne'er  shone  bright. 
Without  some  mingling  drops  of  sorrow  I 
Fare  thee  well,  &c. 


THE   BONNIE   BRAES   0"    SCOTLAND. 

01  the  bonnie  braes  o'  Scotland — my  blessin's 
on  them  a'. 

May  love  be  found  in  ilka  cot,  an'  joy  in  ilka 
ha'. 

Whane'er  a  beild,  however  laigh,  by  burn  or 
brae  appears, 

Be  there  the  gladsome  smile  o'  youth,  the  dig- 
nity o'  years! 

0!  the  bonnie  braes  o'  Scotland,  sae  bloomin' 

and  sae  fair, 
There's  mony  a  hame  o'  kindness,  an'  couthie 

dwallin'  there; 
An'  mair  o'  warldly  happiness  than  folk  wad 

seem  to  ken. 
For  contentment  in  the  heart  maks  t'.ie  canty 

but  and  ben! 

0!  wha  wad  grasp  at  fame  or  power,  or  walth 

seek  to  obtain, 
Be't  'mang  the  busy  scenes  o'  life,  or  on  the 

stormy  main? 
Whan  the  shepherd  on  his  hill,  or  the  peasant 

at  his  plough. 
Find  sic  a  share  o'  happiness  wi'  unco  sma' 

ado? 

The  wind  may  whistle  loud  an'  cauld,  and 

sleety  blasts  may  blaw, 
Or  swirlin'  round,  in  whit'nin'  wreaths,  may 

drift  the  wintry  snaw; 
But  the  gloamin'  star  comes  blinkiu',  amaist 

afore  he  ken. 
An'  his  wife's  cheerfu'  smile  maks  a  canty  but 

and  ben! 

0!  the  bonnie  braes  o'  Scotland  to  my  remem- 
brance bring 

The  lang,  lang  simmer  sunny  day,  whan  life 
was  in  its  spring; 

Whan  'mang  the  wild  flowers  wandering,  the 
happy  hours  went  by. 

The  future  wakening  no  a  fear,  nor  yet  the 
past  a  sigh ! 


JAMES   IIYSLOP. 


181 


01  the  bonnie  braes  o'  Scotland,  hame  o'  the 

fair  an'  free, 
An    hame  it  is  a  kindly  word,  whare'cr  that 

hame  ma3'  be; 
Jly  weary  steps  I'd  fain  retrace  back  to  the 

happy  days. 
When  youthfu'  hearts  together  joy'd   'mang 

Scotland's  bonnie  braes  ! 


IX   THE   DAYS   0'   LAXGSYXE. 

In  the  days  o'  langsyne  when  we  caiies  were  young, 
An'  nae  foreign  fashions  amang  us  had  sprung; 
When  we  made  our  ain  bannocks,  and  brewed 

our  ain  yill, 
An'  were  clad  frae  the  sheep  that  gaed  white  on 

the  hill; 
0!  the  thocht  o'  thae  days  gars  my  auld  heart 

aye  fill! 

In  the  days  o'  langsyne  we  were  happy  and  free, 
Proud  lords  on  the  land,  and  kings  on  the  sea! 


To  our  foes  we  were  fierce,  to  our  friends  wo  were 

kind, 
An'  where  battle  raged  loudest,  3'ou  ever  did  find 
The  banner  of  Scotland  float  high  in  the  wind! 

In  the  days  o'  langsyne  we  aye  ranted  and  sang 
By  the  warm  ingle-side,  or  the  wild  braes  amang; 
Our  lads  husked  braw,  and  our  lasses  looked  fine, 
An'  the  sun  on  our  mountains  seemed  ever  to  shine ; 
0 !  where  is  the  Scotland  o'  bonnie  langsyne  • 

In  the  daj's  o'  langsyne  ilka  glen  had  its  talc, 
Sweet  voices  were  heard  in  ilk  breath  o'  the  gale ; 
An'  ilka  wee  bum  had  a  sang  o'  its  ain. 
As  it  trotted  alang  through  the  valley  or  plain; 
Shall  we  e'er  hear  the  music  o'  streamlets  again! 

In  the  days  o'  langsjTie  there  were  feasting  and 

glee, 
Wi'  pride  in  ilk  heart,  and  joy  in  ilk  e'e; 
And  the  auld,  'mang  the  nappy,  their  eild  seemed 

to  tyne. 
It  was  your  stoup  the  nicht,  and  the  morn  'twas 

mine; 
0 !  the  days  o'  langsyne — 0 !  the  days  o'  langsyne. 


JAMES    HYSLOP. 


Born  1793  — Died  1827. 


James  IIyslop^  was  born  of  humble  parents 
in  the  parish  of  Kirkconnel,  near  the  burgh 
of  Sanquhar,  Dumfriesshire,  July  13,  1798. 
Under  the  care  of  a  pious  grandfatlier  he  was 
taught  to  read,  and  while  yet  a  child  was  sent 
in  summer  to  herd  cows  on  the  neighbouring 
farm  of  Dalblair,  occasionally  attending  school 
during  the  winter  months.  He  was  next  em- 
ployed as  a  shepherd  in  tiie  vicinity  of  Airs- 
moss,  in  Ayrshire,  the  scene  of  a  skirmish  in 
July,  1680,  between  a  party  of  soldiers  and  a 
small  band  of  Covenanters,  when  their  pastor 
Eichard  Cameron  was  slain.  Tlie  traditions 
floating  among  the  peasantry  concerning  this 
conflict  arrested  the  attention  of  the  young 
shepherd,  and  he  afterwards  turned  them  to 
good  account  in  his  well-known  poem.  AVhen 
a  lad  he  had  received  only  a  little  education, 

1  This  name  is  usually  jirinted  Hislop,  but  ive  liave 
the  poet's  own  authority  lu  his  manuscript  for  the  s;  ell- 
ing  adopted.— Ed. 


but  SO  eager  was  his  thirst  to  acquire  more, 
that  before  he  reached  his  twentieth  year  he 
had  become  an  excellent  scholar,  mostly  by  his 
own  exertions.  After  teaching  for  a  time  an 
evening  school  in  his  native  district,  he  in 
1819  removed  to  Greenock  and  opened  a  day- 
school,  which  proved  unsuccessful,  and  he  again 
returned  to  pastoral  pursuits.  In  February, 
1821,  "The  C'ameronian's  Dream"  appeared  in 
the  Ed'mburijh  Mmjazine,  and  attracted  the 
attention  of  Lord  Jefi'rcy,  by  whom  Hyslop 
was  induced  to  open  a  school  in  Edinburgli. 
Through  the  influence  of  his  literary  friends  he 
was  soon  after  appointed  schoolmaster  on  board 
the  frigate  Doris.  During  her  cruise  he  con- 
tributed to  the  pages  of  the  Ed'mhurrjh  Maga- 
zine a  series  of  "  Letters  from  South  America," 
describing  the  scenes  he  had  visited  in  that 
country;  also  sending  an  occasional  poem.  The 
"Letters"  were  well  written,  but  the  masterly 
pen  of  Captain  Hall  had  gone  over  the  same 


182 


JAMES   HYSLOP. 


ground  before  him,  lAliicli  left  the  poet  or  any 
person  but  little  to  glean  for  a  long  time. 

In  1825  Hyslop  visited  London,  carrying 
with  him  letters  from  Lord  Jeffrey  and  the 
Eev.  Archibald  Alison  to  Joanna  Baillie  and 
her  sister,  John  Gibson  Lockhart,  and  Allan 
Cunningham,  by  all  of  whom  he  was  kindly 
received,  and  through  wliose  assistance  he  was 
appointed  head-master  of  an  academy  near 
London,  after  having  been  for  a  time  a  reporter 
on  the  Times  newspaper.  At  the  end  of  a  year 
Hyslop,  on  account  of  ill  health,  exchanged 
tlie  academy  for  an  appointment  as  school- 
master on  board  the  Ttveed  man-of-war,  bound 
for  India,  and  commanded  by  Lord  John 
Spence.  Among  several  poems  composed  dur- 
ing this  voyage  that  entitled  "The  Scottish 
Sacramental  Sabbath,"  in  the  style  of  tlie 
"Cotter's  Saturday  Night,"  is  perhaps  the 
best.  It  is  said  to  have  been  suggested  by  the 
commemoration  of  the  ordinance  in  Sanquhar 
churchyard,  and  is  valuable  as  a  faitliful  pic- 
tui-e  of  one  of  the  customs  of  bis  native  land. 
"While  the  Tweed  was  cruising  oflf  the  Cape  de 


Yerd  Islands  Hyslop  and  a  number  of  the 
officers  landed  on  the  island  of  St.  lago.  They 
slept  on  shore  in  the  open  air,  and  were  in  con- 
sequence seized  with  a  malignant  fever,  to  which 
most  of  them  fell  victims,  and  poor  Hyslop 
among  the  rest.  After  lingering  for  twelve 
daj-s  the  young  poet  died,  Dec.  4,  1827,  in  his 
twenty-ninth  year,  adding  another  to  the  bead- 
roll  of  Scottish  poets  wiio  passed  from  the 
world  before  they  had  seen  thirty  summers. 

John  MacCall  of  Sunny  Beach,  Strone,  writes 
to  the  Editor  (Aug.  11,  1875):  "Hyslop  spent 
an  evening  with  me  in  Glasgow,  I  think  in 
1825,  shortly  before  setting  out  on  his  last 
voyage,  and  I  may  say  it  was  one  of  the  hap- 
piest I  ever  spent;"  and  Allan  Cunningham 
describes  Hyslop's  poetic  gifts  as  "elegant 
rather  than  vigorous,  sweet  and  graceful  rather 
than  lofty,  although  he  was  occasionally  lofty 
too."  In  MacDiarmid's  Sketches  from  Nature 
there  is  an  interesting  memoir  of  this  "inheri- 
tor of  unfulfilled  i-enown,"  several  of  whose 
hitherto  unpublished  poems  we  have  pleasure 
in  presenting  to  our  readers. 


THE  SCOTTISH  SACRAMENTAL  SAEBATH. 


The  Sabbath  morning  gilds  the  eastern  hills, 
The  swains  its  sunny  dawn  wi'  gladness  greet, 
Frae  heath-clad  hamlets,  'niang  the  mnirland  rills, 
The  dewy  mountains  climb  wi'  naked  feet, 
Skiffin'  the  daisies  droukit  i'  the  weet; 
The  bleating  flocks  come  nibblin'  doun  the  brae, 
To  shadowy  pastures  screen'd  frae  sumniei"'s  heat; 
In  woods  where  tinklin'  waters  glide  away, 
'Mong  holms  o'  clover  red,  and  bright  brown  rye- 
grass hay. 

His  ewes  and  lambs  brought  caref  u'  frae  the  height. 
The  shepherd's  children  watch  them  frae  the  corn ; 
On  green  sward  scented  lawn,  wi'  gowans  white, 
Frae  page  o'  pocket  psalm-book,  soil'd  and  torn, 
The  task  prepar'd,  assign'd  for  Sabbath  mom, 
The  elder  bairns  their  parents  join  in  prayer; 
One  daughter  dear,  beneath  the  flowery  thorn, 
Kneels  down  apart  her  spirit  to  prepare, 
On  this  her  hrst  approach  the  sacred  cuj)  to  share. 

The  social  chat  wi'  solemn  converse  mix'd, 
At  early  hour  they  finish  their  repast. 
The  pious  .sire  repeats  full  many  a  text 
Of  sacramental  Sabbaths  long  gone  |)ast. 
To  sec  her  little  family  fcatly  dress'd 


The  carefu'  matron  feels  a  mother's  pride, 
Gie's  this  a  linen  shirt,  gie's  that  a  vest; 
The  fnigal  father's  frowns  their  finery  chide, 
He  prays  that  Heaven  their  souls  may  wedding 
robes  provide. 

The  sisters  buskit,  seek  the  garden  walk, 
To  gather  flowers,  or  watch  the  warning  bell. 
Sweet-william,  danglin'  dewy  frae  the  stalk. 
Is  mix'd  wi'  mountain-daises,  rich  in  smell, 
Green  sweet-briar  sprigs,  and  daises  frae  the  dell. 
Where  Spango  shepherds  pass  the  lane  abode, 
An'  Wanlock  miners  cross  the  muirland  fell; 
Then  down  the  sunny  winding  muirland  road, 
The  little  pastoral  band  approach  the  house  of  God. 

Streams  of  my  native  mountains,  oh !  how  oft 
That  Sabbath  morning  walk  in  youth  was  mine; 
Yet  fancy  hears  the  kirk -bell,  sweet  and  soft, 
Ring  o'er  the  darkling  woods  o'  dewy  pine; 
How  oft  the  wood-rose  wild  and  scented  thyme 
I've  stoop'd  to  pull  while  passing  on  my  way; 
But  now  in  sunny  regions  south  the  line,  ' 

Nac  birk.s  nor  bi'oom-flow'rs  shade  the  summer 

brae, — 
Alas!  I  can  but  dream  of  Scotland's  Sabbath-day. 


JAMES  HYSLOP. 


183 


But  dear  that  cherisli'd  dieam  I  still  behold: 
The  ancient  kii-k,  the  plane-trees  o'er  it  spread, 
And  seated  "mong  the  graves,  the  old,  the  young, 
As  once  in  summer  days,  for  ever  fled. 
To  deck  my  dream  the  grave  gives  up  its  dead : 
The  pale  precentor  sings  as  then  he  sung, 
The  long-lost  pastor  wi'  the  hoary  head 
Pours  forth  his  pious  counsels  to  the  young, 
And  dear  ones  from  the  dust  aj;ain  to  life  are 
sprung. 

Lost  friends  i-etum  from  realms  bej'ond  the  main. 
And  boyhood's  best  beloved  ones  all  are  there; 
The  blanks  in  family  cu-cles  fiU'd  again; 
No  seat  seems  empty  roimd  the  house  of  piT.yer. 
The  sound  of  psalms  has  vanish'd  in  the  air, 
Borne  up  to  heaven  upon  the  mountain  breeze. 
The  patriarchal  priest  wi'  silvery  hair. 
In  tent  erected  'neath  the  fresh  green  trees. 
Spreads  forth  the  book  of  God  with  holy  pride, 
and  sees 

The  eyes  of  circling  thousands  on  him  fix'd. 
The  kirkyard  scarce  contains  the  mingling  mass 
Of  kindred  congregations  round  him  mix'd; 
Close  seated  on  the  gravestones  and  the  grass. 
Some  crowd  the  garden-walls,  a  wealthier  class 
On  chairs  and  benches  round  the  tent  draw  near; 
The  poor  man  prays  far  distant,  and  alas! 
Some  seated  by  the  graves  of  parents  dear, 
Among  the  fresh  green  flow'rs  let  fall  a  silent  tear. 

Sublime  the  text  he  chooseth:  "  Who  is  this 
From  Edom  comes?  in  garments  dy'd  in  blood. 
Travelling  in  greatness  of  His  strength  to  bless. 
Treading  the  wine-press  of  Almighty  God." 
Perchance  the  theme,  that  Mighty  One  who  rode 
Forth  leader  of  the  armies  cloth'd  in  hght, 
Ai-ound  whose  fiery  forehead  rainbows  glowVl, 
Beneath   whose   head   heav'n   trembled,   angels 

bright 
Their  shining  ranks  arrang'd  around  his  head  of 

white. 

Behold  the  contrast,  Christ,  the  King  of  kings, 

A  houseless  wanderer  in  a  world  below; 

Famt,  fasting  by  the  desert  springs. 

From  youth  a  man  of  mouming  and  of  woe. 

The  birds  have  nests  on  summer's  blooming  bough. 

The  foxes  on  the  mountain  find  a  bed; 

But  mankind's  Friend  found  every  man  his  foe, 

His  heart  with  anguish  in  the  garden  bled, 

Ue,  peaceful  like  a  lamb,  was  to  the  slaughter  led. 

The  action-sermon  ended,  tables  fenc'd, 
"While  eldei-s  forth  the  sacred  sjnnbols  bring,  ^ 
The  day's  more  solemn  sei-vice  now  commenc'd; 
To  heaven  is  wafted  on  devotion's  wing. 
The  psalms  these  entering  to  the  altar  sing, 
"  I'll  of  salvation  take  the  cup,  I'll  call 
With  trembling  on  the  name  of  Zion's  King; 


His  courts  I'll  enter,  at  His  footstool  fall. 
And  pay  my  early  vows  before  His  people  all. 

Behold  the  crowded  tables  clad  in  white. 
Extending  far  above  the  flowery  graves; 
A  blessing  on  the  bread  and  wine-cup  bright 
With  lifted  hands  the  holy  pastor  craves. 
The  summer's  sunny  breeze  his  white  haii-  waves, 
His  soul  is  with  his  Saviour  in  the  skies; 
The  hallow'd  loaf  he  breaks,  and  gives 
The  symbols  to  the  elders  seated  nigh. 
Take,  eat  the  bread  of  life,  sent  down  from  heaven 
on  high. 

He  in  like  manner  also  lifted  up 
The  flagon  fiU'd  with  consecrated  wine. 
Drink,  drink  ye  all  of  it,  salvation's  cup, 
Memorial  moiu-nful  of  his  love  dirine. 
Then  solemn  pauseth;— save  the  rustling  pine 
Or  plane-tree  boughs,  no  sounds  salute  mine  ears; 
In  silence  pass'd,  the  silver  vessels  shine. 
Devotion's  Sabbath  dreams  from  bygone  years 
Retum'd,  till  many  an  eye  is  moist  with  spiing- 
ing  toai-s. 

As^in  the  preacher  breaks  the  solemn  pause. 
Lift  up  your  eyes  to  Calvary's  mountain — see. 
In  mourning  veild,  the  mid-day  sun  withth-aws, 
\\Tiile  dies  the  Sa\-iour  bleeding  on  the  tree; 
But  hark!  the  stars  again  sing  jubilee, 
With  anthems  heaven's  armies  hail  their  King, 
Ascend  in  glory  from  the  grave  set  free; 
Triumphant  see  Him  soar  on  seraph's  wing. 
To  meet  His  angel  hosts  around  the  clouds  of 
spring. 

Behold  His  radiant  robes  of  fleecy  light, 
Melt  into  sunny  ether  soft  and  blue; 
Then  in  this  gloomy  world  of  teai-s  and  night. 
Behold  the  table  He  hath  spread  for  you. 
"WTiat  though  you  tread  afiliction's  path — a  few, 
A  few  short  years  your  toils  will  all  be  o'er. 
From  Pisgah's  top  the  promis'd  countiy  view; 
The  happy  land  beyond  Inmianuel's  shore. 
Where  Eden's  blissful  bower  blooms  green  for 
evermore. 

Come  here,  ye  houseless  wanderers,  soothe  your 

grief, 
■While  faith  presents  your  Father's  lov'd  abode; 
And  here,  ye  friendless  mourners,  find  relief. 
And  dry  your  tears  in  di-;xwing  near  to  God; 
The  poor  may  here  lay  down  oppression's  load. 
The  rich  forget  his  crosses  and  his  care; 
Youth  enter  on  religion's  narrow  road. 
The  old  for  his  eternal  change  prepare. 
And  whosoever  will,  life's  waters  freely  share. 

How  blest  are  they  who  in  thy  coiu-ts  abide. 
Whose  strength,  whose  tnist,  uixm  Jehovah  stay; 
For  he  in  his  pa\-iUon  shall  them  hide 


184 


JAMES   HYSLOP. 


In  covert  safe  when  comes  the  evil  day; 
Though  sliadowy  darkness  conipasseth  his  way, 
And  thick  clouds  hke  a  curtain  hide  his  tlu'one; 
Not  even  through  a  glass  our  eyes  shall  gaze, 
In  brighter  worlds  his  wisdom  shall  be  shown. 
And  all  things  work  for  good  to  those  that  are 
his  own. 

And  blessed  are  the  young  to  God  who  bring 
The  morning  of  their  days  in  sacrilice, 
The  heart's  young  flowers  yet  fresh  with  spring 
Send  forth  an  incense  pleasing  in  his  eyes. 
To  me,  ye  children,  hearken  and  be  wise, 
The  prophets  died,  our  fathers  where  are  they  ? 
Alas!  this  fleeting  world's  delusive  joys, 
Like  morning  clouds  and  early  dews,  decay; 
Be  yours  that  better  part  that  fadeth  not  away. 

Walk  round  these  walls,  and  o'er  the  yet  green 

graves 
Of  friends  whom  j^ou  have  lov'd  let  fall  the  tear; 
On  many  dresses  dark  deep  mourning  waves, 
For  some  in  summers  past  who  worshipp'd  here 
Around  these  tables  each  revolving  year. 
What  fleeting  generations  I  have  seen, 
Where,  where  my  youthful  friends  and  comrades 

dear  ? 
Fled,  fled  away,  as  they  had  never  been, 
All  sleeping  in  the  dust  beneath  those  plane-trees 

green. 

And  some  are  seated  here,  mine  aged  friends, 
Wlio  round  this  table  never  more  shall  meet; 
For  him  who  bowed  with  age  before  you  stands, 
The  mourners  soon  shall  go  about  the  street; 
Below  these  green  boughs,  shadow'd   from  the 

heat, 
I've  bless'd  the  Bread  of  Life  for  threescore  years; 
And  shall  not  rnanj'  mould'ring  'neath  my  feet, 
And  some  who  sit  around  me  now  in  tears, 
To  me  be  for  a  crown  of  joy  when  Christ  appears  ? 

Behold  he  comes  with  clouds,  a  kindling  flood 
Of  fiery  flame  before  his  chariot  flees. 
The  sun  in  sackloth  veil'd,  the  moon  in  blood. 
All  kindreds  of  the  earth  dismay  shall  seize. 
Like  figs  untimely  shaken  by  the  breeze; 
The  fix'd  stars  fall  amid  the  thunder's  roar; 
The  buried  spring  to  life  beneath  these  trees, 
A  mighty  angel  standing  on  the  shore. 
With  arms  stretch'd  forth  to  heaven,  swears  time 
shall  be  no  more! 

The  hour  is  near,  your  robes  unspotted  keep, 
The  vows  you  now  have  sworn  are  seal'd  on  high ; 
Hark!  hark!  God's  answering  voice  in  thunders 

deep, 
'Midst  waters  dark  and  thick  clouds  of  the  sky; 
And  what  if  now  to  judgment  in  your  eye 
He  burst,  where  yonder  livid  lightnings  play, 
His  chariot  of  salvation  passing  by; 


The  great  white  throne,  the  terrible  array 
Of  Him  before  whose  frown  the  heavens  shall  flee 
away. 

My  friends,  how  dreadful  is  this  holy  place, 
Where  rolls  the  thick'ning  thunder,  God  is  near. 
And  though  we  cannot  see  Him  face  to  face, 
Yet  as  from  Horeb's  mount  His  voice  we  hear; 
The  angel  armies  of  the  upper  sphere 
Down   from  these   clouds   on  your  communion 

gaze; 
The  spirits  of  the  dead,  who  once  were  dear, 
Are  viewless  witnesses  of  all  your  ways; 
Go  from  His  table  then,  with  trembling  tune  His 

praise. 


THE  cameronia:n's  dream. 

In  a  dream  of  the  night  I  was  wafted  away, 
To  the  muirland  of  mist  where  the  martyrs  lay; 
Where  Cameron's  sword  and  his  Bible  are  seen. 
Engraved  on  the  stone  where  the  heather  grows 
green. 

'Twas  a  dream  of  th:se  ages  of  darkness  and 

blood. 
When  the  minister's  home  was  the  mountain  and 

wood; 
Wlien  in  Wellwood's  dark  valley  the  standard  of 

Zion, 
All  bloody  and  torn,  'mong  the  heather  was  lying. 

'Twas  morning;  and  summer's  young  sun  from 

the  east 
Lay  in  loving  repose  on  the  green  mountain's 

breast; 
On  Wardlaw  and  Cairntable  the  clear  shining  dew 
Glisten'd  there  'mong  the  heath-bells  and  nioun- ' 

tain  flowers  blue. 

And   far  wp  in  heaven,   near  the  white   .'•■unny 

cloud. 
The  song  of  the  lark  was  melodious  and  loud, 
And  in  Glenmuir's  wild  solitude,  lengthened  and 

deep. 
Were  the  whistling  of  jjlovers  and  bleating  of 

sheep. 

And  Wellwood's  .sweet  valleys  breathed  music 

and  gladness. 
The  fresh  meadow  blooms  hung  in  beauty  and 

redness; 
Its  daughters  were  happy  to  hail  the  returning. 
And  drink  the  delights  of  July's  sweet  morning. 

But,  oh!  there  were  hearts  cherish'd  far  other 

feelings, 
Illumed  by  the  light  of  i^rophctic  rcvealings, 


JAMES   HYSLOP. 


185 


Who  drank  from  the  scenery  of  beauty  but  soitow, 
For  they  knew  that  their  blood  would  bedew  it 
to-morrow. 

'Twas  the  few  faithful  ones  who  with  Cameron 

were  lying 
Conceal'd  'mong  the  mist  where  the  heath-fowl 

was  crying, 


THE  CAMERONIAN'S   YISIOX.i 

From  the  climes  and  the  seas  of  the  fair  sunny 

south, 
I  rcturn'd  to  the  gray  hills  and  green  glens  of 

youth. 


For  the  horsemen  of  Earlshall  around  them  were     By  mountain  graves  musing  on  days  long  gone 

hovering,  i  past. 

And  their  bridle  reins  rung  through  the   thin     A  dream-Uke  illusion  around  me  was  cast. 

misty  covering. 


Thoir  faces  grew  pale,  and  their  swords  were 

unsheathed. 
But  the  vengeance  that  darkened  their  brow  was 

unbreathed; 
With  eyes  turned  to  heaven  in  calm  resignation, 
They  sung  their  last  song  to  the  God  of  Salvation. 

The  hills  with  the  deep  mournfid  music  were 

ringing. 
The  curlew  and  plover  in  concert  were  singing; 


In  a  vision,  it  seem'd  that  the  chariot  of  time 
Was  roU'd  back  till  I  stood  in  the  ages  of  ciimc, 
Wlien  the  king  was  a  despot,  who  deeni'd  with 

his  nod 
He  would  cancel  the  lx)nd  bound  a  nation  to  God. 

The  religion  of  Christ,  like  a  lamb,  took  its  flight. 
As  the  horns  of  the  mitre  wax'd    powerful   in 

might, 
And  prelates  with  priestcraft  men's  spirits  en- 

chain'd, 


But  the  melody  died  mid dension  and  lauu-htcr,     _.,,  ^,       ^      ,,   ,  ,  ■        ,         >    •    i        ,. 

,,,,,„  ,,         ,  ,,       ,    ,,      1      'vt       :  Till  they  fear  d  to  complain  when  their  iicart  s 

As  the  host  of  ungodly  rush  don  to  the  slautfhter.  ,,      ,  ,     ■   ,, 

b  ood  was  drain'd. 


ungodly  i 

Though  in  mist  and  in  darkness  and  fire  they 

were  shrouded, 
Yet  the  souls  of  the  righteous  were  calm  and 

unclouded,  ,  ■  ■      r  r       ■,      ,  ,        , 

Their  dark  eyes  flashed  lightning,  as,  firm  and     The  spirit  of  Scotland  to  curb  and  restrain 

unbending. 
They  stood  like  the  rock  which  the  tliunder  is 
rending. 


Stern  lav.'  made  religion  no  longer  a  link 

The  soul  to  sustain  on  eternity's  brink; 

But  the  gold  of  the  gospel  was  changed  to  a  chain, 


The  muskets  were  flashing,  the  blue  swords  were 

gleaming. 
The  helmets  were  cleft,  and  the  red  blood  was 

streaming. 
The  heavens  grew  dark,  and  the  thunder  was 

rolling. 
When  in  Wellwood's  dark  rauu-lands  the  mighty 

were  falling. 

When  the  righteous  liad  fallen  and  tao  combat 
was  ended, 

A  chariot  of  fire  through  the  dark  cloud  de- 
scended; 

Its  drivers  were  angels  on  horses  of  whiteness. 

And  its  burning  wheels  turned  on  axles  of 
brightness. 

A  seraph  unfolded  its  doors  bright  and  shining, 
All  dazzling  like  gold  of  the  seventh  refining, 
And  the  souls  that  came  forth  out  of  great  tribu- 
lation 
Have  mounted  the  chariot  and  steeds  of  salvation, 

On  the  arch  of  the  rainbow  the  chariot  is  gliding, 
Thi-ough  the  path  of  the  thunder  the  horsemen 

are  riding; 
Glide  swiftly,  bright  spirits !  the  prize  is  before  yo, 
A  cro^vai  never  fading,  a  kingdom  of  glory! 


A  political  bridle  the  people  to  check, 

Wlien  the  priest  or  the  prince  chose  to  ride  on 

their  neck; 

For  churchmen  a  chariot  in  splendour  who  roU'd, 
At  the  poor  man's  expense,  whose  salvation  they 

sold. 

From   the   court,    over   Scotland  went  forth  a 

decree — 
"  Let  the  ku-k  of  the  north  to  the  king  bend  th3 

knee : 
To  the  prince  and  his  priesthood  divine  right  is 

given, 
A  sceptre  to  sway  both  in  earth  and  in  heaven. 

"  Let  no  one  presume  from  the  pulpit  to  read 
The  Scriptures,  save  curates  by  courtiers  decreed; 
At  their  peril  let  pai-ents  give  precepts  to  youth. 
Till  prelates  and  prayer-books  put  words  in  their 
mouth. 

"And  none  'mong  the  hills  of  the  heather  shall 

dare 
To  meet  in  the  moorlands  for  praises  and  prayer; 
Nor  to  Heaven  in  private  prefer  their  reipiest, 
Except   as   the   prince   should  appoint  by  the 

priest." 

1  Written  ou  the  banks  of  the  Ciawick,  Sept.  30, 
1325.— Ed. 


186 


JAMES   HYSLOP. 


The  nation  of  Knox  held  the  mnndate  accurs'd : 
He  the  fetters  of  Popery  and   priestcraft  had 

burst, 
With  the  stamp  of  his  foot  brought  their  towers 

to  the  ground, 
Till  royalty  ti'embling    shrunk   back   when   he 

frown'd. 

And  Melville  the  fiery  had  fearlessly  dared, 
In  a  prince's  own  presence  his  priesthood  to  beard; 
On  the  archbishop's  head  made  his  mitre  to  shake. 
And  the  circle  of  courtiers  around  him  to  quake. 

And  Scotland's  Assemblies  in  council  sat  down, 
God's  word  well  to  weigh  with  decrees  of  the 

crown : 
A  Covenant  seal'd,  as  they  swore  by  the  Lord, 
Their  Bibles  and  birthi'ights  to  guard  with  the 

sword. 

These  priests  from  their  kirk^j  by  the  prelates 

were  driven, 
A  shelter  to  seek  with  the  fowls  of  the  heaven; 
The  wet  mist  their  covering,  the  heather  their 

bed, 
By  the  sjirings  of  the  desert  in  peril  they  fed. 

At  the  risk  of  their  lives  with  their  flocks  they 

would  meet, 
In  storm  and  in  tempest,  in  rain  and  in  sleet; 
Where  the  mist  on  the  moorglens  lay  darkest, 

'twas  there 
In  the  thick  cloud  conceal'd,  they  assembled  for 

prayer. 

At  their  wild  mountain  worship  no  warning  bell 

rung. 
But  the  sentries  were  fix'd  ere  the  psalm  could 

be  sung; 
When  the  preacher  his  Bible  brought  forth  from 

his  plaid. 
On  the  damp  rock  bsside  him  his  drawn  sword 

he  laid. 

The  sleepless  assemblies  around  him  who  met, 
Were  houseless  and  hungry,  and  weary  and  wet; 
The   wilderness  wandering,  through   peril   and 

strife. 
To  be  fiU'd  with  the  word  and  the  waters  of  life. 

For  in  cities  the  wells  of  salvation  were  seal'd. 
More  brightly  to  burst  in  the  moor  and  the  field; 
And  the  Spirit,  which  fled  from  the  dwellings  of 

men, 
Like  a  manna-cloud  rain'd  round  the  camp  of  the 

glen,— 

I  beheld  in  my  vision  a  prince  on  his  throne; 
Around  him  in  glory  the  mitred  heads  shone; 
And  the  sovereign  assembly  said,  "Who  shall  go 

forth 
In  the  moorlands  to  murder  the  priests  of  the 

north  ? 


"  Our  horssemen  now  hunted  the  moor  and  the 

wood, 
But  the  soldiers  shrunk  back  from  the  shedding 

of  blood; 
And  some  we  sent  forth  with  commission  to  slay. 
Have  with  Renwick  remain'd  in  the  mountains 

to  pray. 

"  Is  there  no  one  around  us  whose  soul  and  whose 

sword 
Will   hew  down   in  the  desert  that   priesthood 

abhorr'd; 
With  their  blood,  on  the  people's  minds  print  our 

decree  ? 
The  warrior's  reward  shall  be  Viscount  Dundee." 

'Twas  a  title  of  darkness,  dishonour,  and  shame; 
No  warrior  would  wear  it,   save  Claver'se   the 

Graham. 
With  the  warrant  of  death,  like  a  demon  he  flew, 
In  the  blood  of  his  brethren  his  hands  to  imbrue. 

The  mission  of  murder  full  well  fitted  him. 

For  his  black  heart  with  malice  boil'd  up  to  the 

brim; 
Remorse  had  his  soul  made  like  angels  who  fell, 
And  his  breast  was  imbued  with  the  sjjirit  of  hell. 

A  gleam  of  its  flame  in  his  bosom  had  glow'd, 
Till  his  devilish  delight  was  in  cursing  of  God : 
He  felt  him  a  foe,  and  his  soul  took  a  pride 
Bridle-deep  through  the  blood  of  His  sufferers  to 
ride. 

His  heart,  hard  as  flint,  was  with  cruelty  mail'd; 
No  tear  of  the  orphan  with  him  e'er  prevail'd; 
In  the  blood  of  its  sire  while  his  sword  was  defil'd. 
The  red  blade  he   wav'd  o'er   the  widow,   and 
smiled. — 

My  vision  was  changed,  and  I  stood  in  a  glen 
Of  the  moorlands,  remote  from  the  dwellings  of 

men, 
'Mong  Pricsthill's  black  scenery,  a  pastoral  abode, 
Where  the  shepherds  assembled  to  worship  their 

God. 

A  light-hearted  maiden  met  there  with  her  love. 
Who  had  won  her  affections,  and  fix'd  them  above : 
Conceal'd  'mong  the  mist  on  the  dark  mountain 

side. 
Stood  Peden  the  prophet,  -with  Brown  and  his 

bride. 

A  silent  assembly  encircled  the  seer, 

A  breathless  expectance  bent  foi'ward  to  hear; 

For  the  glance  of  his  gray  eye  wax'd  bright  and 

sublime, 
As  it  fix'd  on  the  far-flood  of  fast-coming  time. 

"  0  Scotland!  the  angel  of  darkness  and  death 
One  hour  the  Almighty  hath  staid  on  his  path: 
I  see  on  yon  bright  cloud  his  chariot  stand  still; 
But  liis  red  sword  is  naked,  and  lifted  to  kill. 


JAMES   HYSLOP. 


187 


"  111  mosses,  in  mountains,  in  moor  and  in  wood, 
That  sword  must  be  bath'd  yet  in  slaughter  and 

blood. 
Till  the  number  of  saints  who  shall  suffer  be  seal'd, 
And  the   breaches  of  backsliding   Scotland  be 

heal'd. 

"  Then  a  prince  of  the  south  shall  come  over  the 

main, 
Wlio  in  righteousness  over  the  nations  shall  reign; 
The  race  of  the  godless  shall  fade  from  the  throne. 
And  the  kingdom  of  Christ  shall  have  kings  of 

its  own. 

"But  think  not,  yo  righteous,  your  sufferings 

are  past; 
In  the  midst  of  the  furnace  ye  yet  must  be  cast; 
But  the  seed  we  have  sown  in  affection  and  tears, 
Shall  be  gather'd  in  gladness  in  far  distant  years. 

"On  the  scroll  of  the  Covenant  blood  must  bo 

spilt. 
Till  its  red  hues  shall  cancel  the  backslider's  guilt. 
Remember  my  warning.     Around  me  are  some 
Who  may  watch,  for  they  know  not  the  hour  He 

shall  come. 

"  And  thou,  pretty  maiden,  rejoice  in  the  truth 
Of  the  lover  I  link  for  thy  husband  of  youth. 
Be  kind  while  he  lives;  clasp  him  close  to  thy 

heart ; 
For  the  time  is  not  far  when  the  fondest  must 

part. 

"  The  seal  of  the  Saviour  is  printed  too  deep 
On  the  brow  of  thy  bridegroom  for  thee  long  to 

keep. 
The  wolf  round  the  sheepfold  will  prowl  for  his 

prey, 
And  the  lamb  be  led  forth  for  the  lion  to  slay. 

"  His  winding-sheet  linen  keep  woven  by  thee; 
It  will  soon  be  requii-'d,  and  it  bloody  will  be. 
A  morning  of  terror  and  tears  is  at  hand. 
But  the  Lord  will  give  strength  in  thy  trial  to 
stand." — 

My  vision  was  changed :  happy  summers  had 

fled 
O'er  the  heath-circled   home  where   the   lovers 

were  wed; 
Affection's  springs  bursting  from  hearts  in  their 

prime, 
The  stream  of  endearment  grew  deeper  with  time. 

At  the  door  of  his  home,  in  a  glad  summer's  night. 
With  his  children  to  play  was  the  father's  dehght; 
One  dear  little  daughter  he  fondly  caress'd, 
For  she  look'd  like  the  young  bride  who  slept  on 
his  breast. 

Of  her  sweet  smiling  offspring  the  mother  was 

fain, 
Each  added  a  new  link  to  love's  wedded  chain; 


One  clung  to  her  bosom,  one  play'd  round  her 

knee, 
And  one  'niong  the  heather  ran  chasing  the  bee. 

In  union  of  warm  hearts,  of  wishes,  of  thought, 
The  prophet's  prediction  was  almost  forgot; 
With  weilded  affection  their  heai'ts  overHow'd, 
And  their  lives  pass'd  in  rearing  their  offspring 
to  God. 

The  mist  of  May  morning  lay  dark  on  the  moun- 
tains; 

The  lambs  eropt  the  flowers  springing  fresh  by 
the  fountains; 

The  waters,  the  woods,  and  the  green  holms  of 
hay,  lay 

In  sunshine  asleep  down  in  Well  wood's  wild  vallej'. 

In  Priesthill  at  dawning  the  psalm  had  ascended, 
The  chapter  been  read,  and  the  humble  knee 

bended; 
Now  in  moors  thick  with  mist,  at  his  pastoral 

employment. 
The  meek  soul  of  Brown  with  his  God  found 

enjoyment. 

At  home  Isabella  was  busy  preparing 
The  meal,  with  a  husband  so  sweet  aye  in  sharing; 
On  the  floor,  at  her  feet,  in  the  cradle  lay  smiling 
Her  infant,  as  wild  songs  its  fancies  beguiling. 

His  daughter  went  forth   in    the  dews  of  the 

morning, 
To  meet  on  the  footpath  her  father  returning; 
Alone  'mong  the  mist  she  e-^pected  to  find  him. 
But  horsemen  in  armour  came  riding  behind  him. 

The  mother,  in  trembling,  in  tears,  and  dismay, 
Clasp'd  her  babe  to  her  bosom,  and  hasted  away; 
She  clung  to  her  husband,  distracted  and  dumli. 
For  she  felt  that  the  hour  of  her  trial  was  come. 

But  vain  her  distraction,   her  tears,  and  her 

prayer, 
For  Claver'se  commanded  his  horsemon  come 

there ; 
With  his  little  ones   weeping  around   him,  he 

brought 
The  fond  father  forth,  in  their  sight  to  be  shot. 

"  Bid  farewell  thy  family,  and  welcome  thy  death. 
Since  thou  choosest  so  fondlj'  to  cherish  thy  faith; 
Some  minutes  my  mercy  permits  thee  for  prayer. 
Let  six  of  my  horsemen  their  pistols  prepare." — 

"My  widow,  my  orphan,  0  God!  I  resign 

To  thy  care;  and  the  babe  yet  unborn,  too,  is 

thine : 
Let  thy  blessing  be  round  them,  to  guard  and  to 

keep, 
When  over  my  green  grave  forsaken  they  weep." — 

At  the  door  of  his  home,  on  the  heather  he  knelt; 
His  prayer  for  his  family  the  pitiless  felt; 


188 


JAMES   HYSLOP. 


The  rough  soldiers  listou'd  with  tears  and  with 

sighs, 
Till  Claver'se  curs'd  him,  and  caus'd  him  arise. 

For  the  last  time  the  lips  of  his  young  ones  he 

kiss'd. 
His  dear  little  daughter  he  clasp'd  to  his  breast; 
"  To  thy  mother  be  kind,  read  thy  Bible,  and  pray; 
The  Lord  will  protect  thee  when  I  am  away. 

"  Isabella,  farewell!     Thou  shalt  shortly  behold 
Thy  love  on  the  heather  stretch'd  bloody  and  cold. 
The  hour  I've  long  look'd  for  hath  come  at  the 

last— 
Art    thou  willing   to   part?— all   its   anguish   is 

past." — 

"Yes,  willing,"  she  said,   and   she   sought   his 

embrace. 
While  the  tears  trickled  down  on  hor  little  one's 

face. 
"  'Tis  the  last  time  I  ever  shall  cling  to  thy  heart, 
Yet  with  thee  I  am  willing,  yes,  willing  to  part. " — 

'Twas  a  scene  would  have  soften'd  a  savage's  ire; 
But  Claver'se  commanded  his  horsemen  to  fire; 
As  they  curs'd  his  command,  turning  i-ound  to 

retreat, 
Tlic  demon  himself  shot  him  dead  at  his  feet. 

His  temples,  all  shatter'dand  bleeding,  she  bound. 
While  Claver'se  with  insult  his  cruelty  crown'd: 
"Well,  what  thinkest  thou  of  thy  heart's  cher- 

ish'd  pride  ? 
It  were  justice  to  lay  thee  in  blood  by  his  side." — 

"  I  doubt  not,  if  God  gave  permission  to  thee. 
That  thou  gladly  wouldst  murder  my  offspring 

and  me; 
But  thy  mouth  he  hath  muzzled,  and  doom'd 

thee,  in  vain. 
Like  a  bloodhood  to  bay  at  the  end  of  thy  chain. 

"Thou  friendles.^,  forsaken,  hast  left  me  and  mine, 
Yet  my  lot  is  a  bless'd  one,  when  balanc'd  with 

thine. 
With  the  viper  remorse  on  thy  vitals  to  prey. 
And  the  blood  on  thy  hands  that  will  ne'er  wash 

away. 

"Thy  fame  shall  be  wafted  to  far  future  time, 
A  proverb  for  cruelty,  cursing,  and  crime; 
Thy  dark  picture,  painted  in  blood,  shall  remain 
While  the  heather  waves  green  o'er  the  graves  of 
the  slain. 

"  Thy  glory  shall  wither;  its  wreaths  have  been 

gain'd 
By  the  slaughter  of  shepherds,  thy  sword  who 

disdain'd: 
That  sword  thou  hast  drawn  on  thy  country  for 

hire. 
And  the  title  it  bi-ings  shall  in  blackness  expire. 


"Thy  name  shall  be  Claver'se,  the  bloodthirsty 

Scot, 
The  godly,  the  guiltless,  tlie  grayhair'd  who  shot. 
Round  my  Brown's  bloody  brow  glory's  garlands 

.shall  wave. 
When   the   muse   marketh    'murder'   over  thy 

grave." 


A   LOVE  SONG. 

How  sweet  the  dewy  bell  is  spread. 

Where  Spango's  mossy  streams  are  lavin', 
The  heathery  locks  o'  deepenin'  red 

Around  the  mountain  brow  aye  waviu' ! 
Here,  on  the  sunny  mountain  side. 

Dear  lassie,  we'll  lie  down  thegither. 
Where  nature  spreads  luve's  crimson  bed. 

Among  the  bonnie  bloomin'  heather. 

Lang  hae  I  wish'd,  my  lovely  maid, 

Amang  thae  fragrant  wilds  to  lead  ye; 
And  now,  aneath  my  tartan  plaid. 

How  blest  I  lie  wi'  you  aside  me! 
And  art  thou  hapjiy,  dearest,  speak, 

Wi'  me  aneath  the  tartan  plaidie? — 
Yes:  that  dear  glance,  sao  saft  and  meek, 

Resigns  thee  to  thy  shepherd  laddie. 

The  saftncss  o'  the  gentle  dove. 

Its  eyes  in  dying  sweetness  closin'. 
Is  like  thae  languid  eyes  o'  love, 

Sae  fondly  on  my  heart  reposin'. 
When  simmer  suns  the  flowers  expand. 

In  a'  their  silken  beauties  shinin'. 
They're  no  sae  saft  as  thy  white  hand, 

Ujion  my  love-warm  cheek  reclinin'. 

While  thus  aneath  my  tartan  plaid 

Sae  warmly  to  my  lips  I  press  ye, 
That  hinnied  bloom  o'  dewy  red 

Is  nocht  like  thy  sweet  lips,  dear  lassie! 
Reclined  on  luve's  soft  crimson  bed. 

Our  hearts  sae  fondly  lock'd  thegither. 
Thus  o'er  my  cheek  thy  ringlets  si>read. 

How  happy,  happy  'mang  the  heather! 


SOXG— TO    YOU. 

The  Woodland  Queen  in  her  bower  of  love. 
Her  gleaming  tresses  with  wild-flowers  wove, 
But  her  breathing  lips,  as  she  sat  in  her  bower. 
Were  richer  far  than  the  honey'd  flower! 

The  waving  folds  of  the  Indian  silk 
Hung  loose  o'er  her  ringlets  and  white  neck  of 
milk; 


JAMES   HYSLOP. 


189 


And  0!  the  bosom  that  sigh'd  below 
AVas  pure  and  soft  as  the  wintei"  snow  I 

A  tear-drop  bright  in  her  dark  eye  sliono, 
To  think  that  sweet  summer  would  soon  be  gone; 
How  blest  the  hand  of  the  lover  who  may 
From  an  eye  so  bright  wipe  such  tears  away! 

How  blest  is  he  in  the  moonlight  hour 
Who  may  linger  with  her  in  her  woodland  bower, 
'Midst  the  gleaming  ringlets  and  silk  to  sigh, 
And  share  in  the  tear  and  the  smile  of  her  eye. 

My  heart  was  a  stranger  to  love's  young  dream 
Till  I  found  her  alone  by  the  fairy  stream; 
But  she  glided  away  tlu-ough  the  branches  green. 
And  left  me  to  sigh  for  the  Woodland  Queen! 


Exulting  'midst  fire  and  blood, 
Then  sang  the  pibroch  loud, 
'Dying,  but  unsubdued— Scotland  for  ever.'" 

See  at  the  war-note  the  proud  horses  prancing — 
The  thick  gi-oves  of  steel  trodden  down  in  their 
path, 
The  eyes  of  the  brave  like  their  bright  swords  are 
glancing, 
Triumphantly  riding  through  ruin  and  death. 
Proud  heart  and  nodding  plume 
Dance  o'er  the  warrior's  tomb, 
Dy^d  with  blood  is  the  red  tartan  wave, 
Dire  is  the  horseman's  wheel, 
Shiv'ring  the  ranks  of  steel; 
Victor  in  battle  is  Scotland  the  brave! 


LET   ITALY   BOAST. 

Let  Italy  boast  of  her  bloom-shaded  waters. 
Her  bowers,   and  her  vines,  and   her  warm 
sunny  skies, 
Of  her  sons  drinking  love  from  the  eyes  of  her 
daughters, 
While  freedom  esph-es  mid  their  softness  and 
sighs. 

Scotland's  bleak  mountains  wild. 
Where  hoary  cliffs  are  piled. 
Towering  in  grandeur,  are  dearer  to  me  I 
Land  of  the  misty  cloud — 
Land  of  the  tempest  loud — 
Land  of  the  brave  and  proud— land  of  the  free ! 

Enthroned   on   the   cliff  of   the  dark  Highland 
mountain. 
The  spirit  of  Scotland  reigns  fearless  and  free; 
While  her  tartan-folds  wave  over  blue  lake  and 
fountain, 
Exulting  she  sings,  looking  over  the  sea: 
"Here  on  my  mountains  wild 
I  have  serenely  smiled. 
Where  armies  and  empires  against  mc  were 
hurled ; 
Tlu-oned  on  my  native  rocks. 
Calmly  sustained  the  shocks 
Of  Caesar,  and  Denmark,  and  Rome,  and  the 
world. 

When  kings  of  the  nations  in  council  assemble. 
The  frown  of  my  brow  makes  then-  proud  hearts 
to  quake, 
The   flash   of  mine   eye   makes  the   bravest  to 
tremble, 
The  sound  of  my  war-song  makes  armies  to 
shake. 

France  long  shall  mind  the  strain 
Sung  on  her  bloody  plain, 
While  Europe's  bold  armies  with  terror  did 
shiver; 


FRAGMENT   OF   A   DREAM. 


I  follow'd  it  on  by  the  pale  moonlight. 

Through  the  deep  and  the  darksome  wood; 

It  tarried— I  trembled— it  pointed  and  fled!— 
'Twas  a  grave  where  the  spirit  had  stood: — 

'Twas  a  grave — but  'twas  mystery  and  terror  to 
think 

How  the  bed  of  the  dead  could  be  here; 
'Twas  here  I  had  met  in  the  morning  of  life 

With  one  that  was  loving  and  dear: — 

'Twas  here  we   had   wandcr'd  while  gathering 
flowers 
In  the  innocent  days  of  our  childhood. 
And  here  we  were  screen'd  from  the  warm  sunny 
showers 
By  the  thickening  green  of  the  wildwood. 

And  here  in  the  sweet  summer  morning  of  love 
Young  affection  first  open'd  its  blossom. 

When  none  were  so  innocent,  loving,  and  land 
As  the  maiden  that  lay  in  my  bosom:— 

I  look'd  on  the  woods;  they  were  budding  as 
green 

As  the  sorrowful  night  that  we  parted, — 
When  turning  again  to  the  grave  I  had  seen. 

At  the  voice  of  a  spirit  I  started ! — 

In  terror  I  listen'd!     No  sound  met  mine  ear 
Save  the  lone  waters  murmuring  by ; 

But  I  saw  o'er  the  woods,  in  the  dead  of  the  night, 
A  dark  mourning  carriage  draw  nigh  :— 

By  the  green  grave  it  hovcr'd,  mine  eye  could 
perceive. 

Where  a  white  covered  coffin  now  lay — 
It  hover'd  not  long,  but  again  through  the  woods 

It  mournfully  glided  away!— 


190 


HENRY   SCOTT  RIDDELL. 


"Where  the  kirk-yard  elms  shade  the  flat  gray 
stones 

With  the  long  green  grass  overgrown, 
The  carriage  stood  still  o'er  an  opening  grave, 

And  I  saw  a  black  coffin  let  down. 

Upon  its  dark  page  were  a  name  and  an  age — 
'Twas  my  Lydia  in  death  that  lay  sleeping; 

All  vanish'd  away,  but  her  spirit  pass'd  by, 
As  alone  by  the  grave  I  stood  weeping! 

How  death-like  and  dim  was  the  gaze  of  that  eye, 
Where  love's  warmest  fires  once  were  glowing; 


The  pale  linen  shroud  now  cnfaulded  the  cheek 
Where  once  beauty's  ringlets  were  flowing! 

0  Lydia,  why  thus  dost  thou  gaze  upon  me, 
And  point  to  the  darksome  wood? — 

An  invisible  hand  seem'd  to  proffer  a  ring. 
Or  a  dagger  all  stained  with  blood: — 

But  the  bright  sun  of  summer  return'd  with  his 
ray, 

And  the  singing  of  birds  brought  the  morrow; 
Those  visions  of  darkness  all  faded  away 

As  I  woke  from  my  slumber  of  sorrow! 


HENEY    SCOTT    EIDDELL. 


Born  1798  — Died  1870. 


Henry  Scott  TJiddell  Avas  born  at  Sorbie, 
in  the  Yale  of  Ewes,  Dumfriessliire,  Sept.  23, 
1798.  His  father  was  a  shepherd,  and  a  man 
of  strong  though  uneducated  mind.  Young 
Henry  herded  the  cows  in  summer,  and  went 
to  school  during  the  winter  months.  At  first 
a  careless  scholar,  he  afterward-;  became  a  dili- 
gent one,  and  while  "out-bye  herding"  was 
either  studying  nature  or  a  book,  or  composing 
verses.  The  lines  of  an  epistle  Avritten  by  him 
subsequently  will  convey  some  idea  of  his 
habits  at  this  period: — ■ 

"  My  early  years  were  pass'd  far  on 
The  hills  of  Ettrick  wild  and  lone; 
Tlirongh  summer  sheea  and  winter  shade 
Tending  the  flocks  that  o'er  them  stray 'd. 
In  l)old  enthusiastic  glee 
I  sung  rude  strains  of  minstrelsy, 
Which  mingling  with  died  o'er  the  dale, 
Unheeded  as  the  plover's  wail. 
Oft  where  the  waving  rushes  shed 
A  sliel  ter  frail  around  my  head, 
Weening,  tliough  not  through  hopes  of  fame. 
To  fix  on  these  more  lasting  claim, 
I'd  there  secure  in  rustic  scroll 
The  wayward  fancies  of  the  soul. 
Even  where  yon  lofty  rocks  arise, 
Hoar  as  the  clouds  iu  wintry  skies, 
Wrapji'd  in  the  plaid,  and  dern'd  beneath 
The  colder  cone  of  drifted  wreath, 
I  noted  them  afar  from  ken, 
Till  ink  would  freeze  upon  the  pen; 
So  deep  the  spell  which  bound  tlie  heart 
Unto  the  bard's  undying  art — 
So  rapt  the  charm  that  still  beguiled 
The  minstrel  of  the  mountains  wild." 


After  Iicrding  for  two  years  at  Deloraine  lie 
removed  to  Todrig  to  follow  the  same  occupa- 
pation.  Here  he  met  a  congenial  spirit  in 
William  Knox,  the  cultured  author  of  "  The 
Lonely  Hearth,"  and  their  friendship  continued 
ever  afterwards.  "While  here,"  he  says,  "my 
whole  leisure  time  was  employed  in  writing. 
I  composed  while  walking  and  looking  the 
hill.  I  also  wrote  down  among  the  wilds. 
1  yet  remember,  as  a  dream  of  poetry  itself, 
how  blessedly  bright  and  beautiful  exceed- 
ingly were  these  wilds  themselves  early  in 
summer  mornings,  or  when  the  Avliite  mists 
filled  up  the  glens  below,  and  left  the  summits 
of  the  mountains  near  and  far  away  as  sight 
could  travel,  green,  calm,  and  serene  as  an 
eternity." 

AVhile  at  Todrig  Eiddell's  style  of  thought 
and  experience — doubtless  through  contact 
with  William  Knox — underwent  agreat  change. 
He  abandoned  frivolous  compositions,  and 
applied  himself  to  sacred  themes.  "  My  read- 
ing," he  says,  "was  extended,  and  having 
begun  to  appreciate  more  correctly  what  I  did 
read,  the  intention  which  I  had  sometimes 
entertained  gathered  strength:  this  was  to 
make  an  effort  to  obtain  a  regular  education 
(to  fit  himself  for  the  Christian  ministry). 
The  consideration  of  the  inadequacy  of  my 
means  had  hitherto  bridled  my  ambition,  but 
having  herded  as  a  regular  shepherd  nearly 
three  years,  during  which  I  had  no  occasion 


HENRY   SCOTT   EIDDELL. 


191 


to  spend  much  of  my  income,  my  prospects  ' 
behoved  to  be  a  little  more  favourable.  It 
was  in  this  year  that  the  severest  trial  that 
had  yet  crossed  my  path  had  to  be  sustained. 
The  death  of  my  father  overthrew  my  happier 
mood ;  at  the  same  time  the  event,  instead  of 
subduing  my  secret  aim,  rather  strengthened 
my  determination.  ]\Iy  portion  of  my  father's 
worldly  effects  added  something  considerable 
to  my  own  gainings.  1  bade  farewell  to  the 
crook  and  plaid." 

He  went  to  school  at  Biggar,  where  he 
found  a  kind  schoolmaster,  who  taught  him 
much  beside  Latin  and  Greek.  Here  he  studied 
earnestly,  and  cultivated  a  circle  of  intellectual 
acquaintances,  and  in  due  time  entered  as  a 
student  at  the  University  of  Edinburgh,  where 
he  attracted  the  attention  of  Professor  Dunbar 
by  a  translation  of  one  of  the  odes  of  Anacreon. 
He  also  won  for  himself  the  affectionate  regard 
of  Professor  Wilson,  whose  house  was  always 
open  to  him,  with  all  the  companionship  of 
genius  which  graced  its  hospitable  roof-tree. 

AVhen  his  university  course  was  completed. 
Ins  last  session  having  been  spent  at  St. 
Andrews,  Mr.  Kiddell  went  to  reside  at  Pamsay 
Cleughburn  with  his  brother,  and  shortly  after 
became  the  minister  of  Teviothead,  He  then 
married  the  excellent  lady  whose  affectionate 
counsel  and  companionship  were  a  solace  and 
stay  to  him  in  liis  chequered  life.  There  was 
no  manse  at  Teviothead  when  he  received  the 
charge.  He  therefore  occupied  the  farmhouse 
of  Flex,  nine  miles  distant;  and  as  his  income 
of  £52  a  year  could  not  enable  him  to  keep  a 
conveyance,  he  had  to  Avalk  eighteen  miles 
every  Sabbath,  and  whenever  he  went  to  visit 
his  hearers.  The  Duke  of  Buccleuch  built  a 
cottage  for  the  minister,  and  it  was  while  it 
was  in  progress  that,  returning  liome  from 
preaching  one  Sabbath  afternoon,  wet  and 
weary,  Mrs.  Piddell,  looking  forward  with 
pleasant  anticipation  of  getting  the  new  home, 
exclaimed,  while  he  was  changing  his  wet 
clothes,  "Ab!  Henry,  I  wish  we  were  hame 
to  our  ain  folk!"  This  was  the  inspiration  to 
which  we  are  indebted  for  his  most  exquisite 
lyric — a  strain  Avhich  cannot  die. 

Mr.  Paddell  ministered  faithfully  to  the 
people  of  Teviothead  for  nearly  nine  years. 
His  genius  and  worth  had  been  recognized 
and   appreciated,   and  everything  seemed   to 


bid  fair  for  his  progress  in  the  church;  but  in 
1S41  a  serious  attack  of  nervous  disease  came 
upon  him,  not  to  pass  away  for  years;  and 
when  he  did  recover,  it  Avas  deemed  prudent 
that  he  should  not  return  to  the  labours  of  the 
pastorate.  The  Duke  of  Buccleuch  generously 
permitted  him  to  occupy  the  manse  cottage 
during  his  lifetime,  and  also  granted  him  a 
small  annuity  and  a  piece  of  ground  beside  his 
dwelling.  This  was  enough  for  his  simple 
wants  and  for  the  education  of  his  three  boys, 
one  of  whom  died  full  of  poetic  promise  when 
budding  into  manhood.  During  the  remaining 
years  of  his  life  the  poet  resided  in  this  spot 
by  the  banks  of  the  Teviot,  reclaiming  and 
beautifying  his  land,  and  cherishing  his  poetic 
tastes.  He  had  intended  to  be  present  at  the 
meeting  of  the  Border  Counties  Association, 
held  at  Hawick,  July  28,  and  his  name  was 
associated  with  the  toast  of  the  "  literature  of 
the  Borders;"  but  on  that  day  he  was  seized 
with  a  mortal  illness,  and  died  on  July  30, 
1870,  aged  seventy-two.  On  August  2,  sur- 
rounded by  a  great  concourse  of  friends  from 
far  and  near,  all  that  Avas  mortal  of  the  Bard 
of  Teviotdale  was  laid  in  its  last  resting-place, 
in  that 

"  cliurchyard  that  lonely  is  lying 
Amid  the  deep  greenwood  by  Teviot's  wild  strand." 

The  poet's  loving  and  faithful  wife  died  May 
29,  1875,  and  now  rests  by  his  side. 

Piiddell  wrote  much,  and  much  that  he 
wrote  became  extremely  popular.  When  a 
student  of  theology  he  composed  many  of  his 
best  songs  for  the  Irkli  Minstrel  and  Select 
Melodies  of  R.  A.  Smith,  and  for  the  Orhjinal 
National  Melodies  of  Peter  M'Leod.  His 
Songs  of  the  Ark,  tvitJi,  other  Poems,  ap- 
peared in  1831,  followed  in  1844  by  a  prose 
work  entitled  The  Christian  Politician,  or  the 
Bight  Way  of  Thinking.  Three  years  later  he 
published  a  third  volume,  Poems,  Songs,  and 
Miscellaneous  Pieces;  and  in  1855  he  prepared 
for  publication,  by  request  of  Prince  Lucien 
Bonaparte,  a  translation  of  the  Gospel  of  St. 
Matthew  into  Lowland  Scotch,  followed  in 
1857  by  a  similar  translation  of  the  Psalms. 
Mr.  Eiddell  also  wrote  a  valuable  series  of 
papers  on  "Store- Farming  in  the  South  of 
Scotland,"  and  a  number  of  prose  tales  similar 
to  those  in  Wilson's  Tales  of  the  Border.  His 
last   composition   Avas  a  poem  Avritten  for  a 


192 


HENEY   SCOTT  EIDDELL. 


meeting  of  the  Border  Association,  lield  at 
Hawick  two  days  before  his  death.  In  1871 
two  volumes  of  Riddell's  poetical  works,  accom- 
panied by  a  portrait,  and  a  well-written  memoir 
from  the  pen  of  his  friend  James  Brydon,  M.  D. , 
were  published  in  Glasgow. 

In  a  letter  accompanying  a  song  written  for 
Mrs.  Mary  Wilson  Gibbs  in  1867,  the  vener- 
able poet  remarks,  "In  addressing  a  song  to 
you  I  wish  that  it  had  turned  out  somewhat 
more  worth  while  than  now  appears  to  be 
the  case.  At  all  events  I  might  have  adopted 
a  more  harmonious  measure,  and  thereby  have 
given  myself  at  least  a  chance  of  wording  more 
harmonious  verses:  and  I  could  now  wish  that 
I  had  done  so,  regardless  of  the  air:  but  I  was 
ambitious  of  putting  the  air  in  your  possession, 
it  having  been  composed  by  the  Ettrick  Shep- 
herd. I  am  no  daul) — or  rather  a  great  daub 
in  the  literal  sense  of  the  term — at  copying 
music,  and  in  Attempting  to  give  you  a  copy 
I  am  uncertain  whether  I  have  given  you  alto- 
gether a  correct  one;  but  I  hope  you  Avill 
make  it  out  in  some  way.  Of  the  song  which 
I  originally  wrote  to  it  Hogg  was  wonderfully 
fond,  and  I  had  always  to  sing  it  to  him  when 
we  met.  I  dare  say  it  is  much  better  as  a 
song  than  that  which  I  send  you:  I  was  not 
then  so  hoary-headed,  and  could  write  with 
more  freedom  and  vigour.  Yet  it  is  not  greatly 
unlike  the  verses  with  which  I  trouble  you, 


and  that  you  may  judge  for  yourself  1  Avill 
also  herewith  copy  it,  more  especially  as  it  also 
related  to  one  who  could  by  her  exquisite  sing- 
ing cast  asjicll  of  enchantment  oyer  the  human 
heart.     .     .     . 

"Mrs.  Oliver  informed  me  when  you  in- 
tended to  leave  old  Scotland:  I  therefore  made 
up  my  mind  to  write  out  these  things  to-day. 
Tiiey  are  of  little  consequence  I  readily  confess, 
but  from  the  respect  which  I  entertained  for 
your  father,  together  with  that  which  I  enter- 
tain for  yourself,  I  felt  anxious  to  do  something 
that  might  if  possible  prevent  you  from  utterly 
forgetting  that  we  had  met.  ...  I  shall 
hope  that  you  will  soon  return  to  tlie  'gay 
green  braes  of  Teviotdale,'  and  cheer  our  hearts 
as  in  days  gone  by." 

A  brother  of  the  late  bard,  known  as  Borth- 
wick  Iiiddell,  a  dark,  stalwart,  and  indepen- 
dent-looking man,  who  was,  both  in  regard  to 
musical  talent  and  personal  appearance,  an 
impersonation  of  the  spirit  of  ancient  Border 
minstrelsy — a  worthy  representative  of  AUister 
M'AUister,  Habbie  Simpson,  and  Eab  the 
llanter — was  in  his  day  and  generation  the 
most  celebrated  piper  on  the  Border.  As  the 
writer  listened  to  his  soul-stirring  strains  near 
Canobie  Lee,  he  appeared  to  be  just  such  a 
minstrel  as  we  can  imagine  strode  forth  before 
the  Bruce,  the  Bold  Buccleuch,  or  the  Black 
Douglas  of  bygone  davs. 


THE    CROOK    AND    PLAID. 


I  winna  love  the  laddie  that  ca's  the  cart  and 
pleugh, 

Though  he  should  own  that  tender  love  that's 

only  felt  by  few; 
For  he  that  has  this  bosom  a'  to  fondest  love 

betray'd. 
Is  the  faithfu'  shepherd  laddie  that  wears  the 
crook  and  plaid; 

For  he's  aye  true  to  his  lassie — he's  aye 

true  to  his  lassie. 
Who  wears  the  crook  and  plaid. 

At  morn  he  climbs  the  mountains  wild  his 

fleecy  flocks  to  view, 
While  o'er  him  sweet  the  laverock  sings,  new 

sprung  frae  'mang  the  dew; 
His  doggie  frolics  roun'  and  roun',  and  may 

not  weel  be  stay'd. 


Sae  blythe  it  is  the  laddie  wi'  that  wears  the 
crook  and  plaid ; 

And  he's  aye  true,  &c. 

At  noon  he  leans  him  down  upon  the  high  and 
heathy  fell. 

And  views  his  flock*  beneath  him  a',  fair  feed- 
ing in  the  dell; 

And  then  he  sings  the  sangs  o'  love,  the  sweet- 
est ever  made; 

0!  how  happy  is  the  laddie  that  wcr-rs  tho 
crook  and  plaid; 

And  he's  aye  true,  &c. 

He  pu's  the  bells  o'  heather  red,  and  the  lily 
flowers  sae  meek, 

Ca's  the  lily  like  my  bosom,  and  the  heath- 
bell  like  my  cheek; 


v^ 


HENRY  SCOTT  RIDDELL. 


193 


His  words  are  sweet  and  tender,  as  the  dews 

frae  heasen  shed; 
And  weel  1  love  to  list  tlie  lad  who  wears  the 

crook  and  plaid; 

For  he's  aye  true,  &c. 

When  the  dews  begin  to  fauld  the  flowers,  and 

the  gloamin'  shades  draw  on, 
When  the  star  comes  stealing  through  the  sky, 

and  the  kye  are  on  the  loan, 
lie  whistles  through  the  glen  sae  sweet,  the 

lieart  is  lighter  made 
To  ken  tiie  laddie  hameward  hies,  who  wears 

the  crook  and  plaid; 
For  he's  aye  true,  &c. 

Beneath  the  spreading  hawthorn  gra_y,  that's 

growing  in  the  glen. 
He  meets  me  in  the  gloamin'  aye,  when  nane 

on  earth  can  ken, 
To  woo  and  vow,  and  there  I  trow,  whatever 

may  be  said, 
He  kens  aye  unco  weel  the  way  to  row  me  in 

his  plaid; 

For  he's  aye  true,  &c. 

The  youth  o'  mony  riches  may  to  his  fair  one 

ride. 
And  woo  across  the  table  cauld  his  maJam- 

titled  bride; 
But  I'll  gang  to  tlie  hawthorn  gray,  where 

cheek  to  cheek  is  laid, 
0!  nae  wooers  like  the  laddie  that  rows  mc  in 

his  plaid; 

And  he's  aye  true,  &c. 

To  own  the  truth  o'  tender  love  what  lieart  Avad 

no  comply, 
Since  love  gives  purer  happiness  than  aught 

aueatli  the  sky? 
If  love  be  in  the  bosom,  then  the  heart  is  ne'er 

afraid; 
And  through  life  I'll  love  the  laddie  that  wears 

the  crook  and  plaid; 
For  he's  aye  true,  &c. 


v/ 


OUR  MARY.i 


Our  Mary  liket  weel  to  stray 

Where  clear  the  burn  was  rowin', 
And  trouth  she  was,  though  I  say  sae. 
As  fair  as  ought  e"er  made  o'  clay, 
And  pure  as  ony  gowan. 


>  From  Mr.  Riddells  poem  "The  Cottasers  of  Glen- 
dale."— Ed. 

Vol.  II.— X 


And  happy,  too,  as  ony  lark 

The  ciud  might  ever  carry; 
She  shunned  the  ill  and  sought  the  good. 
E'en  mair  tlian  weel  was  understood; 

And  a'  fouk  liket  Mary. 

But  she  fell  sick  wi'  some  decay. 

When  she  was  but  eleven; 
.\nd  as  she  pined  frae  day  to  day, 
We  grudged  to  see  her  gaun  away, 

Though  she  was  gaun  to  heaven. 

There's  fears  for  them  that's  far  awa'. 

And  fykes  for  them  are  flitting; 
But  fears  and  cares,  baitii  grit  and  sma', 
We  by-and-by  o'er-pit  them  a' ; 

But  death  there's  nae  o'er-pitting. 

And  nature's  bands  arc  hard  to  break. 

When  tluis  they  maun  be  broken; 
And  e'en  the  form  we  loved  to  see, 
We  canna  lang,  dear  though  it  be. 
Preserve  it  as  a  token. 

But  Mary  had  a  gentle  heart — 

Heaven  did  as  gently  free  her; 
Yet  lang  afore  she  reach'd  that  part, 
Dear  sir,  it  wad  hae  made  ye  start 
Had  ye  been  here  to  see  her. 

Sae  changed,  and  yet  sae  sweet  and  fair, 
And  growing  meek  and  meeker; 

Wi'  her  lang  locks  o'  yellow  hair. 

She  wore  a  little  angel's  air, 
Ere  angels  cam'  to  seek  her. 

And  when  she  could  na  stray  out  by. 

The  wee  wild  flowers  to  gather; 
She  oft  her  household  plays  would  try. 
To  hide  her  illness  frae  our  eye, 
Lest  she  should  grieve  us  farther. 

But  ilka  thing  we  said  or  did 

Aye  pleased  the  sweet  wee  creature; 
Indeed  ye  wad  hae  thocht  she  had 
A  something  in  her  made  her  glad, 
Ayont  the  course  o'  nature. 

For  though  disease,  beyond  remeed, 

AVas  in  her  frame  indented. 
Yet  aye  the  mair  as  she  grew  ill. 
She  grew  and  grew  the  lovelier  still. 
And  mair  and  mair  contented. 

But  death's  cauld  hour  qam'  on  at  last, 

As  it  to  a'  is  comin': 
And  may  it  be,  whene'er  it  fa's, 
Kae  waur  to  others  than  it  was 

To  Jlary^sweet  wee  woman ! 


194 


HENRY   SCOTT   PJDDELL. 


WOULD  THAT  I  WERE  WHERE  WILD 
WOODS   AVAYE. 

Would  that  I  were  where  wild  woods  wave, 
Aboon  the  beds  where  sleep  the  brave; 
And  where  the  streams  o'  Scotia  lave 
Her  hills  and  glens  o'  grandeur! 

Where  freedom  reigns  and  friendship  dwells, 
Bright  as  the  sun  upon  the  fells, 
When  autumn  brings  tlie  heather-bells 

In  all  their  native  splendour. 
The  thistle  wi'  the  hawthorn  joins, 
The  bii-ks  mix  wi'  the  mountain  pines. 
And  heart  with  dauntless  heart  combines 

For  ever  to  defend  her. 

Then  would  I  were,  &c. 

There  roam  the  kind,  and  live  the  leal, 

By  lofty  ha'  and  lowly  shiel; 

And  she  for  whom  the  heart  must  feel 

A  kindness  still  mair  tender. 
Fair,  where  the  light  hill  breezes  blaw, 
The  wild  flowers  bloom  by  glen  and  shaw; 
But  she  is  fairer  than  them  a', 

Wherever  she  may  wander. 
Then  would  I  were,  kc. 

Still,  far  or  near,  by  wild  or  wood, 
I'll  love  the  generous,  wise,  and  good; 
But  she  shall  share  the  dearest  mood 

That  Heaven  to  life  may  render. 
What  boots  it  then  thus  on  to  stir. 
And  still  from  love's  enjoyment  err. 
When  I  to  Scotland  and  to  her 

Must  all  this  heart  surrender. 
Then  would  I  were,  &c. 


SCOTLAND  YET.i 

Gae,  bring  my  guid  auld  harp  ance  mair, — 

Gae,  bring  it  free  and  fast, 
For  I  maun  sing  another  sang 

Ere  a'  my  glee  be  past; 
And  trow  ye  as  I  sing,  my  lads, 

The  burden  o't  shall  be 
Auld  Scotland's  howes,  and  Scotland's  knowes. 

And  Scotland's  hills  for  me — 
I'll  drink  a  cup  to  Scotland  yet 

Wi'  a'  the  honours  three. 

The  heath  waves  wild  upon  her  hills, 
And  foaming  frae  the  fells, 

1  This  song  set  to  music  was  first  publislied  in  a  sep- 
arate sheet,  and  the  profits  given  for  the  purpose  of 
jiutting  a  jiarapet  and  railing  round  the  monument  of 
Burns  on  the  Calton  Hill,  Edinburgh. 


Her  fountains  sing  o'  freedom  still 

As  they  dance  down  the  dells; 
And  weel  I  lo'e  the  land,  my  lads. 

That's  girded  by  the  sea; 
Then  Scotland's  dales  and  Scotland's  vales, 

And  Scotland's  hills  for  me — 
I'll  drink  a  cup  to  Scotland  yet 

Wi'  a'  the  honours  three. 

The  thistle  wags  upon  the  fields 

Where  Wallace  bore  his  blade. 
That  gave  her  foeman's  dearest  bluid 

To  dye  her  auld  gray  plaid; 
And  looking  to  the  lift,  my  lads. 

He  sang  this  doughty  glee — 
Auld  Scotland's  right  and  Scotland's  might. 

And  Scotland's  hills  for  me — 
I'll  drink  a  cup  to  Scotland  yet 

Wi'  a'  the  honours  three. 

They  tell  o'  lands  \vi'  brighter  skies. 

Where  freedom's  voice  ne'er  rang; 
Gie  me  the  hills  where  Ossian  lies, 

And  Coila's  minstrel  sang; 
For  I've  nae  skill  o'  lands,  my  lads. 

That  ken  na  to  be  free; 
Then  Scotland's  right  and  Scotland's  might, 

And  Scotland's  hills  for  me — 
I'll  drink  a  cup  to  Scotland  yet 

Wi'  a'  the  honours  three. 


THE   WILD  GLEX  SAE  GREEX. 

W^hen   my   flocks  upon  the   heathy  hill   are 

lying  a'  at  rest, 
And  tlie  gloamin'  spreads  its  mantle  gray  o'er 

the  world's  dewy  breast, 
I'll  take  my  plaid  and  hasten  tlirough  yon 

woody  dell  unseen, 
And  meet  my  bonnie  lassie  in  the  wild  glen 

sae  green. 

I'll  meet  her  by  thetrysting-tree,  that's stannin' 

a'  alane. 
Where  I  hae  carved  her  name  upon  yon  little 

moss  gray  stane. 
There  I  will  fauld  her  to  my  breast,  and  be 

mair  bless'd,  I  ween, 
Tlian  a'  that  are  aneath  the  sky,  in  the  wild 

glen  sae  green. 

Her  head  reclined  upon  this  breast,  in  simple 

bliss  I'll  share. 
The  pure,  pure  kiss  o'  tender  love  that  owns 

nae  earthly  care, 


HENRY   SCOTT   EIDDELL. 


195 


And  spirits  hovering  o'er  us  shall  bless  the 

heartfelt  scene, 
AVliile  I  woo  my  bonnie  lassie  in  the  wild  glen 

sae  green. 

My  fauldin'  plaid  sliall  shield   her  frae  the 

gloamin's  chilly  gale; 
The  star  o'  eve  shall  mark  our  joy,  but  shall 

not  tell  our  tale — 
Our  simple  tale  o'  tender  love — that  tauld  sae 

oft  has  been 
To  my  bonnie,  bonnie  lassie,  in  the  wild  glen 

sae  green. 

It  may  be  sweet  at  morning  hour,  or  at  the 

noon  o'  day. 
To  meet  vfi  those  that  we  lo'e  weel  in  grove  or 

garden  gay; 
But  the  sweetest  bliss  o'  mortal  life  is  at  the 

hour  o'  e'en, 
Wi'  a  bonnie,  bonnie  lassie,  in  the  wild  glen 

sae  green. 

O!  I  could  wander  earth  a'  o'er,  nor  care  for 

aught  o'  bliss, 
If  I  might  share,  at  my  return,  a  joy  sae  pure 

as  this; 
And  I  could  spurn  a'  earthly  wealth — a  palace 

and  a  queen, 
For  my  bonnie,  bonnie  lassie,  in  the  wild  glen 

sae  green! 


THE  MINSTREL'S   GRAVE. 

I  sat  in  the  vale,  'neath  the  hawthorns  so  hoary, 
And  the  gloom  of  my  bosom  seem'd  deep  as 
their  shade, 
For  remembrance  was  fraught  vdth  the  fai--tra- 
vell'd  story, 
That  told  where  the  dust  of  the  minstrel  was 
laid: 
I  saw  not  his  harp  on  the  wild  boughs  above  me, 
I  heard  not  its  anthems  the  mountains  among; 
But  the  flow'rets  that  bloom'd  on  his  grave  were 
more  lovely 
Than  others  would  seem  to  the  earth  that  be- 
long. 

"  Sleep  on,"  said  my  soul,  "in  the  depths  of  thy 
slumber 
Sleep  on,  gentle  bard !  till  the  shades  pass  away; 
For  the  lips  of  the  living  the  ages  shall  number 

That  steal  o'er  thy  heart  in  its  couch  of  decay, 
Oh!  thou  wert  beloved  from  the  dawn  of  thy 
childhood. 
Beloved  till  the  last  of  thy  suffering  was  seen, 


Beloved  now  that  o'er  thee  is  waving  the  wild-wood , 
And  the  worm  only  living  where  rapture  hath 
been. 

' '  Till  the  footsteps  of  time  are  then-  travel  for- 
saking. 
No  form  shall  descend,  and  no  dawning  shall 
come, 
To  break  the  repose  that  thy  ashes  are  taking, 
And  call  them  to  life  from  their  chamber  of 
gloom ; 
Yet  sleep,  gentle  bard!  for,  though  silent  forever, 

Thyliarp  in  the  hall  of  the  chieftain  is  hung; 
No  time  from  the  mem'ry  of  mankind  shall  sever 
The  tales  that  it  told,  and  the  strains  that  it 
suno-." 


THE  EMIGRANT'S   'WISH. 

I  wish  we  were  hame  to  our  ain  folk, 
Our  kind  and  our  true-hearted  ain  folk. 

Where  the  gentle  are  leal,  and  thesemple  are  weal, 
And  the  hames  are  the  hames  o'  our  ain  folk. 

We've  met  wi'  the  gay  and  the  guid  where  we've 
come; 

We're  canty  wi'  mony  and  con  thy  wi'  some; 

But  something's  awantin'  we  never  can  find, 

Sin'  the  day  that  we  left  our  auld  neebors  behind. 

I  wish  we  were  hame  to  our  ain  folk. 
Our  kind  and  our  true-hearted  ain  folk, 
When  daffin'  and  glee,  wi'  the  friendly  and  free, 

Made  our  hearts  aye  sae  fond  o'  our  ain  folk. 
Some  told  us  in  gowpens  we'd  gather  the  gear, 
Sae  soon  as  we  cam'  to  the  rich  mailens  here; 
But  what  is  in  mailens,  or  what  is  in  mirth. 
If  'tis  na  enjoyed  in  the  land  o'  our  birth  ? 

0,  I  wish  we  were  hame  to  our  ain  folk, 
Our  kind  and  our  tnie-hearted  ain  folk. 
When  maidens  and  men,  in  thestrathand  theglcn, 

Still  welcomed  us  aye  as  their  ain  folk; 
Though  spring  had  its  trials,  and  summer  its  toils, 
And  autumn  craved  pith  ere  we  gathered  its  spoils; 
But  winter  repaid  a'  the  toil  that  we  took, 
When  ilk  ane  craw'd  crouse  at  his  ain  ingle  nook. 

I  wish  I  were  hame  to  our  ain  folk. 
Our  kind  and  our  true-hearted  ain  folk. 

But  deep  are  the  howes,  and  heigh  are  the  knowes. 
That  keep  us  awa'  frae  our  ain  folk; 

The  seat  at  the  door,  where  our  auld  fathers  sat. 

To  tell  o'er  their  news,  and  their  views,  and  a'  that; 

While  down  by  the  kail-yard  the  burnie  row'd 
clear, 

Is  mair  to  my  liking  than  aught  that  is  here. 

I  wish  we  were  hame  to  our  ain  folk, 
Our  kind  and  our  true-hearted  ain  folk, 


196 


EGBERT   POLLOK. 


Where  the  wild  thistles  wave  o'er  the  beds  o'  the 
brave. 
And  the  graves  are  the  graves  o'  our  :iin  folk; 
But  happy-gae-lucky,  we'll  trudge  on  our  way, 
Till  the  arm  waxes  weak  and  the  haffet  grows 
gray; 


And  though  in  this  world  our  own  still  we  miss, 
We'll  meet  them  at  last  in  a  warl'  o'  bliss; 
And  then  we'll  be  hame  to  our  ain  folk, 
Our  kind  and  our  true-hearted  ain  folk. 
Where  far  'yond  the  moon,  in  the  heavens  aboon, 
The  hames  are  the  hames  o'  our  ain  folk. 


EOBEET    POLLOK, 


Born  1798  —  Died  1827. 


Thegifted  authorof  the  "  Course  of  Time"  was 
born  at  the  farm  of  North  iluirhouse,  in  the 
parish  of  Eaglesham,  Eenfrewshire,  October  19, 
1798.  He  acquired  the  rudiments  of  liis  edu- 
cation at  Langlee  and  at  a  school  at  Newton- 
Mearns,  and  afterwards  entered  the  University 
of  Glasgow.  Being  destined  for  the  ministry 
he  studied  for  five  years  in  the  divinity  hall  of 
the  United  Secession  Church  at  Glasgow,  under 
the  Rev.  Dr.  Dick  of  that  city.  During  his 
student  days  he  wrote  a  series  of  tales  relating 
to  the  sufferings  of  the  Covenanters,  which 
were  published  anonymously.  A  second  edition 
of  these  "Tales,"  accompanied  by  a  portrait 
and  memoir  of  the  author,  appeared  after  his 
death. 

The  spirit  of  poetry  and  inspiration  was 
formed  and  "became  a  living  soul"  within 
Robert  Pollok  in  the  rural  solitudes  of  Muir- 
house,  where  he  spent  his  boyhood.  His  short 
compositions  written  at  this  time  gave,  how- 
ever, little  promise  of  the  poetic  power  de- 
veloped by  him  later  in  life.  His  celebrated 
poem  was  commenced  in  December,  1824,  and 
finished  in  the  space  of  nineteen  months. 
The  following  letter  announcing  its  completion 
was  addressed  to  his  brother,  July  7,  1826: — 
"  It  is  with  much  pleasure  that  I  am  now  able 
to  tell  you  that  I  have  finished  my  poem. 
Since  I  wrote  to  you  last,  I  have  written  about 
three  thousand  five  hundred  verses;  which  is 
considerably  more  than  a  hundred  every  suc- 
cessive day.  This  you  will  see  was  extraor- 
dinary expedition  to  be  continued  so  long; 
and  I  neither  can  nor  wish  to  ascribe  it  to 
anvthing  but  an  extraordinary  manifestation 
of  divine  goodness.     Although  some  nights  I 


was  on  the  borders  of  fever,  I  rose  every  morn- 
ing equally  fresh,  without  one  twitch  of  head- 
ache; and  with  all  the  impatience  of  a  lover 
hasted  to  my  study.     Towards  the  end  of  the 
tenth  book — for  the  whole  consists  of  ten  books 
— where  the  subject  was  overwhelmingly  great, 
and  where   I,  indeed,  seemed  to  write  from 
immediate  inspiration,  I  felt  the  body  begin- 
ning to  give   way.      But   now  that   I   have 
finished,  though  thin  with  the  great  heat  and 
the  unintermitted  mental  exercise,  I  am  by 
no  means  languishing  and  feeble.     Since  the 
1st  of  June,  which  was  the  day  I  began  to 
write  last,  we  have  had  a  Grecian  atmosphere: 
and  I  find  the  serenity  of  the  heavens  of  incal- 
culable benefit  for  mental  pursuit.     And  I  am 
convinced  that  summer  is  the  best  season  for 
great  mental  exertion,  because  the  heat  pro- 
motes the  circulation  of  the  blood,  the  stagna- 
tion of  which  is  the  great  cause  of  misery  to 
cogitative  men.     The  serenity  of  mind  which 
I  have  possessed  is  astonishing.     Exalted  on 
my  native  mountains,  and  writing  often  on  the 
top  of  the  very  highest  of  them,  I  proceeded 
from  day  to  day  as  if  I  had  been  in  a  world 
in  which  there  was  neither  sin,  nor  sickness, 
nor  poverty.      In  the  four  books  last  written 
I  have  succeeded,  in  almost  every  instance,  up 
to  my  wishes;  and  in  many  places  I  have  ex- 
ceeded anything  that  I  had  conceived.     This 
is  not  boasting,  remember.     I  only  say  that  I 
have  exceeded  the  degree  of  excellence  which 
I  had  formerly  thought  of." 

The  "Course  of  Time"  was  issued  in  March, 
1827,  and  was  at  once  recognized  as  a  great 
work.  In  style  it  sometimes  resembles  the 
lofty  march  of  Milton,   and   at   other  times 


ROBERT  POLLOK. 


19'; 


imitates  that  of  Blair  and  Young.  With  much 
of  the  spirit  and  the  opinions  of  Cowper,  Pollok 
hicked  his  taste  and  refinement:  shortcomings 
which  time  might  have  removed,  but  like 
Henry  Kirke  White  and  David  Gray  he  was 
destined  for  an  early  grave.  In  less  than  two 
months  after  the  appearance  of  his  poem  he 
was  licensed  for  the  ministry.  The  success  of 
the  ' '  Course  of  Time  "  had  excited  high  hopes  in 
respect  to  his  professional  career,  wiiich  were, 
however,  not  destined  to  be  realized.  He 
preached  but  four  times,  once  for  his  friend 
Dr.  John  Brown  of  Edinburgh,  when  the  writer's 
father  happened  to  be  present,  and  was  greatly 
impressed  with  his  power  and  self-possession. 
Symptoms  of  pulmonary  disease  becoming  ap- 
parent, produced  by  over-exertion  in  his  studies 
while  preparing  for  the  ministry  and  in  the  com- 
position of  his  poem,  Pollok  spent  the  summer 
of  1827  under  the  roof  of  a  clerical  friend, 
where  every  means  were  tried  for  the  restora- 
tion of  his  health.  These  proving  unsuccessful 
he  was  persuaded  to  try  the  climate  of  Italy, 
his  many  admirers  promptly  furnishing  the 
means  necessary  for  the  journey.  He  reached 
London  along  with  his  sister,  but  by  the  advice 
of  physicians,  who  deemed  him  unable  to 
endure  the  journey  to  the  Continent,  he  pro- 
ceeded to  Shirley  Common,  near  Southampton, 
where  he  died,  September  IS,  1827.     He  was 


buried  with  the  rites  of  the  Church  of  England 
in  the  neighbouring  churchyard  of  lilillbrook, 
near  the  sea-shore,  where  a  granite  obelisk, 
erected  by  the  admirers  of  his  genius,  marks 
his  grave.  But,  as  the  inscription  on  it  truly 
says,  "  His  immortal  poem  is  his  monument." 
The  same  year  witnessed  Robert  Pollok'sadvent 
as  a  poet  and  a  preacher  and  his  untimely 
death.  He  has  been  described  as  tall,  well  pro- 
portioned, of  a  dark  complexion  "sicklied  o'er 
with  the  pale  cast  of  thought,"  with  deep-set 
eyes,  heavy  eyebrow.s,  and  black  bushy  hair. 
"  A  smothered  light  burned  in  his  dark  orbs, 
which  flashed  with  a  meteor  brilliancy  when- 
ever he  spoke  with  enthusiasm  and  energy." 

After  Pollok's  death  several  short  poems 
from  his  pen,  together  with  a  memoir  of  his 
life,  were  published  by  his  brother  at  Edin- 
burgh, and  in  New  York  a  volume  appeared 
entitled  " L'fe,  Letters,  and  Literary  Remains 
of  Robert  Pollok,  edited  by  Rev.  James  Scott." 
The  sum  paid  for  the  "  Course  of  Time,"  a  poem 
that  has  passed  through  eighty  editions  in 
Scotland  and  at  least  double  that  number  in 
the  United  States,  amounted  to  £2500 — a  price 
greatly  exceeding  that  given  for  the  poems  of 
Sir  Walter  Scott  and  Thomas  Campbell,  and 
nearly  as  large  as  was  ever  paid  to  any  poet  in 
the  height  of  his  fame,  and  when  poetry  was 
most  in  vogue  with  the  public. 


THE    COURSE    OF    TIME.^ 


BOOK   I. 

Argument. — Invocation  to  the  Eternal  Spirit.— The 
subject  of  the  Poem  announced. — A  periocl  long  after 
the  Last  Judgment  described. — Two 3'outliful  Sons  of 
Paradise,  waiting  on  the  battlements  of  Heaven,  obser- 
vant of  the  return  of  holy  messengers,  or  the  arrival 
from  distant  worlds  of  spirits  made  perfect,  discover 
one  directing  his  flight  towards  Heaven. — The  hills 
of  Paradise. — The  Mount  of  God. — Welcome  of  the 
faithful  servant.— The  hill  of  the  Throne  of  God 
pointed  out  to  him. — The  Sons  of  Paradise  offer  to 
guide  him  into  the  presence  of  the  Most  High. — The 
New-arrived,  bewildered  by  the  strange  sights  beheld 
in  his  flight,  begs  for  knowledge,  and  the  solution  of  the 
mysteries  he  has  seen. — Describes  his  flight  through 
Chaos,  and  arrival  at  the  place  of  Everlasting  Pun- 
ishment—Wall  of  fieiy  adamant — The  worm    that 

1  He  'Pollok)  had  much  to  learn  in  composition;  and. 
Lad  he  lived,  he  would  have  looked  almost  with  humili- 


neverdies— Eternal  Death— Hell— The  dreadful  sights 
beheld  there.— The  youthful  Sous  of  Heaven  refer  the 
New-aiTived  to  an  ancient  Bard  of  Adam's  race. — 
They  fly  towards  his  dwelling.— Flight  through  the 
fields  of  Heaven.— The  Bard  of  Earth  described— His 
Bower  in  Paradise.— He  is  entreated  to  clear  up  the 
wondering  doubt  of  tlie  New-arrived,  who  tells  what 
he  has  seen  and  conjectured.— The  Bard  infonns  him 
the  gracious  form  he  beheld  in  Hell  is  Virtue— Agi-ees 
to  relate  the  history  of  the  human  race. 

Eternal  Spirit!  God  of  truth!  to  whrm 
All  things  seem  as  thej-^  are  —Thou  who  of  old 
The  prophet's  eye  unsealed,  that  nightly  saw, 
While  heavy  sleep  fell  down  on  other  men. 
In  holy  vi.sion  tranced,  the  future  pass 
Before  him,  and  to  Judah's  harp  attuned 
Burdens  that  made  the  Pagan  mountains  shake, 

ation  on   much  that   is   at   present   eiilogized  by  his 
devoted  admirers.     But  the  soul  of  poetiy  is  there. 


198 


EGBERT   POLLOK. 


And  Zion's  cedars  bow — inspire  my  song; 
My  eye  unscale;  me  what  is  substance  teach, 
And  shadow  what,  while  I  of  things  to  come, 
As  past,  rehearsing,  sing  the  course  of  Time, 
The  second  birth,  and  final  doom  of  man. 

The  muse  that  soft  and  sickly  woos  the  ear 
Of  love,  or  chanting  loud,  in  windy  rhyme. 
Of  fabled  hero,  raves  through  gaudy  tale. 
Not  overfraught  with  sense,  I  ask  not:  such 
A  strain  befits  not  argument  so  high. 
Me  thought  and  phrase  severely  sifting  out 
The  whole  idea,  grant,  uttering  as  'tis 
The  essential  truth — Time  gone,  the  righteous 

saved. 
The  wicked  damned,  and  Providence  approved. 

Hold  my  right  hand.  Almighty!  and  me  teach 
To  strike  the  Ij're,  but  seldom  struck,  to  notes 
Harmonious  with  the  morning  stars,  and  pure 
As  those  by  sainted  bards  and  angels  sung. 
Which  wake  the  echoes  of  Eternity; 
That  fools  may  hear  and  tremble,  and  the  wise, 
Instructed,  listen  of  ages  yet  to  come. 

Long  was  the  day,  so  long  expected,  past 
Of  the  eternal  doom,  that  gave  to  each 
Of  all  the  human  race  his  due  reward. 
The  sun,  earth's  sun,  and  moon,  and  stars,  had 

ceased 
To  number  seasons,  days,  and  months,  and  years, 
To  mortal  man;  Hope  was  forgotten,  and  Fear; 
And  Time,  with  all  its  chance,  and  change,  and 

smiles. 
And  frequent  tears,  and  deeds  of  villany 
Or  righteousness,  once  talked  of  much  as  things 
Of  great  renown,  was  now  but  ill  remembered; 
In  dim  and  shadowy  vision  of  the  past 
Seen  far  remote,  as  country  which  has  left 
The  traveller's  speedy  step,  reth-ing  back 
From  mom  till  even;  and  long  Eternity 
Had  rolled  his  mighty  years,  and  with  his  years 
Men  had  grown  old.  The  saints,  all  home  returned 
From  pilgrimage,  and  war,  and  weejiing,  long 
Had  rested  in  the  bowers  of  peace,  that  skirt 

though  often  dimly  enveloped,  and  many  passages  there 
are,  and  long  ones  too,  tliat  heave  and  huny  and  glow 
along  in  a  divine  enthusiasm. — Professor  Wilson. 

The  "  Course  of  Time"  is  a  vei-y  extraordinary  poem; 
vast  in  its  conception,  vast  in  its  plan,  vast  in  its 
materials,  and  vast,  if  very  far  from  perfect,  in  its 
achievement.  The  wonderful  thing  is,  iiuleed,  that  it 
is  such  as  we  find  it,  and  not  that  its  imperfections  are 
niimerous.  It  has  notliing  at  all  savouring  of  the  little 
or  conventional  in  it,  for  he  passed  at  once  from  the 
merely  elegant  and  gracefiil  — Dr.  D.  M.  iloir. 

PoUok's  "  Course  of  Time,"  much  overlaudeJ  on  its 
first  appearance,  is  the  immature  work  of  a  man  of 
genius  who  possessed  very  imperfect  cultivation.  It  is 
clumsy  ill  plan,  tediously  dissertative,  and  tastelessly 


The  stream  of  life;  and  long — alas!  how  long 
To  them  it  seemed! — the  wicked  who  refused 
To  be  redeemed,  had  wandered  in  the  dark 
Of  hell's  despau',  and  drunk  the  burning  cup 
Then-  sins  had  filled  with  everlasting  woe. 

Thus  far  the  years  had  rolled,  which  none  but 

God 
Doth  number,  when  two  sons,  two  youthful  sons 
Of  Paradise,  in  conversation  sweet — 
For  thus  the  heavenly  muse  uistructs  me,  wooed 
At  midnight  hour  with  offering  sincere 
Of  all  the  heart,  poured  out  in  holy  jjrayer — 
High  on  the  hills  of  immortality. 
Whence  goodliest  prospect  looks  beyond  the  walls 
Of  heaven,   walked,    casting  off   their   eye  far 

through 
The  pure  serene,  observant  if  returned 
From  errand  duly  finished  any  came; 
Or  any,  first  in  virtue  now  complete. 
From  other  worlds  arrived,  confirmed  in  good. 

Thus  viewing,  one  they  saw,  on  hasty  wing. 
Directing  towards  heaven  his  course;  and  now. 
His  flight  ascending  near  the  battlements 
And  lofty  hills  on  which  they  walked,  approached. 
For  round  and  round,  in  spacious  circuit  wide. 
Mountains  of  tallest  stature  cii'cumscribe 
The  plains  of  Paradise,  whose  tops,  arrayed 
In  uncreated  radiance,  seem  so  pure. 
That  nought  but  angel's  foot,  or  saint's  elect 
Of  God,  may  venture  there  to  walk.     Here  oft 
The  sons  of  bliss  take  morn  or  evening  pastime. 
Delighted  to  behold  ten  thousand  worlds 
Around  their  suns  revolving  in  the  vast 
External  space,  or  listen  the  harmonies 
That  each  to  other  in  its  motion  sings; 
And  hence,  in  middle  heaven  remote,  is  seen 
The  mount  of  God  in  awful  glory  bright. 
Within,  no  orb  create  of  moon,  or  star. 
Or  sun,  gives  light;  for  God's  own  countenance, 
Beaming  eternally,  gives  light  to  all. 
But  farther  than  these  sacred  hills.  His  will 
Forbids  its  flow,  too  bright  for  eyes  beyond. 
This  is  the  last  ascent  of  virtue;  here 
AU  trial  ends,  and  hoi^e;  here  j)erfect  joy, 

magniloquent;  but  it  has  passages  of  good  and  genuine 
poetry. — Professor  W.  Spalding. 

The  sentiments  of  the  author  are  strongly  Calvinistic, 
and  in  this  respect,  as  well  as  in  a  certain  crude  ardour 
of  imagination  and  devotional  enthusiasm,  the  jioeni 
reminds  us  of  the  style  of  Milton's  early  prose  treatises. 
It  is  often  harsh,  turgid,  and  vehement. — Dr.  llobeit 
Cltamhers. 

This  poem  is  pregnant  with  spiritual  hope,  but  over- 
shadowed by  gloomy  views  of  merely  human  objects  and 
pursuits.  The  style  is  often  turgid,  without  the  epi 
grammatic  vividness  of  Young.  As  the  production  of 
a  youth  the  "Course  of  Time"  must  rank  among  tlie 
most  wonderful  efforts  of  genius. — Danid  Sc.ywgeour. 


EGBERT  POLLOK. 


199 


With    perfect    righteousness,    which    to    these 

heights 
Alone  can  rise,  begin,  above  all  fall. 

And  now,  on  wing  of  holy  ardour  strong. 
Hither  ascends  the  stranger,  borne  upright— 
For  stranger  he  did  seem,  with  curious  eye 
Of  nice  inspection  round  surveying  all— 
And  at  the  feet  ahghts  of  those  that  stood 
His  coming,  who  the  hand  of  welcome  gave. 
And  the  embrace  sincere  of  holy  love; 
And  thus,  with  comely  greeting  kind,  began:— 

Hail,  brother!  hail,  thou  son  of  happiness! 
Thou  son  beloved  of  God!  welcome  to  heaven. 
To  bliss  that  never  fades !  thy  day  is  past 
Of  trial,  and  of  fear  to  fall.     Well  done. 
Thou  good  and  faithful  servant!  enter  now 
Into  the  joy  eternal  of  thy  Lord. 
Come  with  us,  and  behold  far  higher  sight 
Than  e'er  thy  heart  desired,  or  hope  conceived. 
See !  yonder  is  the  glorious  hill  of  God, 
'Bove  angel's  gaze  in  brightness  rising  high. 
Come,  join  our  wing,  and  we  will  guide  thy  flight 
To  mysteries  of  everlasting  bliss— 
The  tree  and  fount  of  life,  the  eternal  throne 
And  presence-chamber  of  the  King  of  kings. 
But  what  concern  hangs  on  thy  countenance, 
Unwont  within  this  place  ?   Perhaps  thou  deem'st 
Thyself  unworthy  to  be  brought  before 
The  always  Ancient  One?  so  are  we  too 
Unworthy;  but  our  God  is  all  in  all, 
And  gives  us  boldness  to  approach  His  throne. 

Sons  of  the  Highest!  citizens  of  heaven! 
Began  the  new-arrived,  right  have  ye  judged: 
Unworthy,  most  unworthy  is  your  servant 
To  stand  in  presence  of  the  King,  or  hold 
Most  distant  and  most  humble  place  in  this 
Abode  of  excellent  glory  unrcvealed. 
But  God  Almighty  be  for  ever  praised, 
Who,  of  His  fulness,  fills  me  with  all  grace 
And  ornament,  to  make  me  in  His  sight 
Well  pleasing,  and  accepted  in  His  court. 
But  if  your  leis>u-e  waits,  short  narrative 
Will  tell  why  strange  concern  thus  overhangs 
My  face,  ill  seeming  here;  and  haply,  too. 
Your  elder  knowledge  can  instruct  my  youth 
Of  what  seems  dark  and  doubtful,  unexplained. 

Our  leisure  waits  thee:  speak;  and  what  we 
can. 
Delighted  most  to  give  delight,  we  will; 
Though  much  of  mystery  yet  to  us  remains. 


Virtue,  I  need  not  tell,  when  proved  and  full 
Matured,  inchnes  us  up  to  God  and  heaven. 
By  law  of  sweet  compulsion  strong  and  sure : 
As  gravitation  to  the  larger  orb 
The  less  attracts,  through  matter's  whole  domain. 
Virtue  in  me  was  ripe.     I  speak  not  this 


In  boast;  for  what  I  am  to  God  I  owe. 
Entirely  owe,  and  of  myself  am  naught. 
Equipped  and  bent  for  heaven,  I  left  yon  world. 
My  native  seat,  which  scarce  your  eye  can  reach, 
RolUng  around  her  central  sun,  far  out. 
On  utmost  verge  of  light:  but  first  to  see 
What  lay  beyond  the  visible  creation, 
Strong  curiosity  my  flight  impelled. 
Long  was  my  way  and  strange.     I  passed  the 

bounds 
Which  God  doth  set  to  light,  and  life,  and  love; 
Where  darkness  meets  with  day,  where  order 

meets 
Disorder,  dreadful,  waste,  and  wild;  and  down 
The  dark,  eternal,  micreated  night 
Ventured  alone.     Long,  long  on  rapid  wing 
I  sailed  through  empty,  nameless  regions  vast, 
Where  utter  Nothing  dwells,  unformed  and  void. 
There  neither  eye  nor  ear,  nor  any  sense 
Of  being  most  acute  finds  object;  there 
For  aught  external  still  you  search  in  vain. 
Try  touch,  or  sight,  or  smell;  try  what  you  will, 
You  strangely  find  nought  but  yourself  alone. 
But  why  should  I  in  words  attempt  to  tell 
What  that  is  like,  which  is  and  yet  is  not? 
This  past,  my  path  descending  led  me  still 
O'er  unclaimed  continents  of  desert  gloom 
Immense,  where  gravitation  shifting  turns 
The  other  way,  and  to  some  dread,  unknown. 
Infernal  centre  downward  weighs:  and  now. 
Far  travelled  from  the  edge  of  darkness,  far^ 
As  from  that  glorious  mount  of  God  to  light's 
Remotest  hmb,  dire  sights  I  saw,  dire  sounds 
I  heard;  and  suddenly  before  my  eye 
A  wall  of  fiery  adamant  sprung  up. 
Wall  mountainous,  tremendous,  flaming  high 
Above  all  flight  of  hope.     I  paused  and  looked; 
And  saw,  where'er  I  looked  upon  that  mound, 
Sad  figures  traced  in  fire,  not  motionless. 
But  imitating  life.     One  I  remarked 
Attentively;  but  how  shall  I  describe 
What  nought  resembles  else  my  eye  hath  seen  ? 
Of  worm  or  serpent  kind  it  something  looked. 
But  monstrous,  with  a  thousand  snaky  heads. 
Eyed  each  with  double  orbs  of  glaring  wrath; 
And  with  as  many  tails,  that  twisted  out 
In  horrid  revolution,  tipped  with  stings; 
And  all  its  mouths,  that  wide  and  darkly  gaped. 
And  breathed  most  poisonous  breath,  had  each 

a  sting, 
Forked,  and  long,  and  venomous,  and  sharp; 
And  in  its  writhings  infinite,  it  grasped 
Malignantly  what  seemed  a  heart,  swollen,  black. 
And  quivering  with  torture  most  intense; 
And  still  the  heart,  with  anguish  throbbing  high. 
Made  effort  to  escape,  but  could  not;  for 
Howe'er  it  turned— and  oft  it  vainly  turned— 
These  complicated  foldings  held  it  fast; 
And  still  the  monstrous  beast  with  sting  of  head 
Or  tail  transpierced  it,  bleeding  evermore. 
What  this  could  image,  much  I  searched  to  know; 


200 


EGBERT  POLLOK. 


And  while  I   stood,  and  gazed,  and  wondered 

long, 
A  voice,  from  whence  I  knew  not,  for  no  one 
I  saw,  distinctly  whispered  in  my  ear 
These  words : ' '  This  is  the  Worm  that  never  dies. " 

Fast  by  the  side  of  this  unsightly  thing, 
Another  was  portrayed,  more  hideous  still; 
Who  sees  it  once  shall  wish  to  see't  no  more. 
For  ever  undescribed  let  it  remain ! 
Only  this  much  I  may  or  can  unfold — 
Far  out  it  thrust  a  dart  that  might  have  made 
The  knees  of  terror  quake,  and  on  it  hung. 
Within  the  triple  barbs,  a  being  pierced 
Through  soul  and  body  both.    Of  heavenly  make 
Original  the  being  seemed,  but  fallen. 
And  worn  and  wasted  with  enormous  woe. 
And  still  around  the  everlasting  lance 
It  writhed  convulsed,  and  uttered  mimic  groans; 
And  tried  and  wished,  and  ever  tried  and  wished 
To  die;  but  could  not  die.     Oh  horrid  sight! 
I  trembling  gazed,  and  listened,  and  heard  this 

voice 
Approach  my  ear:  "  This  is  Eternal  Death." 

Nor  these  alone.     Upon  that  burning  wall, 
In  horrible  emblazonry,  were  limned 
All  shapes,  all  forms,  all  modes  of  wretchedness, 
And  agony,  and  grief,  and  desperate  woe. 
And  pi'ominent  in  characters  of  fire, 
Where'er  the  eye  could  light,  these  words  you 

read : 
"  Who  comes  this  way,  behold,  and  fear  to  sin!" 
Amazed  I  stood;  and  thought  such  imagery 
Foretokened,  within,  a  dangerous  abode. 
But  yet  to  see  the  worst  a  wish  arose: 
For  virtue,  by  the  holy  seal  of  God 
Accredited  and  stamped,  immortal  all, 
And  all  invulnerable,  fears  no  hurt. 
As  easy  as  my  wish,  as  rapidly, 
I  through  the  horrid  rampart  passed,  unscathed 
And  unopposed;  and,  poised  on  steady  wing, 
I  hovering  gazed.     Eternal  Justice !  Sons 
Of  God !  tell  me,  if  ye  can  tell,  what  then 
I  saw,  what  then  I  heard.     Wide  was  the  place. 
And  deep  as  wide,  and  ruinous  as  deep. 
Beneath,  I  saw  a  lake  of  burning  fire, 
With  tempest  tossed  perpetually;  and  still 
The  waves  of  fiery  darkness  'gainst  the  rocks 
Of  dark  damnation  broke,  and  music  made 
Of  melancholy  sort;  and  overhead, 
And  all  around,  wind  warred  with  wind,  storm 

howled 
To  storm,  and  lightning  forked  lightning  crossed. 
And  thunder  answered  thunder, muttering  sounds 
Of  sullen  wrath;  and  far  as  sight  could  pierce, 
Or  down  descend  in  caves  of  hopeless  depth, 
Through  all  that  dungeon  of  unfading  fire, 
I  saw  most  miserable  beings  walk. 
Burning  continually,  yet  unconsumed; 
For  ever  wasting,  yet  enduring  still; 


Dying  perpetually,  yet  never  dead. 
Some  wandered  lonely  in  the  desert  flames, 
And  some  in  fell  encounter  fiercely  met. 
With  curses  loud,  and  blasphemies  that  made 
The  cheek  of  darkness  pale;  and  as  they  fought, 
And  cursed  and  gnashed  their  teeth,  and  wished 

to  die. 
Their  hollow  eyes  did  utter  streams  of  woe. 
And  there  were  groans  that  ended  not,  and  sighs 
That  always  sighed,  and  tears  that  ever  wept. 
And  ever  fell,  but  not  in  Mercy's  sight. 
And  Sorrow,  and  Repentance,  and  Desjiair 
Among  them  walked,  and  to  their  thirsty  lips 
Presented  frequent  cups  of  burning  gall. 
And  as  I  listened,  I  heard  these  beings  curse 
Almighty  God,  and  curse  the  Lamb,  and  curse 
The  earth,  the  resurrection  morn;  and  seek, 
And  ever  vainly  seek,  for  utter  death. 
And  to  their  everlasting  anguish  still. 
The  thunders  from  above  responding  spoke 
These  words,  which,  through  the  caverns  of  per- 
dition 
Forlornly  echoing,  fell  on  every  ear — 
"  Ye  knew  j^our  duty,  but  ye  did  it  not:" 
And  back  again  recoiled  a  deeper  groan. 
A  deeper  gj-oan!  oh,  what  a  groan  was  that! 
I  waited  not,  but  swift  on  sjjeediest  wing, 
With  unaccustomed  thoughts  conversing,  back 
Retraced  my  venturous  path  from  dark  to  light. 
Then  up  ascending,  long  ascending  up, 
I  hasted  on;  though  whiles  the  chiming  spheres, 
By  God's  own  finger  touched  to  harmony, 
Held  me  delaying,  till  I  here  arrived, 
Drawn  upward  by  the  eternal  love  of  God, 
Of  wonder  full  and  strange  astonishment. 
At  what  in  yonder  den  of  darkness  dwells, 
Which  now  your  higher  knowledge  will  unfold. 

They  answering  said : — To  ask  and  to  bestow 
Knowledge,  is  much  of  heaven's  delight;  and  r.o.v 
Most  joyfully  what  thou  requir'st  we  would; 
For  much  of  new  and  unaccountable 
Thou   bring'st.      Something    indeed   we    heard 

before. 
In  passing  conversation  slightly  touched. 
Of  such  a  place;  yet  rather  to  be  taught 
Than  teaching,  answer,  what  thy  marvel  asks. 
We  need:  for  we  ourselves,  though  here,  are  but 
Of  yesterday,  creation's  yoimger  sons. 
But  there  is  one,  an  ancient  bard  of  Earth, 
Who,  by  the  stream  of  life,  sitting  in  bliss. 
Has  oft  beheld  the  eternal  years  complete 
The  mighty  circle  round  the  throne  of  God : 
Great  in  all  learning,  in  all  wisdom  great, 
And  great  in  song;  whose  harp  in  lofty  strain 
Tells  frequently  of  what  thy  wonder  craves; 
While  round  him,  gathering,  stand  the  youth  of 

heaven. 
With  truth  and  melody  delighted  both. 
To  him  this  path  directs,  an  easy  path. 
And  easy  flight  will  bring  us  to  his  seat. 


EOBEKT  POLLOK. 


201 


So  sajnng,  they,  linked  hand  in  hand,  spread  out 
Their  golden  wings,  by  living  breezes  fanned, 
And  over  heaven's  broad  champaign  sailed  serene. 
O'er  hill  and  valley,  clothed  with  verdure  green 
That  never  fades;  and  tree,  and  herb,  and  flower. 
That  never  fade;  and  many  a  river,  rich 
With  nectar,  winding  pleasantly,  they  passed; 
And  mansion  of  celestial  mould,  and  work 
Divine.     And  oft  delicious  music,  sung 
By  saint  and  angel  bands  that  walked  the  vales. 
Or  mountain  tops,  and  harped  upon  their  harps. 
Their  ear  inclined,  and  held  by  sweet  constraint 
Their  wing;  not  long,  for  strong  desire,  awaked, 
Of  knowledge  that  to  holy  use  might  turn. 
Still  press-eci  them  on  to  leave  what  rather  seemed 
Pleasure,  due  only  when  all  duty's  done. 

And  now  beneath  them  lay  the  wished-for  spot, 
The  sacred  bower  of  that  renowned  bard ; 
That  ancient  bard,  ancient  in  days  and  song; 
But  in  immortal  ^^gour  young,  and  young 
In  rosy  health;  to  pensive  sohtude 
Eetiring  oft,  as  was  his  wont  on  earth. 

Fit  was  the  place,  most  fit  for  holy  musing. 
Upon  a  little  mount  that  gently  rose. 
He  sat,  clothed  in  white  robes;  and  o'er  his  head 
A  laurel  tree,  of  lustiest,  eldest  growth, 
Stately  and  tall,  and  shadowing  far  and  wide— 
Not  fruitless,  as  on  earth,  but  bloomed  and  rich 
With  frequent  clusters,  ripe  to  heavenly  taste- 
Spread  its  eternal  boughs,  and  in  its  arms 
A  myrtle  of  unfading  leaf  embraced. 
The  "rose  and  lily,  fresh  with  fragrant  dew. 
And  every  flower  of  fairest  cheek,  around 
Him  smihng  flocked;  beneath  his  feet,  fast  by 
And  round  his  sacred  hill,  a  streamlet  walked. 
Warbling  the  holy  melodies  of  heaven. 
The  hallowed  zephyrs  brought  him  incense  sweet; 
And  out  before  him  opened,  in  prospect  long. 
The  river  of  life,  in  many  a  winding  maze 
Descending  from  the  lofty  throne  of  God, 
That  with  excessive  glory  closed  the  scene. 

Of  Adam's  race  he  was,  and  lonely  sat, 
By  chance  that  day,  in  meditation  deep. 
Reflecting  much  of  Time,  and  Earth,  and  Man. 
And  now  to  pensive,  now  to  cheerful  notes, 
He  touched  a  harp  of  wondrous  melody; 
A  golden  harp  it  was,  a  precious  gift. 
Which,  at  the  Day  of  Judgment,  with  the  crown 
Of  life,  he  had  received  from  God's  own  hand, 
Reward  due  to  his  service  done  on  earth. 

He  sees  their  coming,  and  with  greeting  kind. 
And  welcome,  not  of  hollow  forged  smiles. 
And  ceremonious  compliment  of  phrase. 
But  of  the  heart  sincere,  into  his  bower 
Invites:  like  greeting  they  returned.     Not  bent 
In  low  obeisancy,  from  creature  most 
Unfit  to  creature,  but  with  manly  fonn 


Upright  they  entered  in;  though  high  his  rank, 
His  wisdom  high,  and  mighty  his  renown. 
And  thus,  deferring  all  apology. 
The  two  their  new  companion  introduced. 

Ancient  in  knowledge,  bard  of  Adam's  race! 
We  bring  thee  one,  of  us  in(iuu-ing  what 
We  need  to  learn,  and  with  him  wish  to  learn. 
His  asking  will  direct  thy  answer  best. 

Most  ancient  bard!  began  the  new-airived. 
Few  words  will  set  my  wonder  forth,  and  guide 
Thy  wisdom's  light  to  what  in  me  is  dark. 

Equipped  for  heaven,  I  left  my  native  place: 
But  first  beyond  the  realms  of  light  I  bent 
My  course;  and  there,  in  utter  darkness,  far 
Remote,  1  beings  saw  forlorn  in  woe. 
Burning  continually,  yet  unconsumed. 
And  there  were  groans  that  ended  not,  and  sighs 
That  ahvays  sighed,  and  tears  that  ever  wept 
And  ever  fell,  but  not  in  Mercy's  sight. 
And  still  I  heard  these  wretched  beings  curse 
Almighty  God,  and  curse  the  Lamb,  and  curse 
The  earth,  the  resurrection  mom,  and  seek, 
And  ever  vainly  seek,  for  utter  death. 
And  fi-om  above  the  thunders  answered  still, 
"  Ye  knew  your  duty,  but  ye  did  it  not." 
And  everywhere  throughout  that  horrid  den 
I  saw  a  form  of  excellence,  a  form 
Of  beauty  without  spot,  that  nought  could  see 
And  not  admire,  admire  and  not  adore. 
And  from  its  own  essential  beams  it  gave 
Light  to  itself,  that  made  the  gloom  more  dark. 
And  every  eye  in  that  infernal  pit 
Beheld  it  still;  and  from  its  face,  how  fair! 
0,  how  exceeding  fair!  for  ever  sought, 
But  ever  vainly  sought,  to  turn  away. 
That  image,  as  I  guess,  was  Virtue,  for 
Nought  else  hath  God  given  countenance  so  fair. 
But  why  in  such  a  place  it  should  abide  ? 
What  place  it  is?  what  beings  there  lament? 
Whence  came  they  ?  and  for  what  their  endless 

groan  ? 
Why  curse  they  God  ?  why  seek  they  utter  death? 
And  chief,  what  means  the  resurrection  morn  ? — 
My  youth  expects  thy  reverend  age  to  tell. 

Thou  rightly  deem'st,fairyouth,began  the  bard; 
The  foi-m  thou  saw'st  was  Virtue,  ever  fan-. 
Virtue,  like  God,  whose  excellent  majesty, 
Whose  glory  vu-tue  is,  is  omnipresent. 
No  being,  once  created  rational. 
Accountable,  endowed  with  moral  sense. 
With  sapience  of  right  and  wrong  endowed 
And  charged,  however  fallen,  debased,  destroyed; 
However  lost,  forlorn,  and  miserable; 
In  guilt's  dark  shrouding  -ivrapped,  however  thick; 
However  drunk,  delirious,  and  mad. 
With  sin's  full  cup;  and  with  whatever  damned 
Unnatural  diligence  it  work  and  toil, 
Can  banish  Vu'tue  from  its  sight,  or  once 


202 


WILLIAM   THOM. 


Forget  that  she  is  fair.     Hides  it  in  night, 
In  central  night;  takes  it  the  Hghtiiing's  wing, 
And  flies  for  ever  on,  beyond  the  bounds 
Of  all;  drinks  it  the  maddest  cup  of  sin; 
Dives  it  beneath  the  ocean  of  despair: 
It  dives,  it  drinks,  it  flies,  it  hides  in  vain. 
For  still  the  eternal  beauty,  image  fair, 
Once  stamped  upon  the  soul,  before  the  eye 
All  lovely  stands,  nor  will  depart;  so  God 
Ordains;  and  lovely  to  the  worst  she  seems. 
And  ever  seems;  and  as  they  look,  and  still 
Must  ever  look  upon  her  lovehness. 
Remembrance  dire  of  what  they  were,  of  what 
They  might  have  been,  and  bitter  sense  of  what 
They  are,  polluted,  ruined,  hopeless,  lost. 
With  most  repenting  torment  rend  their  hearts. 
So  God  ordains — their  punishment  severe 
Eternally  inflicted  by  themselves. 
'Tis  this,  this  Virtue  hovering  evermore 
Before  the  vision  of  the  damned,  and  in 
Upon  their  monstrous  moral  nakedness 
Casting  unwelcome  light,  that  makes  their  woe, 
That  makes  the  essence  of  the  endless  flame. 
Where  this  is,  there  is  hell,  darker  than  aught 
That  he,  the  bard  three-visioned,  darkest  saw. 

The  place  thou  saw'st  was  Hell;  the  groans  thou 
heard 'st 
The  wailings  of  the  damned,  of  those  who  would 
Not  be  redeemed,  and  at  the  Judgment-day, 
Long  past,  for  unrepented  sins  were  damned. 
The  seven  loud  thunders  which  thou  heard'st, 

declare 
The  eternal  wrath  of  the  Almighty  God. 
But  whence,  or  why  they  came  to  dwell  in  woe. 
Why  they  curse  God,  what  means  the  glorious 

morn 
Of  resurrection — these  a  longer  tale 
Demand,  and  lead  the  mournful  lyre  far  back 
Through  memory  of  sin  and  mortal  man. 
Yet  haply  not  rewardless  we  shall  trace 
The  dark  disastrous  years  of  finished  Time: 
Sorrows  remembered  sweeten  present  joy. 
Nor  yet  shall  all  be  sad ;  for  God  gave  peace, 
Much  peace,  on  earth,  to  all  who  feared  his  name. 


But  first  it  needs  to  say,  that  other  style 
And  other  language  than  thy  ear  is  wont, 
Thou  must  expect  to  hear — the  dialect 
Of  man;  for  each  in  heaven  a  relish  holds 
Of  former  speech,  that  points  to  whence  he  came. 
But  whether  I  of  person  speak,  or  place. 
Event  or  action,  moral  or  divine; 
Or  things  unknown  compare  to  things  unknown; 
Allude,  imply,  suggest,  apostrophize; 
Or  touch,  when  wandering  tlarough  the  past,  on 

moods 
Of  mind  thou  never  felt;  the  meaning  still. 
With  easy  apprehension,  thou  shalt  take. 
So  perfect  here  is  knowledge,  and  the  strings 
Of  sympathy  so  tuned,  that  eveiy  word 
That  each  t  j  other  speaks,  though  never  heard 
Before,  at  once  is  fully  understood. 
And  every  feeling  uttered,  fully  felt. 

So  shalt  thou  find,  as  from  my  various  song. 
That  backwai-d  rolls  o'er  noiiny  a  tide  of  years. 
Directly  or  inferred,  thy  asking,  thou. 
And  wondering  doubt,  slialt  learn  to  answer,  while 
I  sketch  in  brief  the  history  of  man. 


HELEN'S   TOMB. 

At  morn  a  dew-bathed  rose  I  past. 

All  lovely  on  its  native  stalk, 
rnmindful  of  the  noon-day  blast, 

Tliat  strew'd  it  on  my  evening's  walk. 

So,  when  the  morn  of  life  awoke, 

My  hopes  sat  bright  on  fancy's  bloom, 

Forgetful  of  the  death-aimed  stroke 
That  laid  them  in  my  Helen's  tomb. 

Watch  there  my  hopes!  watch  Helen  sleep, 
Nor  more  with  sweet-lipped  Fancy  rave, 

But  with  the  long  grass  sigh  and  weep 
At  dewy  eve  by  Helen's  grave. 


WILLIAM    THOM, 


Born  1799  — Died  1848. 


WiLLT.VM  Thom,  the  author  of  "  The  Mither- 
less  Bairn"  and  many  other  touching  and 
pathetic  Scottish  lyrics,  Avas  born  at  Aberdeen 
in  the  year  1799.  His  father  died  soon  after 
his  birth,  leaving  his  mother  too  poor  to  give 


her  son  much  education.  When  ten  years  old 
William  was  placed  in  a  public  factory,  where 
he  served  an  apprenticeship  of  four  years, 
after  which  he  obtained  employment  in  the 
weaving  establishment  of  Gordon,  Barron,  & 


WILLIAM  THOM. 


203 


Co.,  Avhere  he  continued  for  a  period  of  seven- 
teen years.      About  1830  he  left  Aberdeen, 
after  entering  into  matrimony,   and  went  to 
reside  at  Dundee.     From  here  he  removed  to 
the    village  of   Newtyle,  near    Cupar- Angus, 
where  he  passed  several  years  of  hard  work, 
and  domestic  happiness  with  his  loved  Jean. 
At  length,  in  1837,  heavy  failures  in  the  United 
States  silenced  in  one  week  six  thousand  looms 
in  Dundee,   and  spread   dismay  through  the 
country.    Thorn's  earnings  had  been  small,  and 
being  thrown  out  of  employment  he  had  great 
difficulty  to  maintain  his  famih'.   He  purchased 
a  few  articles,  and  accompanied  by  his  wife 
and  children,  with  only  two  shillings  in  his  pos- 
session, began  the  precarious  life  of  a  pedlar. 
They  did  not  succeed    in  their  attempts   to 
trade,  and  one  evening  found  themselves  with- 
out means  to  obtain  a  night's  lodging.     Leav- 
ing his  family  at  the  roadside.  Thorn  applied 
at  several  places  for  shelter,  but  without  suc- 
cess.    Of  one  of  these  applications  the  poet 
says:  "I  pleaded  the  infancy  of  my  family 
and  the  lateness  of  the  hour,  but  '  l^o,  no'  was 
the  cruel  reply.      I  returned  to  my  family  by 
the  wayside.     They  had  crept  closer  together, 
and  all  except  the  mother  were  f;ist  a>leep. 
I  drew  her  mantle  over  the  wet  and  chilled 
sleepers,  and  sat  down  beside  them. "  At  length 
a  passer-by  took  pity  upon  them,  and  though 
an  outhouse  was  the  only  accommodation  lie 
could  offer,  it  was  gladly  accepted;  but  the 
morning  revealed  that  their  favourite   little 
Jeanie  had  sunk  under  the  exposure  of  the 
previous  night. 

For  several  months  the  poet's  lot  was  a 
grievous  one,  and  he  was  fain  to  seek  a  living 
by  assuming  the  humbling  position  of  a  men- 
dicant musician.  But  although  this  was  found 
more  profitable  than  the  packman's  trade,  he 
grew  sick  of  what  he  calls  "beggar's  work," 
and  on  reaching  Aberdeen  he  sat  down  once 
more  to  the  loom.  Finding  more  profitable 
occupation  at  Inverury,  he  removed  to  that 
village,  where,  nine  months  after,  he  lost  his 
beloved  wife — the  faithful  partner  of  all  his 
sorrowful  wanderings.  "  She  left  us,"  he  says, 
"just  as  the  last  cold  cloud  was  passing,  ere 
the  outbreak  of  a  brighter  day.  That  cloud 
passed,  but  the  warmth  that  followed  lost  half 
its  value  tome,  she  being  no  partaker  therein." 
He  now  occupied  a  time  of  slackness  in  com- 


posing small  poems,  one  of  the  best  of  which, 
No.  1  of  "The  Blind  Boy's  Pranks,"  he  sent  to 
the  Aberdeen  Herald.  The  piece  was  in  due 
time  inserted,  with  the  following  editorial  note: 
— "These  beautiful  stanzas  are  by  a  corre- 
spondent who  subscribes  himself  '  A  Serf,'  and 
declares  that  he  has  to  '  weave  fourteen  hours 
out  of  the  twenty-four.'  We  trust  his  daily 
toil  will  soon  be  abridged,  that  he  may  have 
more  leisure  to  devote  to  an  art  in  which  he 
shows  so  much  natural  genius  and  cultivated 
taste."  This  poem  was  copied  extensively  into 
other  journals,  and  attracted  the  attention  of 
Mr.  Gordon  of  Knockespock,  in  the  neighbour- 
hood, who,  ascertaining  the  indigent  circum- 
stances of  the  poet,  sent  him  five  pounds,  and 
undertook  to  patronize  him.  Thom  had  found 
a  real  Mecaenas,  for  soon  afterwards,  he  tells 
us,  he  and  his  daughter  were  dashing  along  in 
a  handsome  carriage  through  the  streets  of 
London;  and  under  the  protection  and  at  the 
expense  of  Mr.  Gordon  they  spent  upwards  of 
four  months  in  England,  visiting  and  being 
visited  by  many  of  the  leading  men  of  the 
daj'. 

In  18il  he  published  a  volume  of  poems  and 
songs,  with  a  brief  autobiography,  under  the 
title  of  "  Ehymes  and  Eecollections  of  a  Hand- 
loom  "Weaver,"  which  reached  a  third  edition. 
On  his  return  to  London  the  year  following  he 
was  entertained  at  a  public  dinner,  a  member 
of  Parliament  presiding,  and  numerous  dis- 
tinguished artists  and  men  of  letters  being 
present.  The  working  classes  of  London  or- 
ganized a  meeting  for  his  benefit,  which  was 
presided  over  by  Dr.  Bowring,  and  proved  a 
success.  Charles  Dickens,  the  Howitts,  Eliza 
Cook,  John  Forster,  and  other  literary  magnates 
of  the  metropolis,  paid  the  weaver-poet  atten- 
tions. From  the  United  States  he  received, 
chiefly  through  the  eflfbrts  of  Margaret  Fuller, 
upwards  of  two  thousand  dollars;  and  consider- 
able sums  Avere  also  sent  to  him  from  India 
and  Australia. 

This  was  the  culminating  point  of  Thom's 
career.  "With  the  assistance  of  parasites  who 
hovered  around  him  his  money  was  soon  spent, 
his  habits  became  bad,  he  could  not  obtain  any 
literary  employment,  his  great  friends  grew 
tired  of  him,  he  lost  caste,  and  at  last  lost 
heart  and  hope.  Starvation  was  almost  staring 
him  in  the  face,  and  he  resolved  to  return  to 


204 


WILLIAM  THOM. 


his  humble  friends  and  his  loom  in  Scotland. 
From  this  time  a  change  came  over  him.  He 
walked  about,  as  his  brother-poet  Gow  said, 
"with  his  death  upon  him."  The  last  paper 
he  wrote  was  entitled  "Weeds,"  for  which 
Douglas  Jerrold  sent  him  five  pounds.     He 


died  in  deep  poverty  at  Dundee,  Feb.  29,  1848, 
and  his  remains  were  honoured  with  a  public 
funeral.  He  had  married  a  second  time,  and 
left  a  widow  and  three  cliildren,  for  whom  a 
handsome  sum  Avas  afterwards  raised  by  sub- 
scription. 


THE   BLIND  BOY'S   PRANKS. 

No.  I. 

" 111  tell  fome  ither  time,  quo' he. 
How  we  love  an'  laugh  in  the  north  countrie  ' 

Legsnl. 

Men  grew  sae  cauld,  maids  sae  unkind, 

Love  kentna  whaur  to  stay, 
AVi'  fient  an  arrow,  bow,  or  string — 
AVi'  droopin'  heart  an'  drizzled  wing, 

He  faught  his  lanely  way. 

"Is  there  nae  mair,  in  Garioch  fair, 

Ae  spotless  hame  for  me? 
Hae  politics,  an'  corn,  an  kye, 
Hk  bosom  stappit?     Fie,  0  tie! 

I'll  swithe  me  o'er  the  sea." 

He  launched  a  leaf  o'  jessamine. 

On  whilk  he  daured  to  swim. 
An'  pillowed  his  head  on  a  wee  rosebud, 
Syne  laithfu',  lanely.  Love  'gan  send 

Down  Ury's  waefu'  stream. 

The  birds  sang  bonnie  as  Love  drew  near, 

But  dowie  when  he  gaed  by; 
Till  lulled  wi'  the  sough  o'  mony  a  sang, 
He  sleepit  fu'  soun'  an'  sailed  alang 

Xeath  heav'n's  gowden  sky! 

'T  was  just  whaur  creepin'  Ury  greets 

Its  mountain-cousin  Don, 
There  wandered  forth  a  weel-faur'd  dame, 
Wha  listless  gazed  on  the  bonnie  stream. 
As  it  flirted  an'  played  wi'  a  sunny  beam 

That  flickered  its  bosom  upon. 

Love  happit  his  head,  I  trow,  that  time. 

The  jessamine  bark  drew^  nigh, 
The  lassie  espied  the  wee  rosebud. 
An'  aj-e  her  heart  gae  thud  for  thud. 
An'  quiet  it  wadna  lie. 

"0  gin  I  but  had  yon  wearie  wee  flower 
That  floats  on  the  Ury  sae  fairl" 
She  lootit  her  hand  for  the  silly  rose-leaf. 
But  little  wist  she  o'  the  pawkie  thief 
Was  lurkin'  an'  laughin'  there! 


Loveglower'd  when  he  saw  her  bonnie  darke'e, 

An'  swore  by  heaven's  grace 
He  ne"er  had  seen,  nor  thought  to  .see. 
Since  e'er  he  left  the  Paphian  lea, 

Sae  lovely  a  dwallin'  place. 

Syne,  first  of  a',  in  her  blythe.some  breast. 

He  built  a  bower,  I  ween; 
An'  what  did  the  waefu',  deviliek  neist? 
But  kindled  a  gleam  like  the  rosy  east, 

That  sparkled  frae  baith  her  een. 

An'  then  beneath  ilk  high  e'e-bree 

He  placed  a  quiver  there; 
His  bow?  -what  but  her  shinin'  brow? 
An'  0!  sic  deadly  strings  he  drew 

Frae  out  her  silken  hair. 

Guid  be  our  guard !  sic  deeds  waur  deen, 

Roun'  a'  our  countrie  then; 
An'  mony  a  hangin'  lug  was  seen 
'Alang  formers  fat,  an'  lawyers  lean. 

An'  herds  o'  common  men' 


DREAMIXGS  OF  THE   BEREAVED. 

The  morning  breaks  bonnie  o'er  mountain  an' 

stream. 
An'  troubles  the  hallowed  breath  o'  my  dream  1 
The  gowd  light  of  morning  is  sweet  to  the  e'e. 
But,  ghost-gathering  midnight,   thou'rt  dearer 

to  me. 
The  dull  common  world  then  sinks  from  my  sight, 
An'  fairer  creations  arise  to  the  night; 
When  drowsy  oppression  has  sleep-sealed  my  e'e, 
Then  bright  are  the  visions  awaken'd  to  me  I 

0 !  come,  spirit  mother,  discourse  of  the  hours, 
My  young  bosom  beat  all  its  beating  to  yours, 
When  heart-woven  wishes  in  soft  counsel  fell, 
On  ears — how  unheedful  prov'd  son-ow  might  tell  I 
That  deathless  affection — nae  trial  could  break, 
When  a'  else  forsook  me  ye  wouldna  forsake; 
Then  come,  0!  my  mother,  come  often  to  me, 
An'  soon  an'  for  ever  I'll  come  unto  thee! 

An' thou  shrouded  loveliness!  soul-winning  Jean, 
How  cold  was  thy  hand  on  my  bosom  yestreen! 


WILLIAM  THOM. 


205 


'Tvvas  kind— for  the  lowe  that  your  e'e  kindled 

there 
Will  bum— ay,  an'  burn,  till  that  breast  beat  nae 

mair. 
Our  bairnies  sleep  round  mo.     0 1  bless  ye  their 

sleep, 
Your  ain  dark-e'ed  Willie  will  wauken  an'  weep; 
But,  blythe  in  his  weepin',  he'll  tell  me  how  you, 
liis  heaven- Itamed  mammie,    was   "dautin'  his 

brow." 

Though  dark  be  our  dwallin'— our  happin'  though 

bare, 
An'  night  closes  round  us  in  cauldness  an'  care; 
Affection  will  warm  us — an'  bright  are  the  beams 
That  halo  our  hame  in  yon  dear  land  of  dreams. 
Then  weel  may  I  welcome  the  night's  deathy  reign, 
Wi'  souls  of  the  dearest  I  mingle  me  then; 
The  gowd  light  of  morning  is  lightless  to  me, 
But  oh  for  the  night  wi'  its  ghost  rcvelrie! 


JEAXIE'S   GKAYE. 

I  saw  my  true  love  first  on  the  banks  of  queenly 

TaV, 
Nor  did  I  deem  it  yielding  my  trembling  heart 

away; 
I  feasted^  on  her  deep  dark  eye,  and  loved  it 

more  and  more, 
For,  oh:   I  thought  I  ne'er  had  seen  a  look  so 

kind  before ! 

1  heard  my  true  love  sing,  and  she  taught  me 
many  a  strain, 

But  a  voice  so  sweet,  oh!  never  shall  my  cold 
ear  hear  again. 

In  all  our  friendless  wanderings,  in  homeless 
penury, 

Her  gentle  song  and  jetty  eye  were  all  un- 
changed to  me. 

I  saw  my  true  love  fade— I  heard  her  latest 

sigh — 
I  wept  no  friv'lous  Aveeping  when  I  closed  her 

lightless  eye; 
Far  from  her  native  Tay  she  sleeps,  and  other 

waters  lave 
The  markless  epot  where  Ury  creeps  around 

my  Jeanie's  grave. 

Move  noiseless,  gentle  Ury  I  around  my  Jeanie's 

bed, 
And  I'll  love  thee,  gentle  Ury'.  where'er  my 

footsteps  tread ; 
For  sooner  shall  thy  fairy  wave  return  from 

yonder  sea, 
Than  I  forget  yon  lowly  grave,  and  all  it  hides 

from  me. 


THE  MITHERLESS  BAIRN. 

When  a'  ither  bairnies  are  hushed  to  their  hame. 
By  aunty,  or  cousin,  or  frecky  grand-dame: 
Wha  Stan's  last  an'  lanely,  an'  naebody  carin'?— 
'Tis  the  puir  doited  loonie— the  mitherless  bairn! 

The  mitherless  bairn  gangs  till  his  lane  bed, 
Nane  covers  his  cauld  Vjack,  or  haps  his  bare  head ; 
His  wee  liackit  heelies  are  hard  as  the  aim, 
An'  Utheless  the  lair  o'  the  mitherless  baiml 

Aneath  his  cauld  brow,  siccan  dreams  tremble 

there, 
0' hands  that  wont  kindly  to  kame  his  dark  hair! 
But  momin'  brings  clutches,  a'  reckless  an'  stem. 
That  lo'e  nae  the  locks  o'  the  mitherless  bairn! 

Yon  sister,  that  sang  o'er  his  saftly-roek'd  bed, 
Now  rests  in  the  mools  whaur  her  mammie  is  laid; 
The  father  toils  sair  their  wee  bannock  to  earn, 
An'  kens  nae  the  wrangs  o'  his  mitherless  bairn! 

Her  spunt,  that  pass'd  in  yon  hour  o'  his  birth. 
Still  watches  his  wearisome  wand'rings  on  earth, 
Recording  in  heaven  the  blessings  they  earn 
Wha  couthilie  deal  wi'  the  mitherless  baira! 

Oh!   speak  him  nae  harshly — he  trembles  the 

while — 
He  bends  to  your  bidding,  and  blesses  your  smile! 
In  their  dark  hour  o'  anguish,  the  heartless  shall 

learn 
That  God  deals  the  blow  for  the  mitherless  baira! 


THE   DRUNKARD'S  DREAM. 

Oh !  tempt  me  not  to  the  drunkard's  draught. 
With  its  soul-consuming  gleam! 

Oh!  hide  me  from  the  woes  that  waft 
Around  the  drunkard's  dream! 

When  night  in  holy  silence  brings 

The  God-willed  hour  of  sleep, 
Then,  then  the  red-eyed  revel  swings 

Its  bowl  of  poison  deep! 

When  morning  waves  its  golden  hair. 

And  smiles  o'er  hill  and  lea. 
One  sick'ning  ray  is  doomed  to  glare 

On  yon  rude  revelry ! 

The  rocket's  flary  moment  sped, 
Sinks  black'ning  back  to  earth; 

Yet  darker — deeper  sinks  his  head 
Who  shares  the  drunkard's  mirth! 


206 


THOMAS   K.   HERVEY. 


Know  ye  the  sleep  the  drunkard  know.s? 

That  sleep,  oh!  ivho  may  tell? 
Or  who  can  speak  the  fiendful  throes 

Of  his  self-heated  hell? 

The  soul  all  reft  of  heav'nly  mark — 
Defaced  God's  image  there — • 

Eolls  down  and  down  yon  abyss  dark, 
Thy  howling  home,  Despair! 

Or  bedded  his  head  on  broken  hearts. 
Where  slimy  reptiles  creep; 


And  the  ball-less  eye  of  Death  still  darts 
Black  fire  on  the  drunkard's  sleep! 

And  lo!  their  coffin'd  bosoms  rife. 

That  bled  in  his  ruin  wild  ! 
The  cold,  cold  lips  of  his  shrouded  wife, 

Press  lips  of  his  shrouded  child  ! 

So  fast — so  deep  the  hold  they  keep! 

Hark!  that  unhallow'd  scream: 
Guard  us,  oh  God !  from  the  drunkard's  sleep- 

From  the  drunkard's  demon-dream ! 


THOMAS    K.    HEEVEY. 


Born  1799  -  Died  1859. 


Thomas  Kibble  Hervey  was  born  February 
4,  1799,  at  Paisley,  the  birthplace  of  so  many 
poets  and  men  of  eminence.  He  was  educated 
at  Trinity  College,  Cambridge,  and  devoted 
some  years  to  the  study  of  law,  but  abandoned 
it  and  adopted  the  more  congenial  pursuit  of 
literature.  In  1824  Hervey  published  his 
poem  "Australia,"  which  contains  many  ex- 
quisite descriptive  passages,  showing  that  he 
possessed  the  "inspiration  and  the  faculty 
divine."  Five  years  later  he  issued  The 
Poetical  Sketch-look,  including  a  third  edi- 
tion of  "Australia."  His  next  volumes,  pub- 
lished in  the  order  named,  were  IllustratLons 
of  Modern  Scripture,  The  English  Helicon, 
and  The  Book  of  Christmas,  every  page  of 
which  affords  a  literary  feast  worthy  of  the 
happy  season.  Mr.  Hervey  was  also  the  author 
of  a  satirical  poem  entitled  "  The  Devil's  Pro- 
gress," and  many  popular  pieces  contributed 
to  the  pages  of  various  annuals  edited  by  him. 
His  connection  with  the  London  Athenceum, 
of  wiiich  at  its  commencement  and  for  several 


years  afterwards  he  was  sole  editor,  proves  him 
to  have  been  a  man  of  ability. 

After  Hervey's  death,  February  17,  1859,  a 
collection  of  his  poems  was  made  by  his  widow, 
which,  together  with  a  memoir  from  her 
practised  pen,  was  published  in  the  United 
States  in  1867.  Dr.  D.  M.  Moir  says :— "  The 
genius  of  T.  K.  Hervey  (for  he  has  genius  at 
once  pathetic  and  refined)  is  not  unallied  to 
that  of  Pringle  and  Watts,  but  with  a  dash  of 
Tom  Moore.  He  writes  uniformly  with  taste 
and  elaboration,  polishing  the  careless  and 
rejecting  the  crude ;  and  had  he  addressed 
himself  more  earnestly  and  more  unreserv- 
edly to  the  task  of  composition,  I  have  little 
doubt,  from  several  specimens  he  has  occasion- 
ally exhibited,  that  he  might  have  occupied  a 
higher  and  more  distinguished  place  in  our 
poetical  literature  than  he  can  be  said  to  have 
attained.  His  'Australia' and  several  of  his 
lyrics  were  juvenile  pledges  of  future  excel- 
lence which  maturity  can  scarcely  be  said  to 
have  fully  redeemed." 


THE    CONVICT    SHIP. 


Morn  on  the  waters!  and,  purple  and  bright, 
Bursts  on  the  billows  the  flushing  of  light; 
O'er  the  glad  waves,  like  a  child  of  the  sun. 
See  the  tall  vessel  goes  gallantly  on; 
Full  to  the  breeze  she  unbosoms  her  sail. 


And  her  pennon  streams  onward,  like  hope,  in 

the  gale. 
The  winds   come   around   her   in  murmiu-   raid 

song, 
And  the  surges  rejoice  as  they  bear  her  along. 


THOMAS   K.  HAEVEY. 


207 


See!  she  looks  up  to  the  golden-edged  clouds, 
And  the  sailor  sings  gaily  aloft  in  the  shrouds. 
Onward  she  ghdes  amid  ripple  and  spray, 
Over  the  waters— away  and  away! 
Bright  as  the  visions  of  youth  ere  they  part. 
Passing  away,  like  a  dream  of  the  heart! 
Who— as  the  beautiful  pageant  sweeps  by, 
Music  around  her  and  sunshine  on  high- 
Pauses  to  think,  amid  glitter  and  glow. 
Oh!  there  be  hearts  that  are  breaking  below! 

Night  on  the  waves!  and  the  moon  is  on  liigh, 
Hung  like  a  gem  on  the  brow  of  the  sky. 
Treading  its  depths  in  the  power  of  her  might, 
And  turning  the  clouds,  as  they  pass  her,  to  light! 
Look  to  the  waters!  asleep  on  their  breast. 
Seems  not  the  ship  like  an  island  of  rest? 
Bright  and  alone  on  the  shadowy  main. 
Like  a  heart-cherished  home  on  some  desolate 

plain ! 
Who— as  she  smiles  in  the  silvery  light. 
Spreading  her  wings  on  the  bosom  of  night, 
Alone  on  the  deep  as  the  moon  in  the  sky, 
A  phantom  of  beauty— could  deem,  with  a  sigh. 
That  so  lovely  a  thing  is  the  mansion  of  sin, 
And  that   souls   that   are   smitten  he  bursting 

within '( 
Who,  as  he  watches  her  silently  ghding. 
Remembers  that  wave  after  wave  is  dividing 
Bosoms  that  sorrow  and  guilt  could  not  sever. 
Hearts  that  are  parted  and  broken  for  ever? 
Or  deems  that  he  watches,  afloat  on  the  wave. 
The   death-bed  of   hope,  or   the  young  spuit's 

grave  ? 

'Tis  thus  with  our  life  while  it  passes  along. 
Like  a  vessel  at  sea  amidst  sunshine  and  song! 
Gaily  we  glide  in  the  gaze  of  the  world. 
With  streamers  afloat  and  with  canvas  unfurled, 
All  gladness  and  glory  to  wandering  eyes. 
Yet  chartered  by  sorrow  and  freighted  with  sighs; 
Fading  and  false  is  the  aspect  it  wears. 
As  the  smiles  we  put  on,  just  to  cover  our  tears; 
And  the  withering  thoughts  that  the  world  can- 
not know. 
Like  heart-broken  exiles,  lie  burning  below; 
Whilst  the  vessel  drives  on  to  that  desolate  shore 
Where  the  dreams  of  our  childhood  are  vanished 
and  o'er. 


THE  DEAD   TRUMPETER. 

Wake,  soldier!  wake!  thy  war-horse  waits 
To  bear  thee  to  the  battle  back; — 

Thou  slumberest  at  a  foeman's  gates; — 
Thy  dog  would  break  thy  bivouac; — 

Thy  plume  is  trailing  in  the  dust, 

And  thy  red  falchion  gathering  rust! 


Sleep,  soldier!  sleep!  thy  warfare  o'er, — 
Kot  thine  own  bugle's  loudest  strain 

Shall  ever  break  thy  slumbers  more. 
With  summons  to  the  battle-plain; 

A  trumpet  note  more  loud  and  deep 

JIust  rouse  thee  from  that  leaden  sleep. 

Thou  need'st  nor  helm  nor  cuirass  now, 
Beyond  the  Grecian  hero's  boast, — 

Thou  wilt  not  quail  thy  naked  brow, 
Nor  shrink  before  a  myriad  host, — 

For  head  and  heel  alike  are  sound — 

A  thousand  arrows  cannot  wound. 

Thy  mother  is  not  in  thy  dreams. 

With  that  mild,  widowed  look  she  wore 

The  day — how  long  to  her  it  seems! — 
She  kissed  thee  at  the  cottage  door, 

And  sicken'd  at  the  sounds  of  joy 

That  bore  away  her  only  boy. 

Sleep,  soldier!  let  thy  mother  wait 
To  hear  thy  bugle  on  the  blast; 
Thy  dog,  perhaps,  may  find  the  gate; 
And  bid  her  home  to  thee  at  last; — 
He  cannot  tell  a  sadder  tale 
Than  did  thy  clarion,  on  the  gale, 
When  last — and  far  away— she  heard  its  lin- 
gering echoes  fail! 


THE  GONDOLA  GLIDES. 

The  gondola  glides. 

Like  a  spirit  of  night, 
O'er  the  slumbering  tides, 

In  the  calm  moonlight. 
The  star  of  the  north 

Shows  her  golden  eye, 
But  a  brighter  looks  forth 

From  yon  lattice  on  high! 

Her  taper  is  out. 

And  the  silver  beam 
Floats  the  maiden  about 

Like  a  beautiful  dream! 
And  the  beat  of  her  heart 

Makes  her  tremble  all  o'er; 
And  she  lists  with  a  start 

To  the  dash  of  the  oar. 

But  the  moments  are  past. 
And  her  fears  are  at  rest. 

And  her  lover  at  last 

Holds  her  clasped  to  his  breast; 


208 


JAMES   LAWSON. 


And  the  planet  above, 
And  the  quiet  blue  .«ea, 

Are  pledged  to  his  love 
And  his  constancy. 

Iler  cheek  is  reclined 

On  the  home  of  his  breast; 
And  his  fingers  are  twined 

'Mid  her  ringlets,  which  rest, 
In  many  a  fold. 

O'er  his  arm  that  is  placed 
Round  the  cincture  of  gold 

Which  encircles  her  waist. 

He  looks  to  the  stars 

Which  are  gemming  the  blue, 
And  devoutly  he  swears 

He  will  ever  be  true; 
Then  bends  him  to  hear 

The  low  sound  of  her  sigh. 


And  kiss  the  fond  tear 
From  her  beautiful  eye. 

And  he  watches  its  flashes. 

Which  brightly  reveal 
What  the  long  fringing  lashes 

Would  vainly  conceal; 
And  reads — while  he  kneels 

All  his  ardour  to  speak — 
Her  reply,  as  it  steals 

In  a  blush  o'er  her  cheek. 

Till  won  by  the  prayers 

Which  so  softly  reprove, 
On  his  bosom,  in  tears, 

She  half-murmurs  her  love; 
And  the  stifled  confession 

Enraptured  he  sips, 
'Mid  the  breathings  of  passion, 

In  dew  from  her  lips. 


JAMES    LAWSON. 


Jame3  Lawson  was  born  in  Glasgow,  Nov- 
ember 9,  1799.  He  completed  his  education 
at  the  university  of  his  native  city,  and  in 
1815  emigrated  to  the  United  States,  and 
entered  the  counting-house  of  a  relative  resid- 
ing in  New  York.  A  few  years  later  the 
failure  of  the  firm  of  which  Lawson  was  a 
partner  induced  him  to  turn  his  attention  to 
literature.  In  company  with  James  G.  Brooks 
and  John  B.  Skilman  he  established  the 
Mornhui  ('ourier,  the  first  number  of  which 
appeared  in  1827.  In  1829  Lawson  retired 
from  this  concern,  and  joined  Amos  Butler  in 
the  Mercantile  Advertiser,  ivith  which  he  was 
associated  till  1833.  In  1830  he  published  a 
volume  entitled  Tales  and  Sketches  by  a  Cos- 
mopolite. His  next  work  was  Giordano:  a 
Trarjedij,  an  Italian  state  story  of  love  and 
conspiracy,  which  was  first  performed  at  the 
Park  Theatre,  New  York.  The  prologue  was 
Avritten  by  William  Leggett,  and  the  epilogue 
by  P.  M.  AVetmore.  Mr.  Lawson  has  several 
times  appeared  before  the  public  in  connection 
with  the  stage.  He  was  associated  with  the 
American  poets  Fitz  -  Greene  Halleck  and 
William  Cullen  Bryant  on  the  committee  which 
secured  for  Edwin   Forrest  the  prize  play  of 


"Metamora"  by  John  A.  Stone,  and  he  was 
also  one  of  a  similar  committee  which  selected 
the  prize  play  of  "  Nimrod  Wildfire,  or  the 
Kentuckiau  in  New  York,"  by  James  K. 
Paulding. 

Since  his  retirement  from  the  press  in  1833 
Mr.  Lawson  has  engaged  in  the  business  of 
marine  insurance,  and  is  well  known  among 
the  mercantile  men  of  New  York.  He  has 
been  during  the  past  fifty  years  a  frequent 
contributor  of  criticisms,  essays,  tales,  and 
verse  to  the  periodicals  of  the  day;  and  in 
1857  printed  for  private  circulation  an  octavo 
volume  entitled  Poems:  Gleanings  from  Spare 
Hours  of  a,  Business  Life,  with  the  following 
dedication:  —  "To  my  Children  and  their 
Mother,  these  poems,  at  their  solicitation  thus 
gathered  together  but  not  published,  are  affec- 
tionately inscribed  by  the  father  and  husband, 
James  Lawson."  This  handsome  volume  was 
followed  in  1859  by  Liddesdale,  or  the  Border 
Chief:  a  Trarjedy,  which  was  also  printed  for 
private  circulation.  Mr.  Lawson  has  for  many 
years  resided  at  Yonkers,  on  the  Hudson, 
where  he  is  well  known  as  a  public-spirited 
citizen  and  the  genial  entertainer  of  men  of 
letters. 


JAMES   LAWSON. 


209 


THE  APrROACII   OF  AGE. 

Well,  let  the  honest  truth  be  told  ! 
I  feel  that  I  am  growing  old, 
And,  I  have  guessed  for  many  a  day, 
IMy  sable  locks  are  turning  gray. 
At  least,  by  furtive  glances,  I 
Some  very  silvery  hairs  espy, 
That  thread-like  on  my  temples  shine. 
And  fain  I  would  deny  are  mine: 
AVhile  wrinkles  creeping  here  and  there. 
Some  score  my  years,  a  few  my  care. 
The  sports  that  yielded  once  delight 
Have  lost  all  relish  to  my  sight; 
IJut,  in  their  stead,  more  serious  thought 
A  graver  train  of  joys  has  brought. 
Which,  while  gay  fancy  is  refined. 
Correct  the  taste,  improve  the  mind. 

I  meet  the  friends  of  former  years, 
Whose  smile  approving,  often  cheers: 
How  few  are  spared !  the  poisonous  draught 
The  reckless  in  wild  frenzy  quaffed, 
In  dissipation's  giddy  maze, 
O'erwlielmed  them  in  their  brightest  days. 
And  one,  my  playmate  when  a  boy, 
I  see  in  manhood's  pride  and  joy; 
He  too  has  felt,  through  sun  and  shower. 
Old  Time,  thy  unrelenting  power. 
We  talk  of  things  which  well  we  know 
Had  chanced  some  forty  years  ago; 
Alas!  like  yesterday  they  seem. 
The  past  is  but  a  gorgeous  dream ! 
But  speak  of  forty  coming  years. 
Ah,  long  indeed  that  time  appears! 
In  nature's  course,  in  forty  more. 
My  earthly  pilgrimage  is  o'er; 
And  the  green  turf  on  which  I  tread 
Will  gayly  spring  above  my  head. 

Beside  me,  on  her  rocking-chair. 
My  wife  her  needle  plies  with  care, 
And  in  her  ever-cheerful  smiles 
A  charm  abides,  that  quite  beguiles 
The  years  that  have  so  swiftly  sped. 
With  their  unfaltering,  noiseless  tread: 
For  we,  in  mingled  happiness, 
Will  not  the  approach  of  age  confess. 
But  when  our  daughters  we  espy, 
I^ounding  with  laughing  cheek  and  eye, 
Our  bosoms  beat  with  conscious  pride, 
To  see  them  blooming  by  our  side. 
God  spare  ye,  girls,  for  many  a  day. 
And  all  our  anxious  love  repay! 
In  your  fair  growth  of  form  and  grace. 
We  see  age  coming  on  apace. 

When  o'er  our  vanished  days  we  glance, 
Far  backward  to  our  young  romance. 
Vol.  II.— O 


And  muse  upon  unnumbered  things, 
That  crowding  come  on  memory's  wings; 
Then  varied  thoughts  our  bosoms  gladden, 
And  some  intrude  that  deeply  sadden: 
Fond  hopes  in  their  fruition  crushed, 
Beloved  tones  for  ever  hushed. 
AVe  do  not  grieve  that  being's  day 
Is  fleeting,  shadow-like,  away ; 
J?ut  thank  thee.  Heaven,  our  lengthened  life 
Has  passed  in  love,  unmarred  by  strife; 
That  sickness,  sorrow,  pain,  and  care, 
Have  fallen  so  lightly  to  our  share. 
We  bless  thee  for  our  daily  bread, 
In  plenty  on  our  table  spread; 
And  Thy  abundance  helps  to  feed 
The  worthy  poor,  who  pine  in  need; 
And  thanks,  that  in  our  worldly  way. 
We  have  so  seldom  stepped  astray. 
But  well  Ave  should  in  meekness  speak. 
And  pardon  for  transgressions  seek, 
For  oft,  how  strong  soe'er  the  will 
To  follow  good,  we've  chosen  ill. 

The  youthful  heart  unwisely  fears 
The  sure  approach  of  coming  years; 
Though  cumbered  oft  with  weighty  cares, 
Yet  age  its  burden  lightly  bears. 
Though  July's  scorching  heats  are  done. 
Yet  blandly  smiles  the  slanting  sun, 
And  sometimes,  in  our  lovely  clime. 
To  dark  December's  frosty  time. 
Though  day's  delightful  noon  is  past, 
Yet  mellow  twilight  comes,  to  cast 
A  sober  joy,  a  sweet  content. 
Where  virtue  with  repose  is  blent, 
Till,  calmly  on  the  fading  sight. 
Mingles  its  latest  ray  with  night. 


TO  A   UNTIE 

FRIGHTENED   FROM   HER   NEST. 

Wee  Untie,  stay,  an'  dinna  fear  me. 
It  is  nae  i'  my  heart  to  steer  ye. 
Ye  needna  flee,  tho'  I  am  near  ye, 

Frae  lounie  nest. 
But  i'  your  thorny  shelter  hear  me, 

Wi'  unscaithed  breast. 

I  hae  nae  come  by  ill  inclined, 
Keekin'  ilk  leafy  bield  behind, 
As  I  wad  fain  wee  tremblers  find. 

In  hedge  or  brier; 
If  I  bad  kent  ye  here  reclined, 

I'd  nae  come  near. 

But  tired  o'  Glasgow's  wark  an'  wile, 
I've  wandered  mony  a  weary  mile 


210 


JAMES  LAWSON. 


To  see  the  knowes  sae  blytliely  smile 

\Vi'  weal  til  o'  flower.-^; 
The  burns  ami  braes  my  thoughts  beguile 

0'  dreary  hours. 

I've  come  to  muse  by  Grieto's  linn. 
To  liear  its  pleasing,  prattling  din, 
To  spy  the  trout  wi'  rapid  fin 

Dart  'neath  a  stane, 
As  frae  its  green  banks  I  peep  in. 

Amused,  ahine. 

The  lark  sings  to  the  rising  day, 
The  mavis  to  its  latest  ray; 
Trae  morn  to  night  on  ilka  spray 

Sweet  wild  notes  ring; 
My  heart  exults  at  every  lay 

The  warblers  sing. 

An'  wee!  I  lo'e  your  cheerful  sang, 
The  bloomin'  whin  or  broom  amang, 
I've  listened  aft  the  morning  lang, 

Wi'  raptured  ear: 
Puir  thing!  I  wadna  do  ye  wrang 

For  warlds  o'  gear. 

Then  wherefore,  Untie,  lea'  your  bield  ? 
]\[air  mither-like  to  stay  and  shield, 
Wi'  a'  the  art  tiiat  ye  may  wield, 

Your  yaupin'  things, 
Than  flee  atoure  yon  stibble-field, 

Wi'  flurried  wings. 

If  man  possess  a  selfish  heart, 
Our  mithers  wadna  act  thy  part. 
To  drive  awa'  at  ilka  start 

Sae  heedlessly; 
They'd  save  their  bairns, or  share  their  smart, 

Or  wi"  them  dee. 

Come,  lintie,  to  your  cozie  nest, 
An'  cuddle  'neatli  your  downy  breast 
Your  unfledged  young;  their  necdfu'  rest 

I've  brolce  ower  lang; 
I'm  gaun  awa',  but  this  request — 

Sing  me  a  sang! 


WHEN  SPRING  AERAYED   IN 
FLOWERS. 

AVhen  spring  arrayed  in  flowers,  Mary, 

Danced  wi'  the  leafy  trees; 
When  larks  sang  to  the  sun,  Mary, 

And  hummed  the  wandering  bees; 
Then  first  we  met  and  loved,  Mary, 

By  Kelburn's  loupin'  linn. 
And  blither  was  thy  voice,  Mary, 

Than  Unties  i'  the  whin. 


Now  autumn  winds  blaw  cauld,  Mary, 

Amang  the  withered  boughs; 
And  a'  the  bonnie  flowers,  Mary, 

Are  faded  frae  the  knowes; 
But  still  thy  love's  unchanged,  Mary, 

Nae  chilly  autumn  there; 
And  sweet  thy  smile,  as  spring's,  Mary, 

Thy  sunny  face  as  fair. 

Nae  mair  the  early  lark,  ]\Iaiy, 

Trills  on  his  soaring  Avay; 
Hushed  is  the  lintie's  sang,  Mary, 

Through  a'  the  shortening  day; 
But  still  thy  voice  I  hear,  Mary, 

Like  melody  divine; 
Nae  autumn  in  my  heart,  Mary, 

And  summer  still  in  thine. 


CAMPSIE  GLEN.i 

Let  us  ower  to  Campsie  Glen,  bonnie  lassie,  0, 
By  the  dingle  that  you  ken,  bonnie  lassie,  0, 

To  the  tree  where  first  we  woo'd, 

And  cut  our  names  sae  rude. 
Deep  in  the  sauch-tree's  wood,  bonnie  lassie,  O. 

O'er  the  willow  brig  we'll  wend,  bonnie  lassie,  0, 
And  the  ladders  we'll  ascend,  bonnie  lassie,  0, 

Where  the  woodroof  loves  to  hide 

Its  scented  leaves,  beside 
The  streamlets,  as  they  glide,  bonnie  lassie,  O. 

WHiere  the  blue  bell  on  the  brae,  bonnie  lassie,  O, 
Wliere  the  sweetest  scented  slae,  bonnie  lassie,  O, 

And  the  flow'rets  ever  new, 

Of  nature's  painting  true, 
All  fragrant  bloom  for  you,  bonnie  lassie,  O. 

Where  the  music  of  the  wood,  bonnie  lassie,  0, 
And  the  dashing  of  the  flood,  bonnie  lassie,  0, 

O'er  the  rock  and  ravine  mingle, 

And  glen  and  mountain  dingle, 
With  the  merry  echoes  tingle,  bonnie  lassie,  0. 

On  the  moss-seat  we'll  recline,  bonnie  lassie,  0, 
Wi'  a  hand  in  each  of  thine,  bonnie  lassie,  0; 

The  bosom's  wannest  tlirill 

Beats  truer,  safter  still. 
As  our  hearts  now  glowing  fill,  bonnie  lassie,  0. 

Then  before  bright  heaven's  eye,  bonnie  lassie,  0, 
We  will  dovible  love-knots  tie,  bonnie  lassie,  0; 

Then  true  affection  plighted, 

We'll  love  and  live  united, 
With  hearts  and  hands  united,  bonnie  lassie,  0. 


'  Campsie  Glen  is  a  beautiful  valley  near  the  village 
of  Lennoxtowii.  about  ten  miles  north  of  Glajgow.  It 
is  rich  in  geological  and  botajiical  treasures,  and  is 
enlivened  by  a  cascade  or  waterfall  — Ed. 


JOHN  IMLAH. 


211 


JOHN    IMLAH. 

Born  1799  — Died  1816. 


JoHX  Imlah,  Avhose  ancestors  for  many  gen- 
erations had  been  farmers  in  the  parish  of 
Fyvie,  was  born  in  Aberdeen,  Xov.  15,  1799. 
Of  seven  sons  born  in  succession  he  was  the 
youngest.  He  had  the  advantage  of  a  good 
English  education,  after  completing  which  he 
Avas  apprenticed  to  a  pianoforte  manufacturer. 
Having  given  evidence  of  possessing  a  musical 
ear,  his  employer  initiated  him  into  the  mys- 
teries of  tuning.  Becoming  an  expert,  Imlah 
sought  service  as  a  piano-tuner  in  London,  and 
ultimately  entered  into  an  engagement  with 
the  firm  of  Broadwood  &  Co.,  which  continued 
until  he  left  Great  Britain  to  visit  his  brother 
in  the  AVest  Indies.  Under  this  arrangement, 
from  January  to  June  he  performed  the  duties 
of  a  regular  tuner  at  a  fixed  salary,  and  the 


rest  of  the  year  he  Avas  allowed  to  travel  in 
Scotland  tuning  on  his  own  account,  and  occa- 
sionally adding  to  his  income  by  the  sale  of  a 
piano. 

Imlah  composed  songs  from  his  early  boy- 
hood. In  1827  he  published  May  Flowers,  a 
volume  of  lyrics  chiefly  in  the  Scottish  dialect; 
followed  in  1811  by  Poems  and  Sonrjs,  contain- 
ing several  spirited,  patriotic,  and  popular 
pieces.  He  was  also  a  contributor  to  the  Edhi- 
bur(jh  Literary  Journal,  and  other  periodicals 
of  the  day.  He  was  cut  oflf  in  the  vigour  of 
manhood  while  on  a  visit  to  a  brother  residing 
in  Jamaica,  where  after  a  brief  period  of  en- 
joyment he  fell  a  victim  to  the  fatal  disease  of 
the  island,  Jan.  9,  1816,  having  just  entered 
upon  his  forty -seventh  yeai". 


WHERE  GADIE  RINS. 

0!  gin  I  were  where  Gadie  rins, 
"Where  Gadie  rins — Avhere  Gadie  rins, 
0:  gin  I  were  Avhere  Gadie  rins, 
By  the  foot  o'  Bennachie.^ 

I've  roam'd  by  Tweed — I've  roam'd  by  Tay, 
By  liorder  Xith  and  Highland  Spey, 
But  dearer  far  to  me  than  they 
The  braes  o'  Bennachie. 

■\Vhen  blade  and  blossom  sprout  in  spring, 
And  bid  the  birdies  wag  the  wing. 
They  blithely  bob,  and  soar,  and  sing 
By  the  foot  o'  Bennachie. 

When  simmer  deeds  the  varied  scene 
"NVi'  licht  o'  gowd  and  leaves  o'  green, 
I  fain  wad  be  where  aft  I've  been, 
At  the  foot  o'  Bennachie. 

"When  autumn's  yellow  sheaf  is  shorn, 
.\.nd  barn-yards  stored  wi'  stocks  o'  corn, 
'Tis  blythe  to  toom  the  clyack  horn, 
At  the  foot  o'  Bennachie. 


'  Gadie  is  the  name  of  a  rivulet,  and  Bennachie  of  a 
hill,  lx)th  iu  Aberdeenshire.— Ed. 


"When  Avinter  Avinds  blaw  sharp  and  shrill. 
O'er  icy  burn  and  sheeted  hill, 
The  ingle  neuk  is  gleesome  still. 
At  the  foot  o'  Bennachie. 

Though  few  to  Avelcome  me  remain. 
Though  a'  I  loved  be  dead  and  gane, 
I'll  back,  though  I  should  live  alane, 
To  the  foot  o'  Bennachie. 

0!  gin  I  Avere  where  Gadie  rins, 
"Where  Gadie  rins — Avhere  Gadie  rins, 
0 1  gin  I  Avere  Avhere  Gadie  rins. 
By  the  foot  o'  Bennachie. 


AULD   SCOTLVS   SAXGS. 

Auld  Scotia's  sangs!  auld  Scotia's  sangs— the 

strains  o'  youth  and  yore  I — 
0  lilt  to  me,  and  I  will  list— will  list  them 

o'er  and  o'er; 
Though  mak'  me  Avae,  or  mak'  me  Avud, — or 

changfu'  as  a  child. 
Yet  lilt  tome,  and  I  Avill  list— the  "native 

Avood- notes  Avild!" 


212 


JOHN   IMLAH. 


They  mak'  me  present  wi'  the  past — they  bring  I 
up  fresh  and  fair 

The   Bonnie   Broom  o'  Cowden   Knowes,  the 
Bush  abune  Traquair, 

The  Dowie  Dens  o'  Yarrow,  or  the  Birks  o' 
Invermay, 

Or  Catrine's  Green  and  Yellow  "Woods  in  au- 
tumn's dwining  day! 

They  bring  me  back  the  holms  and  howes  whar 

siller  burnies  shine, 
The  lea-rig  whar  the  gowans  glint  we  pu'd  in 

Auld  Langsyne; 
And,  mair  than  a',  the  Trystin'  Thorn  that 

blossom'd  doun  the  vale, 
■\Vhar  gloamin'  breathed  sae  sweetly — but  far 

sweeter  luve's  fond  tale! 

Now  melt  we  o'er  the  lay  that  wails  for  Flod- 

den's  day  o'  dule, — 
And  now  some  rant  will  gar  us  louplikedaffin' 

youth  at  Yule; — • 
^Kow  o'er  young  luve's  impassion'd  strain  our 

conscious  heart  will  yearn, — 
And,  now  our  blude  fires  at  the  call  o'  Bruce 

o'  Bannockburn! 

0!  lovely  in  the  licht  o'  sang  the  Ettrick  and 

the  Tweed, 
"Whar  shepherd  swains  were  wont  to  blaw  auld 

Scotia's  lyric  reed; — 
The  Logan  and  the  Lugar  too,  but,  hallow'd 

meikle  mair, 
The  banks  and  braes  o'  bonnie  Doon, — the 

Afton  and  the  Ayr! 

The  hind  whase  hands  are  on  the  pleugli — the 

shepherd  wi'  his  crook — 
The  maiden  o'er  the  milking  pail,  or  by  the 

ingle  neuk. 
Lo'e  weel  to  croon  auld  Scotia's  sangs— 0  may 

they  ever  sae ! 
And  it  may  be  a  daffin'  lilt — may  be  a  dowie 

lay! 

Though  warldly   grief  and  warldling's  guile 

maun  I  like  ithers  dree, 
Maun  thole  the  sair  saigh  rive  my  breist — the 

bet  tear  scald  my  e'e! 
Bat  let  me  list  the  melodies  o'  some  o'  Scotia's 

sangs. 
And  I  will  a'  forget  my  waes— will  a"  forgi'e 

my  wrangs! 

0 !  born  o'  feeling's  warmest  depths — o"  fancy's 

wildest  dreams. 
They're  twined  wi'  mony  lovely  thochts,  wi' 

monic  lo'esome  themes; 


They  gar  the  glass  o'  memorlc  glint  back  wi' 

brichter  shine, 
On  far  afF  scenes  and  far  aff  friends,  and  auld 

langsyne! 

Auld  Scotia's  sangsl — auld  Scotia's  sangs! — 

her  "native  wood-notes  wild!" 
Her  monie  artless  melodies,  that  move  nie  like 

a  child; 
Sing  on — sing  on!  and  I  will  list — will  list 

them  o'er  and  o'er,^ 
Auld  Scotia's  sangs! — auld  Scotia's  sangsl — 

the  sangs  o'  youth  and  yore! 


THOU'RT  SAIR  ALTER'D. 

Thou'rt  sair  alter'd  now.  May, 

Thou'rt  sair  alter'd  now: 
The  rose  is  wither'd  frae  thy  cheek. 

The  wrinkles  on  thy  brow; 
And  gray  hath  grown  the  locks  o'  jet, 

Sae  shining  wont  to  be, 
Thou'rt  alter'd  sair — but,  May,  thou'rt  yet 

The  May  o'  yore  to  me. 

Thy  voice  is  faint  and  low,  May, 

That  aft  in  former  time 
Hath  woke  the  wild  birds  envious  chant, 

The  echo's  amorous  chime; 
Thy  e'e  hath  lost  its  early  light, 

My  star  in  ither  years. 
That  aye  hath  beam'd  sae  kindly  bright, 

To  me  through  smiles  and  tears. 

For  a'  the  signs  that  show.  May, 

The  gloamin'  o'  our  day, 
I  lo'ed  thee  young— 1  lo'e  thee  yet, 

My  ain  auld  wifie,  May. 
Kae  dearer  hope  hae  I  than  this, 

Beyond  the  day  we  die. 
Thy  charms  shall  bloom  again  to  bless 

My  halidome  on  hie! 


THE  GATHERING.  1 

Rise,  rise !     Lowland  and  Highlandmen, 

Bald  sire  to  beardless  son,  each  come  and  early. 
Rise,  rise!  mainland  and  islandmen, 
Belt  on  your  broad  claymores— tight  for  Prince 
CharUe. 
Down  from  the  mountain  steep, 
Up  from  the  valley  deep, 

1  This  song   has  been   erroneously  ascribed   to  the 
Ettrick  Shepherd.— Ed. 


WILLIAM   KENNEDY 


213 


Out  from  the  clachan,  the  bothie,  and  shieling, 

Bugle  and  battle  drum 

Bid  chief  and  vassal  come, 
Bravely  our  bagpipes  the  pibroch  is  peaUng. 

Men  of  the  mountains— descendants  of  heroes! 
Heirs  of  the  fame  as  the  hiUs  of  your  fathers; 
Say,  shall  the  Southern— the  Sassenach  fear  us 
\Vhen  to  the  war  peal  each  plaided  clan  gathers? 

Too  long  on  the  trophied  walls 

Of  your  ancestral  halls, 
Red  mst  hath  blunted  the  armour  of  Albin; 

Seize  then,  ye  mountain  Macs, 

Buckler  and  battle-axe. 
Lads  of  Lochaber,  Braemar,  and  Breadalbin! 

When  hath  the  tartan  plaid  mantled  a  coward? 
When  did  the  blue  bonnet  crest  the  disloyal  ? 
Up  then,  and  crowd  to  the  standard  of  Stuart, 
-  Follow  your  leader— the  rightful— the  royal! 

Chief  of  Clanronald, 

Donald  Macdonald! 
Lovat!  Lochiel!  with  the  Grant  and  the  Gordon! 

Rouse  every  kilted  clan. 

Rouse  every  loyal  man, 
Gun  on  the  shoulder,  and  thigh  tho  good  sword 
on! 


THERE  LIVES  A  YOUXG  LASSIE. 

There  lives  a  young  lassie 
Far  down  yoa  lang  glen; 


How  I  lo"e  that  lassie 

There's  nae  ane  can  ken! 
0!  a  saint's  faith  may  vary, 

But  faithful  I'll  be; 
For  weel  I  lo'e  Mary, 

An'  Mary  lo'es  me. 

Red,  red  as  the  rowan 

Her  smiling  wee  niou"; 
An'  white  as  the  gowan 

Her  breast  and  lier  brow! 
Wi'  a  foot  o'  a  fairy 

She  links  o'er  the  lea; 
01  weel  I  lo'e  ilary. 

An'  Mary  lo'es  me. 

She  sings  sweet  as  onie 

Wee  bird  of  the  air, 
And  she's  blithe  as  she's  bonnie, 

She's  guid  as  she's  fair; 
Like  a  lammie  sae  airy 

And  artless  is  she, 
01  weel  I  lo'e  ]\Iary, 

And  Mary  lo'es  me. 

Where  yon  tall  forest  timmer, 

An'  lowly  broom  bower, 
To  the  sunshine  o'  simmer 

Spread  verdure  an'  flower; 
There,  when  night  clouds  the  cary. 

Beside  her  I'll  be; 
For  weel  I  lo'e  ISIary, 

And  Mary  lo'es  mc. 


WILLIAM    KENNEDY. 


BORX  1799— Died  1849. 


William  Kennedy,  the  personal  friend  and 
literary  partner  of  William  Motherwell,  whose 
biographer  calls  him  an  "Iri.sh  gentleman," 
was  born  near  Paisley,^  Dec.  26, 1799.  Before 
he  was  twenty-five  years  of  age  he  published 
an  interesting  prose  story  called  "  My  Early 
Days;"  followed  in  1827  by  a  volume  of  short 
poems  under  the  name  of  -Fitful  Fancies," 

iDr  R  Shelton  Mackenzie  writes  to  iis(Feb.l.lS73):— 
"I  frequently  met  William  Kennedy  in  London  about 
1847  At  that  time  he  was  British  consul  at  Galveston, 
the  great  commercial  capital  of  Texas,  and  was  home 
on  leave  of  absence.  I  have  always  understood  that 
hs  was  a  Paisley  man.     .     .     •     He  was  a  tall,  slight. 


which  met  with  unusual  success.  In  1828-29 
he  was  associated  with  Motherwell  in  the  man- 
agement of  the  Paisley  Magazine,  pronounced 
at  the  time  to  be  the  best  edited  provincial 
periodical  published  in  Great  Britain.  Many 
of  Motherwell's  and  Kennedy's  poems  first 
appeared  in  its  columns.  The  magazine  was 
not,  however,  a  pecuniary  success,   and  was 

gentlemanly  person,  of  about  forty  five  or  fifty  years 
old  when  I  knew  him.  His  hair  was  of  a  golden  colour, 
manners  very  gentle,  not  much  of  a  talker,  and  very 
temperate  as  to  drink,  with  an  unusually  small  appe- 
tite. ...  I  think  he  died  about  1850,  but  I  cannot 
fiud  any  record  of  it  among  my  papere."— Ed. 


214 


WILLIAM  KENNEDY. 


therefore  abandoned.  In  1S30  there  appeared 
from  the  press  of  a  London  publisher  "The 
Arrow  and  the  Eose,  and  other  Poems,  by 
"William  Kennedy,"  in  a  handsome  8vo  volume, 
dedicated  to  Motherwell.  The  principal  poem  is 
founded  on  a  traditional  story  of  the  love  of 
Henry  IV.  of  France,  when  a  youth,  for  a  gar- 
deners daughter,  by  name  Fleurette,  and  was 
pronounced  by  Christopher  North  to  be  "ex- 
ceedingly graceful,  elegant,  and  pathetic."  An 
extract  from  "The  Arrow  and  the  Hose"  ap- 
pears among  the  following  selections  from 
Kennedy's  compositions;  but  we  find  more  to 
admire  among  his  minor  pieces,  which  are  char- 
acterized by  manly  vigour  and  tenderness. 

Having  taken  up  his  residence  in  London 
Kennedy  entered  upon  his  career  there  by  edit- 
ing, in  company  with  Leitch  Ilitchie,  a  maga- 
zine issued  monthly  by  Hurst  &  Chance,  at  the 
same  time  contributing  numerous  articles  in 
prose  and  verse  to  other  magazines  and  periodi- 
cals. "When  the  Earl  of  Durham  went  to 
Canada  Kennedy  accompanied  him  as  his  pri- 
vate secretary,  and  on  the  return  of  the  earl  to 
England  he  received  the  appointment  of  British 
consul  at  Galveston,  Texas,  where  he  resided 
for  many  years.  Before  crossing  the  Atlantic 
the  poet  visited  Scotland,  and  spent  some 
happy  hours  with  his  family  and  his  attached 
friend  ]\Iotherwell,  and  wrote  the  spirited 
stanzas  beginning  "I  love  the  land."  "When 
published  they  called  forth  another  poem  en- 


titled "The  Response,"  from  which  we  take 
the  following  lines: — 

"  I  love  it  too, — 
Ay,  and  I  love  it  well. 
Nor,  Kennedy,  the  muse"s  minion,  thou 
May  not  have  felt  thy  bosom  higher  swell. 
Than  mine  has  erst,  as  listless  verse  may  sliow; 
For  Albyn  owns  no  classic  lyre  can  tell 
Like  Kennedy's  what  tones  do  echo  through 
The  bursting  heart— what  time  the  weird-like  spell 
Comes  o'er  the  quiv'riug  lips  in  'fare  thee  well !' 
I  love  it  too." 

In  1841  Kennedy  published  in  London  the 
Rise,  Prorjress,  and  Profspects  of  the  EepuUic 
of  Texas,  in  two  Svo  vols.  He  returned  to 
England  in  1847,  and  retired  on  a  pension, 
taking  up  his  residence  near  London,  where 
he  died  in  1849.  Soon  after  landing  in  the 
Old  "World  he  again  visited  Scotland,  and 
while  there  he  wrote  the  beautiful  lines  in- 
spired by  a  visit  to  ]\Iotherwell's  then  unmarked 
grave  in  the  Necropolis  of  Glasgow. 

Sheriff  Bell  of  Glasgow  wrote  to  the  Editor 
of  this  "Work  as  follows:  "  I  was  well  ac([uainted 
with  the  late  William  Kennedy.  He  was  a 
man  of  considerable  genius,  and  died  compara- 
tively young  nearly  twenty  years  ago."  Allan 
Cunningham,  in  his  History  of  the  Literature 
of  the  last  Fifty  Years,  says,  "AVilliam  Ken- 
nedy has  fancy  and  feeling,  nor  is  he  without 
sudden  bursts  of  manly  vigour,  but  he  is  un- 
equal in  execution  and  occasionally  overstrained 
in  language." 


THE  ARROW  AND  THE  ROSE. 

(extract.) 


Against  a  pleasant  chestnut  tree 

A  youth,  not  yet  sixteen,  was  leaning; 
A  goodly  bow  he  had,  though  he 
Inclined  not  to  their  archery. 

But  with  a  look  of  meaning, 
A  wayward  smile,  just  half  subdued. 
Apart  the  sylvan  pastime  viewed. 
His  careless  cap,  his  garments  gray, 

His  fingers  strong — his  clear  brown  cheek 
And  hair  of  hapless  red,  you'd  say 

A  mountain  lad  did  speak — 
A  stripling  of  the  Bearnese  hills, 
Eeared  hardy  among  rocks  and  rills. 
But  his  rude  garb  became  him  well; 
His  gold  locks  softly,  curling  fell; 


His  face  with  soul  was  eloquent, 
His  features  delicately  blent, 
And  freely  did  his  quick  glance  roam. 
As  one  who  felt  himself  at  home 
"Where'er  a  warrior's  weapon  gleam'd. 
Or  the  glad  eye  of  beauty  beam'd. 

""What,  loitering  thus,  hope  of  Gnienne!" 

Cries  Guise's  duke,  advancing  near 
The  boy's  retreat— "A  wondering  man 

Am  I  to  find  you  here! 
Tlie  fiery  steed  brooks  not  the  stall 
AVhen  hound  and  horn  to  greenwood  call, 
xVnd  bowman  bold  will  chafe  to  be 
llestraiu'd  from  his  artillerie. 


WILLIAM  KENNEDY. 


215 


!My  liege  impatient  is  to  learn 

"Where  bides  tlie  merry  Prince  of  Bcarne." 

■With  solemn  tone  and  brow  demure 

Tlie  blossom  of  Navarre  replied, 
"Trust  me,  my  lord,  you  may  assure 

My  cousin  that  with  pride 
I'd  venture  in  the  morning's  sport, 
Had  I  been  perfected  at  court 
In  forest  lore.     The  little  skill 
I  boast  was  gleaned  on  woodland  hill, 
From  the  wild  hunters  of  our  land, 
AVho  Paris  modes  ill  understand. 
If  you  will  countenance  to-day 
Trial  of  our  provincial  way, 
I'll  take  my  chance  among  the  rest, 
And,  hap  what  will,  I'll  do  my  best." 

Loud  laughed  the  king,  and  cried,  "Agreed!" 

Ladies  and  lords  laughed  louder  still. 
The  buoyant  prince,  with  feathery  speed, 

Unheeding,  worked  his  will. 
At  a  tall  yeoman's  boldest  pace 
He  measured  o'er  the  shooting  space. 
Planted  an  orange  on  a  pole. 
And,  pointing,  said,  "Behold  the  goal!" 
Then  stood  as  practised  archers  stand 
AVheu  the  coy  deer  invites  the  hand. 

Back  to  his  ear  the  shaft  he  drew. 

And  gracefully,  as  he  had  been 
Apollo's  pupil — twang!  it  flew 
Eight  to  the  mark,  which,  pierced  core  through. 

Fell  sever'd  on  the  green. 
High  swell'd  the  plaudits  of  the  crowd; 
The  marksman  neither  spoke  nor  bow'd. 
But  braceil  him  for  a  second  shot, 

As  was  the  custom  of  the  play, 
"When  Charles,  in  accents  brief  and  hot, 

Desired  him  to  give  way, 
And  with  small  show  of  courtesy 
Displaced  him  ere  he  could  reply. 

His  generous  cheek  flush'd  into  flame- 
Trembled  from  head  to  heel  his  frame. 
Again  he  had  his  weapon  ready. 

His  eye  concentred  on  the  king, 
With  manhood's  mettle  burning  steady, 

A  fearful-looking  thing ! 
A  knight  the  amplest  in  the  field 
Served  the  scared  monarch  for  a  shield 
Until  his  cousin's  anger  slept. 
When  from  his  portly  screen  he  stept 
And  idly  strove  the  mark  to  hit, 
Passing  a  spear's  length  wide  of  it; 
Muttering  a  ban  on  bow  and  quiver. 
He  flung  them  both  into  the  river, 
And  straight  departed  from  the  scene. 
His  dignity  disturbed  by  spleen. 


France's  lost  laurel  to  regain, 
Guise  shot  and  cleft  the  fruit  in  twain. 
Harry  liked  little  to  divide 
The  garland  with  Parisian  pride, 
And  failing  at  the  time  to  find 
An  orange  suited  to  his  mind, 
Begg'd  from  a  blushing  country  maid 
A  red  rose  on  her  bosom  laid. 
Poor  girl !  it  was  not  in  her  power 
From  such  a  youth  to  save  the  flower! 
The  prize  was  his— triumphantly 
He  fixed  it  on  a  neighbouring  tree — 
His  bonnet  doff"ed  and  cleared  his  brow. 
While  beauty  whispered  "Kote  him  now." 
A  moment,  and  the  sweet  rose  shiver'd 
Beneath  the  shaft  that  in  it  quiver'd. 

He  bore  the  arrow  and  its  crest, 

The  wounded  flower,  to  the  fair. 
The  pressure  of  whose  virgin  breast 

It  late  seem'd  proud  to  bear. 
Shrinking,  she  wished  herself  away 
As  the  young  prince,  with  bearing  gay 
And  gallant  speech,  before  her  bent. 
Like  victor  at  a  tournament— 
"Damsel!  accept  again,"  he  said, 
"With  this  steel  stalk,  thy  favourite,  dead! 
Unwept  it  perished — for  there  glows 
On  thy  soft  cheek  a  lovelier  rose  I " 


THE  DIRGE  OF  THE   LAST 
CONQUEROR. 

The  flag  of  battle  on  its  staff  hangs  drooping— 

The  thundering  artilleiy  is  still— 
The  wai-horse  pines,  and,  o'er  his  sabre  stooping, 

His  rider  grieves  for  his  neglected  skill : 
The  chief  who  swept  the  ruddy  tide  of  glory, 
The  conqueror!  now  only  lives  in  story. 

Mourn,  nations!  mourn!  the  godlike  man's  no 
more, 

Who   fired    your  roofs,    and    quench'd    your 
hearths  with  gore! 

Skies,  baleful  blue— harvests  of  hateful  yellow- 
Bring  sad  assurance  that  he  is  not  here; 
Where  waved  his  plume  the  grape  forgot  to  mel- 
low, 
He  changed  the  pruning-hook  into  the  spear. 
But  peace  and  her  dull  train  are  fast  returning, 
And  so  farewell  to  famine,  blood,  and  burning! 
Mourn,  nations!  mourn!  the  godlike  man's  no 

more, 
Who   fired   your   roofs,   and    quench'd    your 
hearths  with  gore  I 


216 


WILLIAM   KENNEDY. 


Hopes  of  tlio  young  and  strong,  they're  all  de- 
parted— 
Dishonour'd  manhood  tills  the  ungrateful  farm ; 
Parents!    life's  balm  hath   fled  —  now,   broken- 
hearted, 
Deplore  the  fate  that  bids  your  sons  disarm. 
0  heavenly  times!  when  your  own  gold  was  paying 
Your  gallant  sons  for  being  slain,  or  slaying ! 
Moum,  nations!  mourn!  the  godlike  man's  no 

more, 
Who   fired    your  roofs,   and    quench'd    your 
hearths  with  gore! 

Bud  of  our  island's  virtue!  thou  art  blighted, 
Since  war's  hot  breath  abroad  hath  ceased  to 
blow; 
Instead    of    clashing    swords,    soft    hearts    are 
plighted. 
Hands  joined,  and  household  goblets  made  to 
flow; 
And  for  the  ocean-roar  of  hostile  meeting, 
Land  wafts  to  land  Concord's  ignoble  greeting. 
Mourn,  nations!  mourn!  the  godlike  man's  no 

more, 
Who   fired    your  roofs,    and    quench'd    your 
hearths  with  gore  I 

The  apple-tree  is  on  the  rampart  growing; 

On  the  stern  battlement  the  wall-flower  blooms; 

The  stream  that  roU'd  blood-red  is  faintly  glowing 

With  summer's  rose,  which  its  green  banks 

perfumes; 

The  helm  thr.t  girt  the  brow  of  the  undaunted 

By  peasant  hands  with  garden  shrubs  is  planted. 

Mourn,  nations!  mourn!  the  godlike  man's  no 

more. 
Who   fired   your   roofs,    and    quench'd    your 
hearths  with  gore! 

Men  wax  obscurely  old — the  city  sleeper 

Starts  not  at  horse-tramp  or  deep  bugle-horn; 
The  grenadier  consoles  no  lovely  weeper. 

Above  her  sullen  kindred's  bodies  borne; 
The  people  smile,  and  regal  pride's  declining, 
Since  round  imperial  brows  the  olive's  twining. 

Mourn,  nations!  mourn!  the  godlike  man's  no 
more, 

Wlio   fired    your  roofs,    and    quench'd    your 
hearths  with  gore ! 


THE  riRATE'S  SERENADE.^ 

My  boat's  by  the  tower,  my  bark's  in  the  bay, 
And  both  must  be  gone  ere  the  dawn  of  the  day; 
The  moon's  in  her  shroud,  but  to  guide  thee  afar. 


On  the  deck  of  the  Daring's  a  love-lighted  star; 
Then  wake,  lady !  wake !  I  am  waiting  for  thee. 
And  this  night  or  never  my  bride  thou  shalt  be! 

Forgive  my  rough  mood,  unaccustomed  to  sue, 
I  woo  not,  iJerchance,  as  your  land  lovers  woo; 
My  voice  has  been  tuned  to  the  notes  of  the  gun. 
That  startle  the  deep  when  the  combat's  begun; 
And  heavy  and  hard  is  the  grasp  of  a  hand 
Whose  glove  has  been  ever  the  guard  of  a  brand. 

Yet  think  not  of  these,  but  this  moment  be  mine. 
And  the  plume  of  the  proudest  shall  cower  to 

thine; 
A  hundred  shall  serve  thee,  the  best  of  the  brave. 
And  the  chief  of  a  thousand  will  kneel  as  thy 

slave ; 
Thou  shalt  rule  as  a  queen,  and  thy  empire  shall 

last 
Till  the  red  flag,  by  inches,  is  torn  from  the  mast. 

0 !  islands  there  are,  on  the  face  of  the  deep, 
Where  the  leaves  never  fade,  where  the  skies 

never  weep; 
And  there,  if  thou  wilt,  shall  our  love  bower  be. 
When  we  quit,  for  the  greenwood,  our  home  on 

the  sea; 
And  there  shalt  thou  sing  of  the  deeds  that  were 

done, 
When  we  braved  the  last  blast,  and  the  last  battle 

won. 

Then  haste,  lady!  haste!  for  the  fair  breezes  blow, 
As  my  ocean-bird  poises  her  pinions  of  snow; 
Now  fast  to  the  lattice  these  silken  ropes  twine. 
They  are  meet  for  such  feet  and  such  fingers  as 

thine ; 
The  signal,  my  mates — ho!  hurra  for  the  sea! 
This  night  and  for  ever  my  bride  thou  shalt  be. 


I   LOVE  THE  LAND. 

( WRITTEN   ON    LEAVING   SCOTLAND.) 

I  love  the  land ! 
I  see  its  mountains  hoary. 

On  which  Time  vainly  lays  his  iron  hand; 
I  see  the  valleys  robed  in  sylvan  glory. 

And  many  a  lake  with  lone,  romantic  strand; 
And  streams  and  towers,  by  immortal  story 

Ordained  heart-stirring  monuments  to  stand ; 
Yet  tower,  stream,  lake,  or  valley  could  not  move 

me. 
Nor  the  star-wooing  mountain,  thus  to  love  thee, 
Old,  honour'd  land ! 


'  The  "Serenade"  is  everywhere  sung  throughout  the  |  i  love  the  land  . 

United  States,  and  his  "Camii  Song"  is  one  of  tlie  I  I  hear  of  distant  ages, 
popular  and  well-established  favourites  in  Texas.— Ed.  I       A  voice  proclaiming  that  it  still  was  free; 


JAMES   TELFEE. 


21'; 


That  from  the  hills  where  winter  wildest  rages 

Swept  forth  the  rushing  winds  of  Liberty; 
That  blazoned  brightly  on  the  noblest  pages 
E'er  stamped   by  Fame   its   children's  deeds 
shall  be. 
Oh!  poor  pretender  to  a  poet's  feeling 
Were  he  who  heard  such  voice  in  vain  appealing: 
I  love  the  land ! 

I  love  the  land ! 
My  fathers  lived  and  died  there; 

But  not  for  that  the  homage  of  their  son; 
I  found  the  spirit  in  its  native  pride  there- 
Unfettered    thoughts  —  right   actions   boldly 
done; 
I  also  found  (the  memory  shall  preside  here, 
Thi-oned  in  this  breast,  till  life's  tide  cease  to 
run) 
Affection  tried  and  tiiie  from  men  high-hearted. 
Once  more,  as  when  from  those  kind  friends  I 

parted, 

God  bless  the  land ! 


LmES 


WRITTEN    AFTER  A  VISIT   TO   THE   GRAVE  OF   MY 
FRIEND   WILLIAM   MOTHERWELL,    NOV.    1S47. 

Place  we  a  stone  at  his  head  and  his  feet; 
Sprinkle  his  sward  with  the  small  flowers  sweet; 
Piously  hallow  the  poet's  retreat, 

Ever  approvingly. 

Ever  most  lovingly. 
Turned  he  to  nature,  a  worshipper  meet. 


Harm  not  the  thorn  which  grows  at  his  head; 
Odorous  honours  its  blossoms  will  shed. 
Grateful  to  him,  early  summoned,  who  sped 

Hence,  not  unwillingly — 

For  he  felt  thrilhngly— 
To  rest  his  poor  heart  'mong  the  low-lying  dead. 

Dearer  to  him  than  the  deep  minster  bell. 
Winds  of  sad  cadence,  at  midnight,  will  swell. 
Vocal  -ivith  sorrows  he  knoweth  too  well. 

Who,  for  the  early  day, 

Plaining  this  roimdelay, 
Might  his  own  fate  from  a  brother's  foretell. 

Worldly  ones  treading  this  ten-ace  of  graves, 
Grudge  not  the  minstrel  the  little  he  craves. 
When   o'er   the   snow-mound    the   winter-blast 
raves — 

Tears— which  devotedly, 

Though  all  unnotcdly. 
Flow  from  theu-  spring  in  the  soul's  silent  caves. 

Dreamers  of  noble  thoughts,  raise  him  a  shrine. 
Graced  with  the  beauty  which  lives  in  his  hue; 
Strew  with  pale  fiow'rets,  when  pensive  moons 
shine. 

His  grassy  covering. 

Where  spirits,  hovering. 
Chant  for  his  requiem  music  divine. 

Not  as  a  record  he  lacketh  a  stone! 

Pay  a  hght  debt  to  the  singer  we've  known— 

Proof  that  our  love  for  his  name  hath  not  flown 

With  the  frame  perishing — 

That  we  are  cherishing 
FeeUngs  akin  to  the  lost  poet's  own. 


JAMES    TELFEE 


Born  1800  — Died  1862. 


James  Telfer,  for  twenty-five  years  a  school- 
master who  was  "passing  rie-h  with  forty 
pounds  a  year,"  was  boru  iu  the  parish  of 
Southdean,  Roxburghshire,  Dec.  3,  1800.  At 
first  he  followed  his  father's  occupation  of  a 
shepherd.  A  very  great  admirer  of  the  Ettrick 
Shepherd's  "Queen's  Wake,"  he  while  quite 
young  determined  to  produce  some  ballads 
similar  to  those  contained  in  that  charming 
work,  and  in  1821  he  published  at  Jedburgh 
a  volume  of  Border  Ballads  and  Miscellaneous 
Poems,  which  obtained  for  him  something  more 


than  a  local  reputation.  It  contained  some 
fine  lines,  such  as  the  fairy  ballad  of  the 
"Gloamyne  Buchte,"  which  is  remarkable  for 
its  tenderness.  The  style  and  measure  of 
others  of  his  pieces  are  as  wild  and  graphic 
as  the  old  specimens  of  Scottish  ballads. 
The  volume  was  dedicated  to  James  Hogg 
in  a  few  sweetly  modulated  lines.  In  1835 
Telfer  published  "  Barbara  Gray,"  a  well 
written  and  interesting  prose  tale.  He  was 
also  a  frequent  contributor  in  prose  and  verse 
to  the  magazines,  and  like  the  Ettrick  Shep- 


218 


JAMES   TELFEE. 


herd  excelled  in  weird  and  wild  subjects, 
fair}'  legends,  and  folk-lore.  He  contributed 
several  stories  to  Wilson's  Tales  of  the  Borders. 
A  collected  edition  of  his  best  productions  in 
prose  and  verse  was  published  in  London  in 
1852,  with  the  title  of  Tales  and  Sketches. 

Telfer  had  abandoned  the  crook,  and  having 
qualified  himself  he  for  a  time  kept  a  school  at 
Castleton,  Langliolm,  and  for  the  last  twenty- 
five  years  of  his  life  he  was  the  schoolmaster 
at  Saughtrees,  Liddesdale,  where  in  his  humble 
but  happy  home  he  was  freauently  visited  by 


the  Ettrick  Shepherd.  His  attainments  were 
rewarded  with  a  salary  of  some  forty  pounds 
per  annum — a  reward  not  unlike  that  conferred 
on  Mr.  Abraham  Adams  in  Josejih  Andrews, 
Avho  being  a  scholar  and  a  man  of  virtue  was 
"  provided  with  a  handsome  income  of  twenty- 
three  pounds  a  year,  which,  however,  he  could 
not  make  a  great  figure  with,  because  he  lived 
in  a  dear  country,  and  was  a  little  encumbered 
with  a  wife  and  six  children."  Telfer  was  a 
most  exemplary  man  and  a  vigorous  writer.  He 
died  January  18,1862,  in  his  sixty-second  year. 


THE    GLOAMYNE    BUCHTE. 


The  sun  was  reid  as  a  furnace  mouthe, 

As  he  sank  on  the  Ettricke  hyll; 
And  gloamyn  gatherit  from  the  easte, 

The  dowye  world  to  fill. 

When  bonnye  Jeanye  Roole  shemilkit  theyowes, 

r  the  buchte  aboon  the  lynne; 
And  they  were  wilde  and  ill  to  weare. 

But  the  hindmost  buchtfu'  was  inne. 

0  milk  them  weil,  my  bonnye  Jeanye  Roole, 

The  wylye  shepherd  could  say, 
And  sing  to  me  "  The  Keache  i'  the  Creel," 

To  put  the  tyme  away. 

It's  fer  owre  late  at  e'en,  shepherd, 

Replyed  the  maiden  fair; 
The  fairies  wad  hear,  quo'  bonny  Jeanye  Roole, 

And  wi'  louting  my  back  is  sair. 

lie's  ta'en  her  round  the  middel  sae  sma'. 
While  the  yowes  ran  bye  between. 

And  out  o'  the  buchte  he's  layd  her  down, 
And  all  on  the  dewye  green. 

The  star  o'  love  i'  the  eastern  lifte 

Was  the  only  e'e  they  saw; — 
The  only  tongue  that  they  might  hear 

Was  the  lynne's  deep  murmuring  fa'. 

0  who  can  tell  of  youthfu'  love! 

0  who  can  sing  or  say ! 
It  is  a  theme  for  minstrel  meete, 

xVnd  yet  transcends  his  lay. 

It  is  a  thraldome,  well  I  wcene, 

To  hold  the  heart  in  sylke; 
It  is  a  draught  to  craze  the  braiuc, 

Yet  mylder  than  the  mylke. 


0  sing  me  the  sang,  my  bonnye  Jeanye  Roole, 
Now,  dearest,  sing  to  mel 

The  angels  will  listen  at  yon  little  holes, 
And  witness  my  vowes  to  thee. 

1  mayna  refuse,  quo'  bonnye  Jeanye  Roole, 
Sae  weel  ye  can  me  winne: 

And  she  satte  in  his  armis,  and  sweetly  she  sang. 
And  her  voice  rang  frae  the  lynne. 

The  liltings  o'  that  sylver  voice. 

Might  weel  the  Avits  beguile; 
They  clearer  were  than  shepherd's  pipe 

Heard  o'er  the  hylls  a  mile. 

The  liltings  o'  that  sylver  voice. 

That  rose  an'  fell  so  free. 
They  softer  were  than  lover's  lute. 

Heard  o'er  a  sleeping  sea. 

The  liltings  o'  that  sylver  voice 

Were  melody  sae  true; 
They  sprang  up-through  the  welkin  wide 

To  the  heaven's  keystane  blue. 

Sing  on,  sing  on,  my  bonnye  Jeanye  Roole, 

Sing  on  your  sang  sae  sweet; — 
Now  Chryste  me  save!  quo'  the  bonnye  lass, 

W^hence  comes  that  waesome  greete? 

They  turned  their  gaze  to  the  Jlourning  Cleuch, 
W'here  the  greeting  seemed  to  be. 

And  there  beheld  a  little  greene  bairnc 
Come  o'er  tiie  darksome  lea. 

And  aye  it  raised  a  waesome  greete, 

Butte  and  an  eiry  crye, 
Untille  it  came  to  the  buchte  fauld  ende, 

Where  the  wynsome  payr  did  lye. 


JAMES  TELFEE. 


219 


It  lookit  around  with  its  snail-cap  eyne, 

That  made  their  hearts  to  grou ; 
Than  turned  upright  its  grass-green  face, 

And  opend  its  goblyne  mou'; 

Then  raised  a  youle,  sae  loude  and  lange — 

Sae  yerlish  and  sae  shrille, 
As  dirled  up  throwe  the  twinkling  holes 

The  second  lifte  untille. 

I  tell  the  tale  as  tolde  to  me, 

I  swear  so  by  my  faye ; 
And  whether  or  not  of  glamourye, 

In  soothe  I  cannot  say. 

That  youling  yowte  sae  yerlish  was, 

Butte  and  sae  lang  and  loude, 
The  rysing  moone  like  saffron  grewe. 

And  holed  ahint  a  cloude. 

And  round  the  boddome  o'  the  lifte. 

It  rang  the  worild  tlirough, 
And  boomed  against  the  milkye  waye, 

Afore  it  closed  its  mou'. 

Then  neiste  it  raised  its  note  and  sang 

Sae  witchinglye  and  sweete, 
The  moudies,  powtelit  out  o'  the  yirth, 

And  kyssed  the  synger's  feete. 

The  waizle  dunne  frae  the  auld  grey  cairn, 

The  theiffe  foulmart  came  nighe; 
The  hureheon  raxed  his  scory  chafts. 

And  gepit  wi'  girniug  joye. 

The  todde  he  came  frae  the  Screthy  holes. 

And  courit  fou  cunninglye; 
The  stinkin'  brocke  wi'  his  lang  lank  lyske, 

Shotte  up  his  gruutle  to  see. 

The  kidde  and  martyne  ranne  a  race 

Amang  the  dewye  feme; 
The  mawkin  gogglet  i'  the  synger's  face, 

Th"  enchanting  notes  to  learne. 

The  pert  little  eskis  they  curlit  their  tails, 

And  danced  a  myrthsome  reele; 
The  tade  held  up  her  auld  dunne  lufes, 

She  likit  the  sang  sae  weele. 

The  herone  came  frae  the  witch-pule  tree. 
The  houlet  frae  Deadwood  howe; 

The  auld  gray  corbie  hoverit  aboone, 
While  tears  down  his  cheeks  did  flowe. 

The  yowes  they  lap  out-owre  the  buchte, 

And  skippit  up  and  downe; 
And   bonnye  Jeanye  Koole  i'  the  shepherd's 
armis, 

Fell  back  out-owre  in  a  swoone. 


It  might  be  glamourye  or  not, 

In  sooth  I  cannot  say, 
It  was  the  witching  time  of  night — 

The  hour  o'  gloamyne  gray, 
And  she  that  lay  in  her  loveris  armis 

I  wis  was  a  weel-faured  Maye. 

Her  pulses  all  were  beatinge  trewe. 

Her  heart  was  loupinge  lighte, 
Unto  that  wondrous  melody — 

That  simple  song  of  mighte. 

THK   SONGK. 

0  where  is  tinye  He  we? 
O  where  is  little  Lenne? 
And  where  is  bonnye  Lu? 
And  Menie  o'  the  glenne  ? 
And  Where's  the  place  o'  rest? 
The  ever  changing  hame — 
Is  it  the  gowan's  breast, 
Or 'neath  the  bell  o' faem? 

Chorus.— Ay  lu  Ian,  Ian  dil  y'u,  &c. 

The  fairest  rose  you  finde 
May  have  a  taint  withinne; 
The  flower  o'  womankinde. 
May  ope  her  breast  to  sinne. 
The  foxglove  cuppe  you'll  bring. 
The  taile  of  shootinge  sterne. 
And  at  the  grassy  ring, 
AVe'U  pledge  the  pith  o'  feme. 

Chorus. — Ay  lu  Ian,  Ian  dil  y'u,  &c. 

And  when  the  blushing  moone 
Glides  down  the  western  skye. 
By  streamer's  wing  we  soon 
Upon  her  top  will  lye; — 
Her  hichest  horn  we'll  ride, 
And  quaffe  her  yellowe  dewe; 
And  frae  her  skaddowye  side, 
The  burning  daye  we'll  viewe. 

Chorus.— Ay  lu  Ian,  Ian  dil  y'u,  &c. 

The  straine  raise  high,  the  straine  fell  low, 

Then  fainted  fitfullye; 
And  bonnye  Jeanye  Eoole  she  lookit  up. 

To  see  what  she  might  see. 

She  lookit  hiche  to  the  bodynge  hille, 
And  laighe  to  the  darklynge  deane; — 

She  heard  the  soundis  still  ringin'  i'  the  lifte, 
But  naethinge  could  be  scene. 

She  held  her  breathe  with  anxious  care. 
And  thought  it  all  a  dreame; — 

But  an  eiry  nicher  she  heard  i'  the  linne. 
And  a  plitch-platch  in  the  streime. 


220 


JAMES  TELFEE. 


Js^ever  a  Avord  said  bonnye  Jeanj^e  Roole, 
Butte,  shepherd,  lette  us  gange; 

And  never  mair,  at  a  Gloamyne  Buchte, 
AVald  she  singe  another  sange. 


SAINT   ULLIN'S  PILGRIM. 

"Remain  with  us,  thou  gentle  guest, 
Remain  with  us,  till  morning  stay: 
The  daylight's  dying  in  the  west, 
And  long  and  lonesome  is  the  way. 

"My  sons  to  wake  the  deer  are  gone 

In  far  Glen  AfFric's  wild-wood  glade; 
Flora  and  I  are  left  alone, 

Give  us  thy  company,  dear  maid. 

"Think  not  that  covert  guile  doth  lie 
Disguised  in  garb  of  fair  good-will. 
The  name  of  hospitality 

Is  sacred  on  the  Highland  hill. 

"Wert  thou  the  daughter  of  my  foe, 

As  thou'rt  the  Saxon  stranger's  child, 
I  would  not,  could  not  let  thee  go 
To  be  benighted  in  the  wild. 

"Flora,  my  darling,  cheer  prepare, 

And  bid  the  maid  our  welcome  prove; 
Old  Kenneth  of  the  snowy  hair 

Is  young  to  see  his  daughter's  love." 

"Entreat  me  not,  thou  good  old  man," 

With  falt'ring  tongue  the  maid  replied, 

"  I  must  pursue  my  wayward  plan, — 
I  may  not,  cannot  here  abide." 

"Ah!  maiden,  wayward  sure  thou  art. 
And  if  thou  must,  thou  must  be  gone; 
Yet  was  it  never  Kenneth's  part 
To  send  the  helpless  forth  alone. 

"All-blighting  Time  hath  me  subdued, 
Mine  eyes  are  glazed  and  dim  of  ken. 
The  way  is  rugged,  waste  and  rude — 
Glenelchaig  is  a  dreary  glen. 

"Yet  Flora  will  her  father  aid. 

So  speaks  that  bright  e.xpressive  eye; — 
Shall  we  desert  the  stranger  maid, 
When  other  aid  none  else  is  nigh?" 

"0  kind  old  man,"  the  maiden  spoke, 
"All  human  aid  I  must  forego. 
My  sacred  vow  must  not  be  broke — 
The  vow  the  living  must  not  know. 


"Farewell!  entreat  not,  Ol  farewell." 
So  said,  she  sped  away  in  haste; 
Deep,  deep  the  gloom  of  evening  fell, 
And  heaven  and  earth  were  all  a  waste. 

"Abate  thy  grief,  thou  white-hair'd  man, 
And,  lovely  Flora,  cease  to  weep; 
For  Heaven  the  heart  can  truly  scan, 
And  doth  of  love  remembrance  keep. 

"For  He  who  is  our  trust  and  might, 
And  who  is  with  His  own  alway. 
As  nigh  us  is  in  shades  of  night, 
As  in  the  brightest  beams  of  day. 

"His  presence  shield  the  maiden's  soul !  " — 
The  gloom  now  dark  and  darker  hung; 
AVith  wild,  continuous,  fearful  iiowl 

Each  glen,  each  cliff,  each  cavern  rung. 

Yet  held  .she  on— avaunt,  dismay! — 
O'er  sparry  ledge  and  rolling  stone; 

Rude,  dark,  and  toilsome,  was  the  way, 
And  all  untrod,  yet  held  she  on. 

Yet  held  she  on,  by  hill  and  stream. 

Thro'  tearing  brakes  and  sinking  swamps, 

"While  savage  eyes  around  her  gleam 
Like  half-extinguished  cavern  lamps. 

She  heard  the  Glomah,  ever  dark. 

Like  wakening  thunder  deeply  moan; 

And  louder  heard  the  howl  and  bark. 

With  scream,  and  hiss,  and  shriek,  and 
groan. 

She  came  beneath  that  fatal  rock 

Where  horror  lower'd  in  tenfold  wrath— 

A  hamlet  here,^  the  mountain  broke, 
And  life  was  overwhelmed  in  death. 

She  deem'd  she  heard  the  bursting  crash, 
The  agonized  and  stifled  shriek; 

Her  senses  reel,  her  ear-drums  dash, 
Her  eyeballs  strain  well  nigh  to  break. 

Yet  sped  she  on,  her  heart  beat  high. 

So  loud  it  did  itself  alarm; 
She  crossed  at  length  the  Altondye, 

Then  lighter  grew  her  thoughts  of  harm. 

Still  sped  she  on  by  rock  and  bush. 

Her  tender  limbs  much  grievance  found; 

She  heard  the  streams  of  Fahda  rush. 

And    hollow    tongues    were    whispering 
round. 

1  Tliere  is  a  pass  in  Glenelchaig  nearly  blocked  up 
with  detached  pieces  of  rock.  Here,  says  tradition,  was 
once  a  village,  and  the  rock  ahove  giving  way  in  the 
night  buried  it  and  all  its  inhabitants. — Ed. 


JAMES   TELFEK. 


221 


KiluUin^  met  her  sight  at  length — 

Corpse  candles  burnt  with  livid  flame — 

Xow  Heaven  assist  the  maiden's  strength, 
'Tis  much  to  bear  for  mortal  frame. 

As  near'd  she  to  the  camp  of  death, 

The  lights  dancei  in  the  yawning  blast. 

And  sheeted  spectres  crossed  her  path, 
All  gibbering  ghastly  as  they  pass"d. 

Yet  high  resolve  could  nothing  harm, 
Sped  on  the  maiden  free  of  scathe; 

Night's  clammy  dews  fell  thick  and  warm. 
The  sulph'ry  air  was  hot  to  breathe. 

She  reached  at  length  Saint  Ullin's  stone, 
Composed  in  effort  thereon  sate; 

Thou  Power  that  yet  hast  led  her  on, 
Enstrengthen  her  the  end  to  wait! 

She  knelt  her  by  the  slumbering  saint. 
Viper  and  toad  around  her  crawl; 

Yet  swerv'd  she  not — her  soul  grew  faint, 
In  prayer  her  lips  did  move — 'twas  all. 

A  languor  chilled  the  living  stream, 
She  sunk  upon  the  mould  of  death: 

Say  did  she  sleep  as  those  who  dream, 
Or  sleep  as  those  who  slept  beneath? 

Her  sleep  was  not  that  mortal  night 
In  which  the  spirit  leaves  the  clay; 

'Twas  wak'ning  to  a  vision  bright 
Of  light  and  everlasting  day. 

'Twas  wak'ning  in  another  sphere, 
A  fairer,  purer,  holier,  higher; 

Where  all  is  eye,  where  all  is  ear, 
Where  all  is  gratified  desire. 

Burst  on  her  sight  that  world  of  bliss. 
Where  woe  and  death  may  never  come; 

She  heard  the  hymns  of  Paradise, 
Where  not  a  tuneful  breeze  is  dumb. 

She  saw  Life's  river  flowing  wide. 
With  Love  and  Mercy  on  the  brim, 

Compared  unto  its  crystal  tide 

The  splendour  of  our  sun  was  dim. 

And  on  that  tide  were  floating  isles, 
With  bowers  of  ever-verdant  green, 

Where  sate  beneath  th'  eternal  smiles 
Those  who  on  earth  had  faithful  been. 

She  heard  the  hallelujahs  rise 

From  those  who  stood  before  the  throne; 


Kilullin,  literally  the  burying-place  of  Ullan.— Ed. 


She  turned  aside  her  mortal  eyes 

From  what  they  might  not  look  upon. 

Her  lovely  face  she  strove  to  hide, 
It  was,  as  angel's,  mild  and  fair; 

She  felt  a  tear  spontaneous  glide. 

She  thought  of  one  she  saw  not  there. 

A  shining  seraph  to  her  came. 
In  melody  his  accents  moved, — 
"Fair  virgin  of  the  mortal  frame, 

Thy  steadfast  faith  is  well  approved. 

'"Twas  seen  thy  soul  devoid  of  stain — 
'Twas  seen  thy  earthly  passion  pure — 
Thou  deem'st  thy  love  in  battle  slain — 
'Twas  seen  what  virtue  can  endure. 

"'Twas  seen  your  souls  asunder  rent — 
Each  to  its  better  being  lost; 
In  pity  was  a  vision  sent — 

You  both  are  proved,  and  faith  shall  boast. 

"Cease  not  to  love  while  life  shall  last, 

And  smooth  your  path  shall  love  divine; 
And  when  your  mortal  time  is  past. 
This  visioned  blissful  land  is  thine." 

He  ceased,— the  maiden  raised  her  eye, 
His  radiant  form  she  could  not  mark; 

She  heard  the  music  fall  and  die — 
The  vision  pass'd,  confused  and  dark. 

She  felt  her  heart  give  fitful  thrill- 
She  felt  the  life-stream  slowly  play — 

She  thought  she  heard  tlie  lark  sing  shrill- 
She  thought  she  saw  the  breaking  day. 

She  felt  impressed  a  glowing  kiss. 

She  heard  the  well-known  accents  move — 

She  started  round — 0  powers  of  bliss! 
'Tis  Allan  Samradh — he,  her  love! 

Can  fleeting  visions  sense  enslave? 

No,  these  are  past,  she  doth  not  sleep; 
'Tis  he  for  whom  she  death  could  brave, — 

For  whom  her  eyes  in  heaven  could  weep. 

The  sun  above  the  mountains  bright 
Streamed  liquid  gold  o'er  land  and  sea; 

Earth,  ocean,  sky,  did  float  in  light. 
And  Nature  raised  her  hymns  of  glee. 

Our  lovers  saw  not  sea  nor  sun, 

They  heard  not  Nature's  matin  hymn ; 

Their  souls  were  pour'd  from  one  to  one- 
Each  other's  eyes,  all  else  was  dim. 


222 


LOED   KINLOCH. 


Oil,  WILL   YE   WALK] 

"Oh,  Avill  ye  Avalk  the  wood  wi'  mel 
Oh,  will  ye  walk  the  green? 
Or  will  ye  sit  within  mine  arms, 
My  ain  kind  Jean?" 

"It's  I'll  not  walk  the  wood  wi'  thee, 
Nor  yet  will  I  the  green; 
And  as  for  sitting  in  your  arms. 
It's  what  I  dinna  mean." 

"Ohl  slighted  love  is  ill  to  thole. 
And  weel  may  I  compleen; 
But  since  that  better  niayna  be, 
I  e'en  maun  thol't  for  Jean." 

"Gang  up  to  May  o'  Mistycleugh, 
Ye  saw  her  late  yestreen ; 
YVU  find  in  her  a  lightsome  love 
Ye  winna  find  in  Jean." 


'Wi'  bonny  May  o'  Mistycleugh 

I  carena  to  be  seen ; 
Her  lightsome  love  I'd  freely  g 
For  half  a  blink  frae  Jean." 


.e 


"Gang  down  to  Madge  o'  Miryfaulds, 
1  ken  for  her  ye  green; 
Wi'  her  yc'll  get  a  purse  o'  gowd — 
Ye'U  naething  get  wi'  Jean." 

"For  doity  Madge  o'  Miryfaukls 
I  dinna  care  a  preen ; 
The  purse  o'  gowd  I  weel  could  want, 
If  I  could  hae  my  Jean." 

"Oh  yes!  I'll  walk  the  wood  Avi'  thee; 
Oh  yes!  I'll  walk  the  green; 
But  first  ye'll  meet  me  at  the  kirk. 
And  mak'  me  aye  jour  Jean." 


LOED    KINLOCH 


Born  1801  —  Died  1872. 


William  Penney,  although  not  one  of  the 
great  masters  of  song,  is  entitled  to  a  niche  in 
our  gallery  as  the  author  of  numerous  meri- 
torious religious  poems.  He  was  the  son  of 
^Ir.  William  Penney,  a  respectable  Glasgow 
merchant,  and  was  born  in  that  city  Aug.  8, 
1801.  He  was  educated  at  the  university 
there,  and  selecting  the  profession  of  the  law, 
he  passed  advocate  at  the  age  of  twenty-three. 
His  talents  and  industry  insured  him  suc- 
cess, and  in  1858  he  was  appointed  a  judge 
of  the  Court  of  Session,  taking  the  title  of 
Lord  Kinloch.  His  first  publication,  entitled 
Tlie  Circle  of  Christian  Doctrine,  appeared  in 
1861,  followed  in  1863  by  "  Time's  Treasure, 
or  Devout  Thoughts  for  Every  Day  in  the 
Year,  expressed  in  verse,  by  Lord  Kinloch." 
"I  offer  this  volume,"  he  remarks  in  the  pre- 


face, "as  a  collection  of  thoughts  rather  than 
poems.  My  design  is  simply  to  present,  day 
by  day,  a  brief  exercise  of  devout  reflection, 
which,  actually  performed  by  one  Christian, 
may  be  fitly  repeated  by  othei-s:  expressed  in 
that  form  of  language,  which,  as  it  is  peculiarly 
appropriate  to  the  divine  praise,  is  on  that 
account  specially  fitted  to  be  the  vehicle  of 
religious  meditation.  The  object  of  the  volume 
is  not  an  exhibition  of  poetic  fancy,  but  an 
expression  of  Christian  life."  Times  Treasure 
has  been  favourably  received,  and  has  passed 
through  four  editions.  Lord  Kinlocli's  other 
works  are  Faith's  Jervels,  2^resent<'d  in  Verse ; 
Studies  for  Sunday  Evening;  Headings  in  Holy 
Writ;  and  Devoid  Moments:  a  selection  from 
Time's  Treastire.  He  died  at  Hartrigge,  near 
Jedburgh,  Oct.  30,  1872. 


GIFTS    TO    GOD. 


I  gathered,  Lord,  of  flowers  the  fairest, 

For  thee  to  twine; 
I  hoarded  gems,  of  hue  the  rarest, 

To  make  them  thine: 


But  thou  mine  off'er  so  preventedst, 

By  gift  from  thee,  beyond  my  thought. 

That,  whilst  I  took  what  thou  presentedst, 
I  was  ashamed  to  give  thee  ought. 


LOED   KINLOCH. 


223 


My  gifts  appeared  so  poor  and  meagre, 

Matched  with  thy  boon, 
I  straightway  grew  to  hide  them  eager; 

But  thou,  full  soon, 
Smil'dst,   as  thou  saidst,    "  Hast  nought 
render 

Of  all  thou  from  my  grace  hast  gained  ?" 
Then  all  I  gave  thee;  and  the  tender 

From  thine  acceptance  worth  obtained. 


to 


A   LOST   DAY. 

Say  not  thou  hast  lost  a  day, 

If,  amidst  its  weary  hours. 

Gloomy  thoughts,  and  flagging  powers. 
Thou  hast  found  that  thou  could'st  pray. 

By  a  single  earnest  prayer, 

Thou  may'st  much  of  work  have  done; 

Much  of  wealth  and  progress  won, 
Yielded  not  by  toil  and  care. 

To  thy  dear  ones,  then  embraced. 

Thou  may'st  wondrous  help  have  lent; 
Message  full  of  love  have  sent ; 

Given  a  fortune  free  from  waste. 

If  one  thought  was  upward  thrown, 
'Twas  to  eyes  in  heaven  a  sign; 
'Twas  to  heavenly  treasures  coin; 

'Twas  in  house  above  a  stone. 

In  God's  book  of  weal  and  crime. 

Many  days,  in  which  thou  thought' st 
Thou  full  well  and  hardly  wrouglit'st, 

Bear  the  blot  of  idle  time: 

Whilst  the  day,  to  which  may  f;ill 
One  short  prayer  alone  for  mark, 
Writ  may  be,  midst  bright  and  dark, 

As  thy  gainfullest  of  all. 


DYING   IN  DARKNESS. 

The  Saviour  died  in  darkness;  thus  he  gave 
A  thought  from  sinking  to  despair  to  save. 
When  gloom  surrounds   the  entrance  to  the 
grave. 

The  Saviour  bowed  his  head;  and  meekly  went 
To  death,  'midst  all  its  woes  and  pangs  content, 
To  teach  thee  how  to  meet  its  worst  event. 

Thy  Saviour  felt  forsaken,  as  he  died: 
No  marvel,  if  with  such  a  fear  be  tried 
The  sinner,  who  with  him  is  crucified. 


Yet  as  a  son  into  his  father's  hands. 

The  Saviour  gave  his  spirit,  'midst  his  bands; 

Do  thou  the  same,  when  run  thy  latest  sands. 

As  he  upon  his  cross,  so,  on  thy  bed. 

Be  thou,  amidst  the  darkness,  free  from  dread; 

And  find  "'Tis  finished,"  may  at  last  be  said. 

The  earthquake,deemed  thy  rock  to  undermine. 
Serves  but  to  rend  the  veil,  which  masks  the 

shrine ; 
And  make  the  holiest  of  holies  thine. 


DESIRE   OF   DEATH. 

AVhen  strongest  my  desire  of  death, 

I  least  am  fit  to  die; 
Because  the  will,  which  keeps  my  breath, 

I  then  would  fain  deny. 

Why  would  the  servant,  ere  the  time, 

Enter  the  Master's  room. 
Who  may,  as  for  a  heedless  crime, 

To  longer  waiting  doom? 

The  angel,  who  would  change  his  place. 

For  work  or  watch  ordained, 
God  might  well  exile  from  his  face. 

As  one  with  folly  stained. 

'Tis  the  same  course,  the  saint  above. 

And  earthly  fellow  suits; 
To  serve  and  sing,  to  look  and  love. 

And  bring  the  Lord  his  fruits. 

I  must,  by  longer  stay  on  earth. 

Better  for  heaven  prepare: 
I  may  not  go,  with  such  a  dearth 

Of  graces  needful  there. 

God  more  of  strength  for  duty  give; 

More  patience  Christ  supply: 
When  longer  I  am  fit  to  live, 

I  shall  be  fit  to  die. 


THE  STAR  IN  THE  EAST. 

I  sought  for  wisdom  in  the  morning  time. 
When  the  sun  cleared  the  hills;  and  strove  to 
climb 
Where  I  could  further  see;  but  all  in  vain 
The  efforts  made:   'twas    but   unwearying 

strain 
At  truth ;  nor  had  of  knowledge  save  the 
pain. 


224 


WILLIAM  WILSON. 


There  rose  a  star  i'  th' cast,  before  'twas  night, 
And  spoke  of  God;  but  only  spoke  of  migiit, 
And  height,  and  distance;  in  a  gathering 

mist, 
I  lost  the  star;  I  could  not  but  persist 
To  seek,  but  how  to  find  it  nothing  wist. 

I  journej'ed  long  and  darkly;  but  at  last 
Tiie  star  appeared;  and  now  its  beams  were 
cast 
On  a  poor  stable,  where,  in  swaddling  bands, 
An  infant  lay  in  virgin  mother's  hands; 
Fixed  tiiere  it  stood,  and  fixed  for  me  still 
stands. 

I  found  where  wisdom  dwelt;  and,  in  my  joy, 
Brought  forth  my  gifts;  gold,  though  it  held 
alloy, 
Which  dimmed  its  worth;  incense  from  forth 

a  breast, 
Warm  witii  new  love;  myrrh,  througii  all 

life  possessed, 
Fragrant  to  make  the  couch  of  earth's  last 
rest. 


LITANY. 

Lord,  when  earthly  pleasures  lure. 
When  the  bad  our  doubts  assure. 
And  to  sin  appears  secure, 
Keep  us  pure. 

liOrd,  when  strife  we  meet  and  wrong, 
Judgments  harsh,  and  angry  throng. 
For  that  we  to  Christ  belong, 
Keep  us  strong. 

Lord,  Avhen  in  our  stores  we  find 
Wealth  amassed,  like  idol  shrined. 
And  the  fortune  threats  the  mind. 
Keep  us  kind. 

Lord,  when  sickness  brings  its  qualm, 
Or  when  sorrow  finds  not  balm. 
And  the  prayer  supplants  the  psalm, 
Keep  us  calm. 


Lord,  when  human  praise  we  seek, 
AVhen  we  run  beyond  the  weak, 
And  approach  the  topmost  peak, 
Keep  us  meek. 

Lord,  when  rusheth  whelming  ill. 
When  our  sins  their  pledge  fulfil. 
And  Ave  see  in  woe  thy  will. 
Keep  us  still. 

Lord,  when  nought  can  more  be  had, 
To  our  life  an  hour  to  add. 
And  the  parting-time  is  sad, 
Make  us  glad. 


BREAD  ON   THE  WATERS. 

Time  rolls  on;  and,  in  its  flow, 

Thoughts  are  dropped,  which,  day  by  day. 
Float  away. 
And  from  reach  of  memory  go. 

Are  they  then  for  ever  gone? 
Or  will  these,  upon  thy  sea. 
Eternity, 
Rise  to  startle  us  anon  ? 

Oft  are  found,  on  after  morn, 

Themes  which  random  words  disperse, 
Or  which  verse 
Hath,  like  ark  of  rushes,  borne. 

All  at  once,  on  devious  way. 
Juts  a  corner  of  the  stream. 
With  a  gleam, 
Briglit  remembrance  to  convey. 

On  the  waters  I  have  cast 

Thoughts  on  which,  like  hallowed  bread, 
I  have  fed, 
'Midst  the  scenes  of  moments  past. 

All  may  quickly  sink  from  sight; 
Yet  enough  in  heaven  to  view 
One,  who  grew, 
Therebj',  unto  peace  or  light. 


WILLIAM    WILSON 


Born  1801  — Died  1860. 


William  Wilson,  the  youngest  but  one  of 
a  family  of  eight  children  boru  to  John  Wilson 


and  his  wife  Agnes  Ross  of  Inverness,  was  born 
at  CrieiFon  Christmas  day,  1801.    His  family 


WILLIAM   WILSON. 


99, 


TO 


had  settled  in  Perthshire  in  the  seventeenth 
century,  and  the  poefs  great-grandfather, 
Allan  AVilson,  fell  fighting  gallantly  for  Prince 
Charlie  at  Culloden.^  At  an  early  age  young 
AVilson  was  imbued  with  a  passionate  love  of 
poetry,  derived  from  his  mother, who  sang  with 
great  beauty  the  old  Jacobite  songs  and  ballads 
of  her  native  land.  AVhen  five  yeai's  old  he  lost 
his  father,  and  the  misfortunes  of  the  family  at 
that  time  came  not  singly,  but  in  battalions. 
The  generous  merchant's  death  was  preceded  by 
his  failure  in  business  through  the  knavery  of 
those  whom  he  had  trusted;  and  a  bachelor 
brother's  fortune  in  Jamaica  was  in  some  way 
lost  to  his  children,  for  whom  it  was  intended. 
His  widow,  a  high-spirited  woman,  steadily 
refused  pecuniary  aid  from  sympathizing 
friends,  prefei'ring  to  rely  upon  her  industry 
and  economy  for  her  own  and  her  children's 
maintenance,  so  that  Wilson's  early  life,  like 
that  of  his  friend  Robert  Chambers,  was  one 
of  honourable  poverty,  dignified  by  hard  and 
honest  work,  which  ultimately  brought  its  due 
reward. 

Young  Wilson  composed  verses  when  ten 
years  of  age.  At  twenty-two  he  became  the 
editor  of  the  Dundee  Literary  Olio,  a  large  pro- 
portion of  the  contents  of  which,  both  in  prose 
and  verse,  was  from  his  pen.  In  1826  he  was 
induced  by  influential  friends  to  remove  to 
Edinburgh,  where  he  established  himself  in 
business.  "There  was,"  wrote  Eobert  Cham- 
bers, "at  this  time  something  very  engaging 
in  his  appearance:  a  fair  open  countenance, 
ruddy  with  the  bloom  of  health ;  manners  soft 
and  pleasing."  In  the  same  year  he  lost  his 
young  and  devoted  wife,  to  whom  he  had  been 
married  in  1819,  and  he  sought  relief  from  his 
great  sorrow  in  composition.  His  contribu- 
tions were  welcomed  in  the  Edinburgh  Literary 
Journal^  and  other  leading  periodicals.  In 
1830  Wilson  married  for  his  second  wife  Miss 
Sibbald  of  Borthaugh,  a  descendant  of  Sir 
Andrew  Sibbald  of  Balgonie,  and  a  niece  of  Dr. 

1  The  poet's  aunt,  Jane  Wilson,  wife  of  Captain  Mun- 
roe,  comniauder  of  an  armed  merchant  vessel  owned  in 
Inverness,  received  an  autograph  letter  of  thanks  from 
Queen  Chai'lotte,  and  a  life-i)ension,  for  her  gallantry 
in  fighting  her  husband's  ship  after  lie  was  wounded 
and  carried  below,  capturing  tlie  enemy's  vessel,  a 
French  privateer;  and  Wilson's  eldest  brother  was  with 
Wellington  in  all  his  Peninsular  battles  and  in  his 
crowning  victory  at  Waterloo.     Three  of  the  poet's  sons 

Vol.  II.— P 


James  Sibbald,  the  literary  antiquary  and 
editor  of  the  Chronicle  of  Scottish  Poetry.  At 
this  period  his  charming  conversation  and 
manners,  and  his  excellent  singing  of  Scottish 
songs,  made  the  young  poet  a  welcome  guest  in 
the  literary  circles  of  Edinburgh.  At  the  house  of 
Mrs.  Grant  of  Laggan  he  was  a  frequent  visitor, 
and  so  great  was  this  gifted  lady's  attachment 
to  the  handsome  young  Highlander,  that  she 
claimed  the  privilege  of  giving  her  husband's 
name  to  his  eldest  son  by  his  second  marriage, 
and  of  possessing  the  poet's  portrait  painted 
by  an  eminent  artist. 

AVhen  thirty-two  years  of  age  AYilson  removed 
to  the  United  States,  and  settled  at  Pough- 
keepsie,  on  the  Hudson,  Avhere  he  engaged  in 
the  business  of  bookselling  and  publishing, 
which  he  continued  till  his  death,  August  25, 
1860.  During  his  residence  in  the  New 
AVoi-ld  he  occasionally  contributed  in  prose 
and  verse — generally  anonymouslj' — to  various 
American  periodicals,  and  now  and  then  sent 
a  paper  or  poem  to  Blackwood  or  Chambers' 
Journal.  Selections  of  his  poems  appeared  in 
the  Cabinet,  Whittle  Binkie,  Book  of  Scottish 
Song,  the  Modern  Scotti-vh  Minstrel,  and  other 
similar  publications;  but  he  never  issued  them 
in  a  volume  or  even  collected  them,  and  it  was 
not  till  the  green  grass  was  growing  over  his 
grave  in  the  Episcopal  burial-ground  at  Pough- 
keepsie,  where  his  second  wife  and  four  of  his 
children  now  sleep  by  his  side,  that  a  portion 
of  his  poems  was  published,  accompanied  by  a 
memoir  by  Benson  J.  Lossing.  A  second  edi- 
tion, with  additional  poems,  appeared  in  1875. 

Many  of  the  poet's  musical  compositions 
were  much  admired.  One  of  his  earliest  was 
frequently  sung  by  an  eminent  songstress  at 
the  Edinburgh  Theatre;  and  his  latest — an  air 
of  great  beauty — was  composed  during  the  last 
year  of  his  life  for  one  of  Ainslie's  sweet  songs. 
The  music  and  the  words  of  many  of  AVilson's 
lyrics  wei'e  written  chiefly  for  the  pleasure  of 
hearing  them  sung  in  his  own  house,  for  he 
rarely  permitted  his  musical  compositions  to 
be  published. 


were  in  the  armies  of  the  North  during  the  American 
civil  war,  and  one  was  mortally  wounded  at  the  battle 
of  Fredericksburg. — Ed. 

-  To  this  periodical,  conducted  by  his  friend  Henry 
Glassford  Bell,  late  sheriff  of  Lanarkshire,  Wilson  con- 
tributed in  the  course  of  thi-ee  years  thirty-two  poems. 


226 


WILLIAM  WILSON. 


Willis  pronounced  one  of  Wilson's  pieces 
"  the  best  modern  imitation  of  the  old  ballad 
style  that  he  had  ever  met  with;"  and  Bryant, 
another  distinguished  American  poet,  said: 
"The  song  in  which  the  writer  personates 
Richard  the  Lion-hearted  during  his  imprison- 
ment is  more  spirited  than  any  of  the  ballads 
of  Ay  to  un." 

Hew  Ainslie,  who  still  survives  his  friend, 
writes  to  the  Editor:  "  Having  summered  and 
wintered  it  for  many  long  years  with  your  dear 
father,  I  ought  to  know  something  of  the  base 
and  bent  of  his  genius,  though,  as  he  hated 
all  shams  and  pretensions,  a  very  slight  ac- 
quaintance with  him  showed  that  independence 
and  personal  manhood,  'As  wha  daur  meddle 


wi'  me,'  were  two  of  his  strong  features;  while 
humour,  deep  feeling,  and  tenderness  were 
prominent  in  all  he  said  or  wrote,  and  oh !  the 
pity  that  he  did  not  give  us  mora  'Jean  Linns' 
and  'Auld  Johnny  Grahams'  in  his  native 
tongue.  I  loved  him  as  a  man,  a  poet,  and  a 
brother,  and  I  had  many  proofs  that  my  feel- 
ings were  reciprocated." 

The  idea  of  this  AVork  originated  with 
William  Wilson,  but  urgent  demands  upon  his 
time,  together  with  failing  health,  interfered 
with  its  execution.  The  task  devolved  upon 
his  son,  who  has,  as  an  act  of  filial  duty  no 
less  than  as  a  labour  of  love,  endeavoured  to 
complete  his  father's  unfulfilled  literary  pro- 
ject. 


TO    MY    CHILDREN.! 


Yes,  my  young  darlings,  since  my  task  is  done. 
Again  I'll  mingle  in  your  freaks  and  fun: 
Be  glad,  be  gay,  be  thoughtless,  if  I  can. 
And  merge  the  busy  worldling  in  the  man. 
Not  the  stiff  pedagogue,  with  brow  severe, 
Authoritative  air,  and  look  austere. 
But  the  fond  sire  with  feelings  long  repress'd, 
Eager  to  bless  as  eager  to  be  bless'd, — 
Longing,  in  home's  dear  sanctuary,  to  find 
The  smiling  lips,  the  embrace,  the  kiss  so  kind, 
The  cloudless  brow,  the  bearing  frank  and  free, 
The  gladdening  shout  of  merriment  and  glee, 
And  all  the  luxury  which  boisterous  mirth 
Scatter'd  erewhile  around  our  social  hearth. 

Kemeraber  ye,  my  sweet  ones,  with  what  "pomp 
And  circumstance"  of  glee  we  used  to  romp 
From   room  to   room,  o'er  tables,  stools,    and 

chairs, 
O'erturning  hoiisehold  gods — now  up  the  stairs, 
Now  under  sofas,  now  in  corners  hiding. 
Now  in,  now  out,  now  round  the  garden  gliding  ? 
Remember  ye^ — when  under  books  and  toys 
The  table  groan'd,  and  evening's  tranquil  joys 
Soothed  your  excited  spirits  to  repose — 
How  blithe  as  larks  at  peep  of  daw^l  ye  rose  ? 
Pleased  every  moment,  mirthful  every  hour. 
As  bees  love  sunshine,  or  as  ducks  the  shower; 
No  ills  annoy'd  you,  pleasures  never  pall'd, 
Cares  ne'er  corroded,  nor  repinings  gall'd, 

1  This  justly  admired  composition  was  written  for 
his  friend  John  Aitken,  editor  of  Conitable's  Miscellany 
and  the  London  Cabinet,  to  the  third  series  of  which 
work  it  was  prefixed  by  Mr.  Aitken  as  a  dedication  to 
his  children.— Ed. 


But,  like  blithe  birds  from  clime  to  clime  that  fly, 
Each  change  brought  blossoms  and  a  cloudless 
sky. 

"  But  now  papa's  grown  strange,  and  will  not 

speak, 
Nor  play  at  bUnd-raan's  buff,  or  hide-and-seek; 
Tell  no  more  stories  ere  we  go  to  bed. 
Nor  kiss  us  when  our  evening  prayers  are  said; 
But  stiU,   with   thoughtful   look,   and   brow   of 

gloom, 
He  stalks  in  silence  to  his  study-room, 
Nor  ever  seeks  our  evening  sports  to  share; 
Why,  what  can  dear  papa  be  doing  there?'' 
Such  were  the  thoughts  which  oft  in  tears  gush'd 

forth 
Amid  the  pauses  of  your  infant  mirth, 
And  dimm'd  the  lustre  of  your  bright  blue  eyes— 
As  wandering  clouds  obscure  the  moonlight  skies, 
Making  their  misty  mellowness  even  more 
Soul-soothing  than  the  glorious  hght  before. 

'Mid  laurel'd  literature's  Elysian  bowers, 
I've  been  a-roaming,  culling  fadeless  flowers, 
And  these  collected  treasures  at  your  feet 
I  lay,  ye  beautiful!  "  sweets  to  the  sweet!" 
Yet  all  too  soon  I  dedicate  to  you 
Flowers  of  such  rich  perfume  and  varied  hue. 
O'er  which  the  deathless  fire  of  genius  breathed; 
And  all  too  soon  this  garland  I  have  wreathed, 
To  win  me  favour  in  your  infant  eyes; 
Though  years  may  come  ^^•hen  ye  will  fondly 

prize 
Affection's  fond  memorial,  given  to  prove 
The  doating  fondness  of  a  father's  love; 
Love  full  as  ocean's  waters,  firm  as  faith, 
Wide  as  the  universe,  and  strong  as  death. 


WILLIAM  WILSON. 


22"; 


SWEET   LAMJIA.S  MOOIS'. 

Sweet  Lammas  moon,  thy  silvery  beam 
Brings  many  blissful  thoughts  to  me, 

Of  days  when  in  my  first  love  dream, 
I  blest  thy  light  on  Craigie  Lea. 

And  well  I  might— for  thy  young  ray 
Ne'er  shone  on  fairer  love  than  mine; 

Xor  ever  youth  met  maiden  gay 

Beneath  a  brighter  gleam  than  thine. 

And  well  I  might— for  Mary's  charms 

Upon  my  bosom  lay  reclined, 
While  round  her  slender  waist  my  arms 

In  fondest  love  were  closely  twined. 

And  there  and  then,  in  that  blest  hour, 
We  plighted  vows  of  changeless  faith; 

Tows  breathed  with  passion's  warmest  power, 
And  broken  by  the  hand  of  death. 

Sweet  Lammas  moon,  then  thy  young  ray 
Shone  on  my  Mary's  peerless  bloom ; 

Now  waningly,  in  slow  decay, 
Thou  beamest  coldly  on  her  tomb. 


AULD  JOHNNY  GRAHAM. 

Dear   aunty,   what    think  ye   o'  auld    Johnny 
Graham  ? 
The  carle  sae  pawkie  and  slee! 
He  wants  a  bit  wifie  to  tend  his  bein  hame. 
And  the  bodie  has  ettled  at  me. 

Wi'  bonnet  sae  vaunty,  an'  owerlay  sae  clean. 
An'  ribbon  that  waved  boon  his  bree, 

He  cam'  doun  thecleugh  at  the  gloamin'  yestreen, 
An'  rappit,  an  soon  speert  for  me. 

I  bade  him  come  ben  whare  my  minnie  sae  thrang 

Was  birlin'  her  wheel  eidentlie. 
An',  foul  fa'  the  carle,  he  was  na'  that  lang 

Ere  he  tauld  out  his  errand  to  me. 

"Hech,  Tibby,  lass!  a'  yon  braid  acres  o'  land, 

Wi'  ripe  craps  that  wave  bonnilie, 
An',  meikle  man-  gear  shall  be  at  yer  command, 

Gin  ye  will  look  kindly  on  me. 

"  Yon  herd  o'  fat  owsen  that  rout  i'  the  glen, 

Sax  naigies  that  nibble  the  lea; 
The  kye  i'  the  sheugh,  and  the  sheep  i'  the  pen, 

I'segie  a',  dear  Tibby,  to  thee. 

"An",  lassie,  I've  goupins  o'  gowd  in  a  stockin', 
An'  pearlin's  wad  dazzle  yer  e'e; 


A  mettl'd,  but  canny  young  yaud  for  the  yokin' 
When  ye  wad  gae  jauntin'  wi'  me. 

"  I'll  hap  ye  and  fend  ye,  and  busk  ye  and  tend 

ye, 

And  mak'  ye  the  licht  o'  my  e'e; 
I'll  comfort  and  cheer  ye,  and  daut  ye  and  dear 

ye, 

As  couthy  as  couthy  can  be. 

"  I've  lo'ed  ye,  dear  lassie,  since  first,  a  bit  bairn, 

Ye  ran  up  the  knowe  to  meet  me; 
An'  deckit  my  bonnet  wi'  blue-bells  an'  fern, 

Wi'  meikle  glad  laughin'  an'  glee. 

"An'  noo  woman  growTi,  an'  mensefu'  an'  fair. 

An'  gracefu'  as  gracefu'  can  be — 
Will  ye  tak'  an  auld  carle  wha  ne'er  had  a  care 

For  woman,  dear  Tibby,  but  thee?" 

Sae,  aunty,  ye  see  I'm  a'  in  a  swither. 

What  answer  the  bodie  to  gie— 
But  aften  I  wish  he  wad  tak'  my  auld  mither. 

And  let  puir  young  Tibby  abee. 


A  WELCOME  TO  CHRISTOPHER 
NORTH.^ 

Oh,  the  queer  auld  man,  the  dear  auld  man, 

The  drollest  in  Christendie— 
Wha  sae  aft  has  beguil'd  doure  care  till  he  smil'd— 

He's  comin'  his  kinsfolk  to  see! 
He's  comin'  to  daud  frae  his  bonnet  a  blink. 

The  stoure  o'  classic  ha's — 
He's  hung  up  his  goun  i'  the  guid  auld  toun, 

An'  brunt  his  critic's  taws. 

Chorus — 
He's  a  dear  auld  man,  he's  a  queer  auld  man. 
He's  a  free  auld  man,  he's  a  slee  auld  man— 
Frae  the  Aristook  to  the  Raritan, 
Ye'll  no  find  the  fier  o'  our  spree  auld  man. 

But  his  pike-staff  o'  aik  whilk  mony  a  paik. 

Has  i-ung  on  timmer  crowns — 
An'  his  birken  crutch  ye'll  find  few  such. 

For  soberin'  senseless  loons; 
Thae  switches  strang— the  short  an'  the  lang. 

The  pawkie  auld  carle  brings; 
An'  wae  to  the  pate  o'  the  blether-skate 
On  whilk  their  vengeance  rings. 
He's  a  bauld  auld  man,  he's  a  yauld  auld  man. 
He's  a  leal  auld  man,  he's  a  hale  auld  man— 
An'  there's  no  a  lady  in  a'  the  Ian' 
Wi'  a  bly thesomer  e'e  than  our  braw  auld  man. 


1  Written  as  a  welcome  to  Professor  Wilson  on  hear- 
ing of  his  intention  to  visit  tlie  United  States.— Ed. 


228 


WILLIAM  WILSON. 


But  a  kindly  wit  has  Scotland's  Kit, 

As  kind  a  heart  an'  smile — 
An'  the  saft  words  flung-  frae  his  witchin' tongue, 

The  gled  frae  the  lift  wad  wile; 
For  a'  kinds  o'  lear— his  presence  be  here! 

An'  a'  kinds  o'  knowledge  has  he, 
Baith  Latin  an'  Greek  he  as  gUbly  can  speak, 
As  ye  wad  the  ABC. 
He's  a  grave  auld  man,  he's  a  brave  auld  man, 
He's  a  frank  auld  man,  he's  a  swank  auld  man. 
At  fleechin',  or  preechin',  or  cloovin'  a  pan— 
There's  nae  peer  to  our  north  countree  auld 
man. 

Sae  lads  to  your  shanks,  an'  thegither  in  ranks, 

Let's  welcome  gude  Kit  to  our  shore. 
In  our  costUest  braws — wi'  our  loudest  hurrahs. 

Till  the  wondering  welkin  roar; 
For  kings  are  but  caff,  an'  warld's  gear  draff 

Engulphed  by  the  tide  of  time. 
But  the  heaven-bom  mind,  lovin'  a'  mankind. 
Till  dooms-day  shall  tower  sublime. 
He's  a  grand  auld  man,  he's  a  bland  auld  man. 
He's  a  yare  auld  man,  he's  a  rare  auld  man, 
Tho'  the  terror  o'  sumph  an'  o'  charlatan. 
He's  a  kind-hearted  debonair  auld  man. 


JEAN  LINN. 

Oh,  hand  na  yer  noddle  sae  hie,  ma  doo! 

Oh,  liaud  na  yer  noddle  sae  hie! 
The  days  that  hae  been  may  be  yet  again  seen, 

Sae  look  na'  sae  lightly  on  me,  ma  doo! 

Sae  look  na'  sae  lightly  on  me! 

Oh,  geek  na'  at  hame  hodden  gray,  Jean  Linn, 
Oh,  geek  na'  at  hame  hodden  gray! 

Yer  gutcher  and  mine  wad  thocht  themsels  fine 
In  cleidin'  sae   bein,   bonnie   may,  bonnie 

may — 
In  cleidin'  sae  bein,  bonnie  may. 

Ye  mind  when  we  won  in  Whinglee,  Jean  Linn, 
Ye  mind  when  we  won  in  Whinglen, 

Your  daddy,  douce  carle,  was  cotter  to  mine. 
An'  our  herd  was  yer  bonnie  sel',  then,  Jean 

Linn, 
An'  our  herd  was  yer  bonnie  sel',  then. 

Oh,  then  ye  were  a'  thing  to  me,  Jean  Linn! 
Oh,  then  ye  were  a'  thing  to  me! 

An'  the  moments  scour'd  by  like  birds  through 
the  sky. 
When  tentin'  the  owsen  wi'  thee,  Jean  Linn, 
When  tentin'  the  owsen  Avi'  thee. 

I  twined  ye  a  bower  by  the  burn,  Jean  Linn, 
I  twined  ye  a  bower  by  the  burn, 


But  dreamt  na'  that  hour,  as  we  sat  in  that 
bower. 
That  fortune  wad  tak'  sic  a  turn,  Jean  Linn, 
Tiiat  fortune  would  tak'  sic  a  turn. 

Ye  Ijusk  noo  in  satins  fu'  braw,  Jean  Linn! 

Ye  busk  noo  in  satins  fu'  braw! 
Yer  daddy's  a  laird,  mine's  i'  tlie  kirkyard, 

An'   I'm  yer  puir  ploughman,  Jock  Law, 
Jean  Linn, 

An'  I'm  your  puir  ploughman,  Jock  Law. 


RICHARD  C(EUR  DE   LION. 

Brightly,  brightly  the  moonbeam  shines 

On  the  castle  turret-wall; 
Darkly,  darkly  the  spirit  pines. 

Deep,  deep  in  its  dungeon's  thrall. 
He  hears  the  screech-owl  whoop  reply 

To  the  warder's  drowsy  strain, 
And  thinks  of  home,  and  heaves  a  sigh 

For  his  own  bleak  hills  again. 

Sweetly,  sweetly  the  spring  flowers  spread. 

When  first  he  was  fettered  there; 
Slowly,  slowly  the  sere  leaves  fade. 

Yet  breathes  he  that  dungeon's  air. 
All  lowly  lies  his  banner  bright. 

That  foremost  in  battle  streamed. 
And  dim  the  sword  that  in  the  fight 

Like  midnight  meteor  gleamed. 

But  place  his  foot  upon  the  plain, 

That  banner  o'er  his  head. 
His  good  lance  in  his  hand  again, 

With  Paynim  slaughter  red. 
The  craven  hearts  that  round  him  now 

With  coward  triumph  stand. 
Would  quail  before  that  dauntless  brow, 

And  the  death-flash  of  that  hand. 


BRITANNIA.i 

Old  England,  warlike  England, 

Thy  lion  wakes  again! 
His  roar  through  sunny  Ind  resounds 

As  once  it  pealed  in  Spain. 

1  Though  living  under  the  "  Stars  and  Stripes,"  Mr. 
Wilson  never  ceased  to  love,  never  forgot  to  render  due 
homage  to  the  land  of  his  birth.  The  above  piece,  that 
might  almost  be  ranked  with  some  of  Campbell's  patri- 
otic effusions,  shows  that  William  Wilson  always  re- 
served a  warm  corner  iu  his  heart  wherein  to  cherish 
the  memories  of  our  "  sea-girt  isle." — PeojjU's  Journal. 


WILLIAM  WILSON. 


229 


In  soul-arousing  notes  it  rings, 
Through  Cathay's  distant  clime, 
And  a  wail 
On  the  gale 
Is  blent  with  battle's  hymn, 
"While  the  craven  herds  amaz'd  behold 
Triumph  unstained  by  crime. 

Old  England,  dauntless  England, 

Thy  conq'ring  legions  come! 
The  clansmen's  gathering  pibroch  blends 

With  trumpet  and  with  drum. 
Bold  Erin's  battle  cry  bursts  forth, 

As  on  the  dusky  bands 
With  a  cheer 
They  career, 

And  the  traitors  bite  the  sands. 
Or  like  the  chaff  by  rushing  wind. 

Are  scattered  through  the  lands. 

Old  England,  noble  England! 

Thy  hand  ne'er  drew  the  glaive 
But  from  his  foes  to  free  the  wronged. 

His  fetters  from  the  slave: 
Yet  ever  gen'rous  in  thy  strength 

To  spare  a  fallen  foe, 
No  stain 
Can  remain 

On  thy  scutcheon's  spotless  snow, 
Who  strong  in  might  upholds  the  right, 

And  strikes  the  spoiler  low. 

Old  England,  glorious  England, 

On  this  terrestrial  sphere 
For  truth,  and  worth,  and  majesty 

Where  yet  was  found  thy  peer? 
Thou  treader  down  of  tyranny. 

Thou  tamer  of  the  strong. 
Land  and  main 
Own  thy  reign. 

And  round  thy  footstool  throng, 
While  wand" ring  nations  worship  thee, 

Thou  queen  of  sword  and  song. 


JEANIE   GRAHAM. 

She  whose  lang  loose  unbraided  hair 

Falls  on  a  breast  o'  purest  snaw, 
Was  ance  a  maid  as  mild  an'  fair. 

As  e'er  wil'd  stripling's  heart  awa'. 
But  sorrow's  shade  has  dimm'd  her  e'e. 

And  gathered  round  her  happy  hame. 
Yet  wherefore  sad  ?  and  where  is  lie. 

The  plighted  love  of  Jeanie  Graham? 

The  happy  bridal  day  was  near, 

And  bfythe  young  joy  beam'd  on  her  brow. 


But  he  is  low  she  lov'd  so  dear, 
And  she  a  virgin  widow  now. 

The  night  was  mirk,  the  stream  was  high. 
And  deep  and  darkly  down  it  came; 

He  sunk— and  wild  his  drowning  cry 
Rose  in  the  blast  to  Jeanie  Graham. 

Bright  beams  the  sun  on  Garnet-hill, 

The  stream  is  calm,  the  sky  is  clear; 
But  Jeanie's  lover's  heart  is  still. 

Her  anguish'd  sobs  he  cannot  hear. 
Oh!  make  his  grave  in  yonder  dell, 

Where  willows  wave  above  the  stream. 
That  every  passing  breeze  may  M-ail, 

For  broken-hearted  Jeanie  Graham. 


SABBATH  MORXIXG  IN  THE  WOODS. 

Oh  blessed  morn!  whose  ruddy  beam 
Of  gladness  mantles  fount  and  stream, 
And  over  all  created  things 
A  golden  robe  of  glory  flings. 

On  every  tendril,  leaf  and  spra}', 

A  diamond  glistens  in  the  ray. 

And  from  a  thousand  throats  a  shout 

Of  adoration  gushes  out; 

A  glad  but  sweet  preclusive  psalm 

Which  breaks  the  hallow'd  morning's  calm. 

Each  wimpling  brook,  each  winding  rill 
That  sings  and  murmurs  on  at  will, 
Seems  vocal  with  the  blest  refrain, 
"The  Lord  has  come  to  life  again! " 

And  from  each  wild  flower  on  tlie  wold. 
In  purple,  sapphire,  .snow  or  gold. 
Pink,  amethyst  or  azure  hue. 
Beauteous  of  tint  and  bright  with  dew. 
There  breathes  an  incense  ofl'ering,  borne 
Upon  the  wak'ning  breeze  of  morn 
To  the  Creator,  all  divine! 
Meet  sacrifice  for  such  a  shrine. 

Far  down  those  lofty  forest  aisles, 
AVhere  twilight's  solemn  hush  prevails. 
The  wind  its  balmy  censer  swings 
Like  odours  from  an  angel's  wings. 
Who,  passing  swift  to  earth,  had  riven 
Their  fragrance  from  the  bowers  of  heaven. 

And  through  each  sylvan  tangled  hall. 
Where  slanting  bars  of  sunlight  fall. 
Faint  sounds  of  hallelujahs  sweet. 
The  tranced  ear  would  seem  to  greet. 


230 


THOMAS  ATKINSON. 


As  if  the  holy  seraphim 

Were  choiring  here  their  matin  hymn. 

God  of  all  nature!  here  I  feel 
Thy  awful  presence,  as  I  kneel 
In  humble  heart  abasement  meet, 
Thus  lowly  at  thy  mercy  seat; 
And  while  I  tremble,  I  adore; 
(Like  him  by  Bethel's  stone  of  yore), 
For  this  thy  vouchsafed  presence  given, 
Hath  made  this  place  the  gate  of  heaven. 


WORK  IS  PRAYER. 

Lahorare  est  orare. 
Oh  grant  us  faith  to  work,  and  hope  to  win. 
When  jocund  youthhood's  morning  sun  is  shining, 
'Tis  time  the  work  of  warfare  to  begin. 
The  Christian  soldier's  warfare  wag'd  with  sin. 

Lahorare  est  orare. 
Oh  Father,  let  our  toil  seem  ever  sweet ! 
WTien  duty  bids  us  still  the  task  be  plying; 
The  task  that  brings  us  daily  to  thy  feet 
To  catch  new  glimpses  of  thy  mercy-seat. 

Lahorare  est  orare. 
Though  stern  the  harvest  toil,  the  day's  work  long, 
With  thankful  hearts  our  scanty  sheaves  we'll 
gather. 
And  strong  in  confidence,  in  trusting  strong, 
Still  with  our  tears  wUl  mingle  bursts  of  song. 

Lahorare  est  orare. 
We  soon  must  lay  our  earthly  armour  down. 
And  in  the  heavenly  land  are  legions  waiting 


To  raise  the  choral  welcome  of  renown. 
And  crown  us  with  an  everlasting  crown. 


WANING   LIFE  AND  AYEARY.i 

Waning  life  and  weary, 

Fainting  heart  and  limb, 
Darkening  road  and  dreary, 
Flashing  eye  grow  dim; 
All  betokening  nightfall  near 
Day  is  done,  and  rest  is  dear. 

Slowly  stealing  shadows 

Westward  lengthening  still. 

O'er  the  dark  brown  meadows, 
O'er  the  sunlit  hill. 

Gleams  of  golden  glory 

From  the  opening  skj', 
Gild  those  temples  hoary — 
Kiss  that  closing  eye: 
Now  drops  the  curtain  on  all  wrong — 
Throes  of  sorrow,  grief  and  song. 

But  saw  ye  not  the  dying. 

Ere  life  passed  away, 
Faintly  smiled  while  eyeing 

Yonder  setting  day ; 

And,  his  pale  hand  signing 
Man's  redemption  sign — 
Cried,  with  forehead  shining, 
Father,  I  am  thine! 
And  so  to  rest  he  quietly  hath  passed, 
And  sleeps  in  Christ  the  Comforter  at  last. 


THOMAS    ATKINSON 


Born  1801  — Died  1833. 


Thomas  Atkinson  was  born  at  Glasgow, 
December  30,  1801.  He  was  apprenticed  to  a 
bookseller,  and  subsequently  entered  into  part- 
nership with  David  Robertson,  a  Glasgow  book- 
seller and  publisher.  Although  engrossed  with 
the  management  of  an  extensive  business, 
Atkinson  found  time  to  cultivate  his  taste  for 
literature,  and  made  his  first  appearance  as 
a  writer  by  the  publication  of  Tlce  Sextuple 
Alliance,  a  series  of  poems  on  the  subject  of 


Napoleon  Bonaparte.  In  1826-27  he  edited 
and  issued  Tlte  Ant,  a  work  in  two  volumes, 
comprising  original  and  selected  matter.  His 
next  publication  was  The  Chameleon,  a  work 
of  the  character  of  the  annuals  of  that  day, 
Avhich  commenced  in  1831  and  extended  to 
three  volumes.     The  contents  of  this   hand- 

1  Written   in   a  feeble   and   faltering  hand  by   the 
author  a  few  days  before  his  death. — Ed. 


THOMAS   ATKINSON. 


231 


some  work  were  mostly  his  own  composition, 
and  many  of  his  songs  were  set  to  music  by 
himself.  Atkinson  Avas  a  keen  politician  of 
the  Liberal  school,  and  distinguished  as  a  public 
speaker.  Hs  was  an  unsuccessful  candidate 
for  parliament  at  the  election  held  subsequent 
to  the  passing  of  the  first  reform  bill,  and  the 
exertions  of  his  political  canvass  produced  an 
illness  which  terminated  in  pulmonary  disease. 


He  died  October  10,  1833,  during  a  voyage  to 
Barbadoes  for  the  restoration  of  his  health,  and 
was  buried  at  sea.  A  monument  to  his  memory 
was  erected  in  the  Necropolis  of  his  native  city. 
He  left  a  considerable  sum  of  money  to  accu- 
mulate for  a  time  in  the  hands  of  the  city  cor- 
poration, and  then  to  be  aj^plied  in  the  erection 
of  a  building  in  Glasgow  for  scientific  pur- 
poses, to  be  called  the  Atkinsonian  Institution. 


TO   THE  AURORA  BOREALIS. 

Banner  of  midnight — vagrant  light — 

Aui'ora  of  the  darken'd  pole, 
Why  shouldst  thou  here,  in  fitful  flight, 

Why  thus  unfurl  thy  portent  scroll? 

Yet,  as  we  gaze  on  thee,  to  see 

The  future  pictured,  as  of  old, 
Lo!  thou  shut'st  up  our  destiny 

In  many  a  quick  and  antic  fold! 

Say,  comest  thou  rushing,  with  wild  wing. 
To  warn  us  of  some  pending  ill? 

For  still  belief  will  fondly  cling. 

When  nought  remains  of  prophet  skill! 

Yes!  o'er  the  peaceful  front  of  heaven 
Methinks  the  charging  squadrons  fly! 

Look!  o'er.yon  steep  battalions  driven! 
Hark  to  the  missiles  hurtling  by ! 

'Tis  past!  the  rustling  strife  is  o'er, 
But  'thwart  the  broad  expanse  of  blue, 

Where  madly  flickered  light  before. 
Now  spreads  a  silent,  holy  hue. 

And,  folding  like  the  radiant  wings 

Of  the  adoring  cherubim. 
Thy  more  than  sapphire  lustre  flings 

On  earth  the  radiance  of  a  dream. 

Then  let  me,  as  our  fathers  did. 
In  thee  behold  the  coming  time! 

The  future  may  not  all  be  hid — 
And  oracles  have  spoke  in  rhyme! 

When  the  brief  strife  of  Might  and  Right, 
The  last  that  will  be  here,  is  o'er. 

Then  Peace  and  Truth,  like  yon  calm  light. 
Shall  lend  to  earth  one  glory  more! 

But  thou  wilt  pale  when  morning's  ray 
Makes  bright  yon  wide  expanse  of  sky: 

Shall  these,  like  thee,  too,  fade  away. 
And  all  their  light  and  lustre  die? 


They  perish  not! — Thou  melfst  in  light, 
While  they  in  bliss  but  merge  away. 

Exhaled  in  all  that's  pure  and  bright, 
As  thou  by  yonder  coming  day ! 


THE    PROUD   HEART'S   PAIN. 

There's  na  ane  cares  for  me  now, 

In  a'  this  warld  wide; 
I'm  like  a  withered  tree  now, 

Whar  a'  are  green  beside! 
There's  nae  heart  that  can  love  me 

Wi'  love  sae  leal's  my  ain; — 
Yet  why  should  a'  this  move  me. 

Or  gie  my  proud  heart  pain! 

The  hand  o'  warmest  greeting, 

AVhen  placed  in  mine,  grows  chill; 
And  if  blythe's  the  hour  o'  meeting, 

Fareweel  seems  blyther  still! 
The  lowliest  are  above  me. 

They've  ane  they  ca'  their  ain! — 
Yet  why  should  a'  this  move  me. 

Or  gie  my  proud  heart  pain! 

The  mither  dear  that  bore  me. 

In  sorrow  and  in  pine; 
Yet  hung  in  gladness  o'er  me, — 

The  lad-wean  o'  langsyne, — 
Even  wi'  her  leal  breast  drappin' 

The  bluid,  when  milk  was  nane. 
Now  cares  na  what  may  happen 

To  gie  my  proud  heart  pain. 

And  them  on  whom  I  doated, 

Wi'  a  mair  than  brither's  heart, 
IIow^  blythely  they've  forgot  it. 

An'  ne'er  heed  to  take  my  part! 
My  kith  an'  kin  will  listen 

When  my  name  is  lichtly  ta'en; 
An'  nae  e'e  wi'  tears  will  glisten. 

Though  my  proud  heart  be  in  pain  I 


232 


THOMAS   ATKINSON. 


Oh !  clear,  dear  love  o'  Avoman 

Sae  fond  but  fearfu'  too, 
0,  the  ills,  bye  past  or  com  in', 

How  much  I  owe  to  you! 
Dead  now  are  a'  who  loved  me, — 

Though  the  grave  may  not  ha'e  ta'cr. ! 
This — this  of  a'  hath  moved  me. 

And  gien  my  jjroud  heart  pain! 

The  frien's  that  ancc  I  trusted, 

Ha'e  left  me  in  my  need; 
They  were  gaen,  before  I  wist  it, 

Or  Avord  ripen'd  into  deed! 
"He'll  maybe  rise  above  me," 

Said  ilka  ane  that's  gane, — 
But  why  should  a'  this  move  me. 

Or  gie  my  proud  heart  pain! 

I  fed  on  hope  and  dreamin', 

Through  lang,  lang  years  o'  toil, 
For  the  licht  of  fame  seemed  gleamin' 

In  the  distance  a'  the  while! 
'Twas  the  shot-star  that  beguiled  me, 

And  then  left  me  thus  alane, 
0!  tliat  fause,  fause  licht  has  wiled  me, 

To  half  my  proud  heart's  pain ! 

But  ae  thing  yet  is  left  me. 

Which  I  will  never  tine; 
Though  Fate  of  a'  bereft  me. 

This  wealth  wad  still  be  mine! 
The  leal  proud  heart  that  never 

Hath  bowed  beneath  its  pain, 
But  that  forgives  the  giver, 

And  can  throb  wi'  love  again! 


ALAS!    I    CANNOT   LOVE! 

Sweet  lady,  there  was  nought  in  me  to  win  a 

heart  like  thine; 
No  stamp  of  honour'd  ancestry,  that  spoke  a 

noble  line; 
Nor  wealth  that  could  that  want  repay,  had  I 

to  lure  thine  eye, 
When  all,  but  thee  and  thine,  still  pass'd  the 

boy-bard  coldly  by. 

Can  T  forget  the  blushing  hour  when  by  thee 

led  to  the  dance. 
And  all  the  proud  who  on  me  lowcr'd,  with 

many  a  haughty  glance? 
A  radiant  smile  there  was  for  me — for  them  a 

lofty  look, 
Which  graced  my  very  bashfulncss,  and  gave 

their  s:orn  rebuke! 


Beside  thee,   in  thy  father's  hall,   amid  the 

banquet  throng. 
For  me  was  kept  tiie  place  of  pride— for  me 

Avas  given  tiie  song! 
What  had  I  done— what  can  I  do— my  title  to 

approve? 
Alas!  this  lay  is  all  my  thanks— my  heart  is 

dead  to  love. 

It  is  not  that  my  heart  is  cold,  nor  yet  is  vow'd 

.  away; 
But  tiiat,  amid  the  spring  of  youth,  it  feels 

itself  decay; 
The  wither'd  bloom  of  early  hopes,  and  darings, 

hope  above, 
Encrust  it  now,  and  dim  its  shine — Alas!   I 

cannot  love! 

They  tell  me  that  my  broken  lute  once  Avrouglit 

on  thee  its  spell; 
They  whisper  that  my  voice,  now  mute,  in 

speech  could  please  thee  well : 
Pale  brow,  blue  eye,  and  Saxon  locks,  they 

.say,  thy  heart  could  move 
More  tlian  red  cheeks  or  raven  curls— yet,  ah! 

I  cannot  love! 

It  may  be — as  I  trust  it  is — that  in  my  willing 
ear 

They  pour'd  the  dew  of  flattery,  and  that  thou, 
lady,  ne'er 

Hadst  thoughts  that  friendship  would  not  own : 
for  souls  like  thine  can  prove 

How  much  of  kindred  warmth  may  glow  with- 
out a  spark  of  love! 

One  only  passion  now  will  cure  this  pal.sy  of 
the  heart: — 

Ambition's  .spell,  if  aught,  will  lure;  but  what- 
soe'er the  part. 

In  after  life,  I  do  or  dree,  the  praise  shall  all 
be  thine, 

And  all  I  hope,  and  all  I  win,  be  offered  at 
thy  shrine! 


MARY   SHEARER. 

She's  aff  and  awa',  like  the  lang  summer  day, 
And  our  hearts  and  our  hills  are  now  lanesome 
and  dreary; 
The  sun-blinks  o'  June  will  come  back  owre  the 
brae, 
But  lang  for  blithe  Mary  fu'  mouy  may  weary. 
For  mair  hearts  thine  mine 

Kenn'd  o'  nane  that  were  dearer; 
But  nane  mair  will  pine 
For  the  sweet  Mary  Shearer! 


EGBERT   WILSON. 


233 


She  cam'  wi'  the  spring,  just  like  ane  o'  its  flowers, 
And  the  bluebell  and  Mary  baith  blossom'd 
thegither; 
The  bloom  o'  the  mountain  again  will  be  ours, 
But  the  rose  o'  the  valley  nae  mair  will  come 
hither. 

Their  sweet  breath  is  fled — 

Her  kind  looks  still  endear  her; 
For  the  heart  maun  be  dead 
That  forgets  Mary  Shearer. 

Than  her  brow  ne'er  a  fairer  wi'  jewels  was  hung; 

An  e'e  that  was  brighter  ne'er  glanced  onalover; 

Sounds   safter  ne'er  dropt  frae  an   aye-saying 

tongue, 

Nor  mair  pure  is  the  white  o'  her  bridal-bed 

cover. 

Oh !  he  maun  be  blessed 

Wha's  allowed  to  be  near  her; 
For  the  fairest  and  best 
0'  her  kind's  Mary  Shearer! 

But  farewell   Glenlin,  and   Dunoon,  and   Loch 

Striven, 
My  countiy  and  kin, — since  I've  sae  lov'd  the 

stranger; 
\Vhare  she's  been  maun  be  either  a  pine  or  a 

heaven — 


Sae  across  the  braid  world  for  a  while  I'm  a 


ranker: 


Though  I  try  to  forget — 

In  my  heart  still  I'll  wear  her, — 
For  mine  may  be  yet, 

— Name  and  a' — Mary  Shearer! 


THE   HOUR   IS    COME. 

The  hour  is  some — too  soon  it  came — 

When  you  and  I,  fair  girl,  must  sever; 
But  though  as  yet  be  strange  thy  name. 

Thy  memory  will  be  loved  for  ever. 
"We  met  as  pilgi-ims  on  the  way. 

Thy  smiles  made  bright  the  gloomiest  wealhei', 
Yet  who  is  there  can  name  the  day 

When  we  shall  meet  again  together  ? 

Be  that  as  'twill,  if  ne'er  to  meet, 

At  least  we've  had  one  day  of  gladness; 
And  oh!  a  glimpse  of  joy's  more  sweet 

That  it  is  seen  through  clouds  of  sadness. 
Thus  did  the  sun — half-hid  to-day — 

Seem  lovelier  in  its  hour  of  gleaming. 
Than  had  we  mark'd  its  fervid  ray 

Through  one  uutired  day  of  beaming. 


EOBEET    WILSON. 


Robert  Wilson  was  born  in  the  parish  of 
Carnbee,  Fifeshire,  in  1801.  He  was  edu- 
cated for  the  medical  profession,  and  practised 
for  some  time  at  St.  Andrews.  For  many 
years  he  has  lived  in  retirement  at  Aberdour, 
a  watering-place  on  the  coast  of  Fife  celebrated 
for  the  beauty  of  its  scenery.  Dr.  Wilson  is 
the  author  of  Lectures  on  the  Game  Laws,  The 


Social  Condition  of  France,  and  a  volume  of 
poems  published  in  1856  at  Boston,  Mas- 
sachusetts. Since  that  date  he  has  contributed 
many  poetical  pieces,  ciiiefly  lyrical,  to  the 
periodicals,  which  have  not  yet  been  repub- 
lished in  a  collected  form.  Dr.  Wilson  is  also 
the  author  of  several  brochures  on  subjects  of 
a  socio-political  character. 


AMERICA. 


Honour  to  him  on  whose  prophetic  brain 

First  dawned  the  woodlands  of  the  western  main; 

Wlio  realized  at  last  his  youthful  dreams. 

And  found  the  New  World,  with  her  woods  and 

streams, 
Where  living  verdure  fringed  the  circling  floods, 
And  red  men  wandered  in  primeval  woods ! 

Wlien  persecution  scourged  with  iron  rod 
The  worshippers  of  liberty  and  God; 


Gave  patriot-blood  the  tyrant's  thirst  to  slake, 
Fii-e  to  the  fagot,  victims  to  the  stake, — 
Freedom,  from  warring  Europe  long  exiled. 
Found  a  safe  refuge  in  the  forests  wild. 
Wlien  future  martyrs  met  their  trembling  flocks 
To  worship  God  among  the  woods  and  rocks. 
Then  many  a  worshipper,  to  shun  the  brand. 
Left  for  his  father's  faith  his  father-land. 
And,  in  the  western  woodlands  far  away, 
Sought  fearlessly  the  house  of  God  to  pray; 


234 


EGBERT  WILSON. 


Once  more  their  pious  bosoms  proudly  swell 
To  list  the  tinkling  of  the  Sabbath-bell. 

And  thither  pilgrims  flocked  from  many  a  clime, 
Where  love  to  God  or  freedom  was  a  crime; 
And  when  at  last,  across  the  severing  wave, 
A  giant-arm  was  stretched  to  crush  the  brave, 
When  Britain  strove  to  impose  the  tyrant-yoke, 
'Twas  then  the  glorious  cry  for  Freedom  woke: 
The  stirring  memory  of  want  and  wrong. 
Sustained   in  various   lands  from  whence  they 

sprung. 
Bound  in  one  resolute  devoted  band 
The  scattered  children  of  that  foster-land: 
The  patriot-ranks  the  stalwart  woodmen  own, 
Beneath  whose  arm  majestic  forests  groan. 

The  peasant,  lingering  round  his  home,  surveys 
His  log-built  cabin  'midst  the  flowering  maize; 
Then  leaves  his  sobbing  spouse  and  sportive  child. 
To  wrestle  for  his  treasures  in  the  wild. 
The  aged  sire,  whose  now-reposing  arm 
The  waste  transmuted  to  the  cultured  farm. 
In  hopes  to  spend  his  age  among  his  race. 
Fights  for  the  sweet  spot  in  the  desert  place. 
To  such  a  glorious  band,  'mong  whom  was  none 
Who  could  not  call  some  spot  of  earth  his  own, 
What  are  the  tools  that  tyi-ants  cast  away, 
When  at  their  game  of  lives  they  chance  to  play  ? 
Freedom  prevailed,  and  left  this  truth  sublime 
To  her  fond  worshippers  of  future  time, — 
All  have  the  power  who  wish  but  to  be  free; 
A  truth  we  owe,  America!  to  thee. 

Long  has  the  venturous,  woe-worn  exile-band 
Proclaimed  thy  woody  shore  the  poor  man's  land. 
Where  all  may  boast  some  little  spot  of  earth. 
Where  waves  their  grain,  and  glows  the  social 

hearth. 
That  sunny  spot  becomes  a  guiding  star 
To  suffering  kindred  in  their  homes  afar, 
To  lure  the  victims  sad  of  want  and  power 
To  happier  shores  in  Fortune's  troubled  hour. 
Where  work  the  peasant  and  mechanic's  hand 
Changes  more  rapid  than  enchanter's  wand. 
Where  late  the  jaguar  shvmned  the  noonday  heat. 
The  laden  wain  rolls  up  the  crowded  street; 
And  whei-e  the  youth  has  marked  the  wild  deer 

shake 
Their  forked  antlers  by  the  crystal  lake, 
And,  never  daunted  by  the  woodman's  axe. 
O'er  the  smooth  water  hold  their  arched  necks. 
Ere  the  few  gladsome  years  of  youth  have  flown. 
Has  marked  the  commerce  of  a  busy  town; 
And  in  the  lately  silent  creek  has  seen 
The  havened  barks  amid  the  foliage  green. 
Where  the  cold  ague's  treacherous  poison  sleeps. 
And  o'er  its  bed  the  noxious  serpent  creeps. 
Soon  shall  the  homesteads  with  their  cornfields 

shine, 
Beside  the  smooth  canal's  long  silvery  line, 


Adown  whoso  glittering  steps  the  ships  shall  go 
To  the  broad  waters  of  the  lake  below. 
And  where  the  Indian  maid,  with  barbarous  rite. 
Mourns  for  her  lover  slain  in  savage  fight, 
And,  with  the  bow  and  quiver  in  his  hand. 
Equips  her  warrior  for  the  Spirit's  Land, — 
There  human  relics  shall  in  peace  be  laid. 
And  o'er  the  sad  ruin  mournful  honours  paid. 
Blended  with  faith  that  Christ  will  come  again 
To  raise  and  beautify  the  prostrate  fane. 


HUMBIE  WOOD,   ABERDOUE. 

At  sultry  noon  or  close  of  day 
Alike  I  love  the  woodland  way. 

In  Hillside's  shady  walks  to  stroll, 
Or  thread  the  path  by  hedge  or  rill 
That  leads  to  Humbie's  wooded  hill, 
Conspicuous  for  its  beauty  still, 

Though  trees  crown  every  knoll. 

Thei'e  visions  charm  the  inward  sight; 
And  waking  dreams  tiiat  please  to-night 

Will  yield  again  their  bliss  to-inorrow; 
When  on  the  leafy  copse  I  look, 
Or  soaring  tree,  or  flowery  nook, 
Or  list  the  scarce-seen  bickering  brook 

That  runs  the  forest  thorcfugh. 

Or  mark  the  chestnut's  floral  crown, 
And  ancient  pine  of  solemn  brown 

That  knows  the  cushat's  indraw  crush; 
Or  watch,  to  waving  boughs  sublime, 
The  graceful  squirrels  nimbly  climb, 
While  the  plumed  minstrels'  mingled  chime 

Is  heard  from  brake  and  bush. 

But  not  these  woodland  sounds  alone 
To  the  rapt  dreamer's  ear  is  known; 

But  oft  in  opening  glade  it  meets 
Familiar  sounds  we  love  to  hear. 
From  him  who  stoops  the  plough  to  steer; 
Or  oxen  low  on  hillocks  near. 

Or  gamesome  lambkin  bleats. 

Our  piney  wood  and  mountain  thyme 
The  gorgeous  flower  of  southern  clime 

In  spicy  fragrance  far  exceed; 
Nor  Araby  a  perfume  knows 
More  rich  than  sweetbriar  or  the  rose, 
Or  where  the  bean  or  hawthorn  blows, 

Or  hay-cock  scents  the  mead. 

Awhile  my  tardy  steps  are  stayed 
Beside  a  beech  prolix  of  shade, 

Delicious  in  the  summer  noon; 
Where  in  tlie  cool  sequestered  bower 


EOBEET  WILSON. 


235 


The  speedwell  grows,  my  fav'rite  flower. 
Or  dandelion,  that  tells  the  hour, 
The  herdboy's  clock  in  June. 

Or  o'er  the  ground  the  trees  between. 
The  ivy  spreads  its  matted  green; 

And  honeysuckle  climbs  the  tree — 
Its  odours  sweet  the  insects  note, 
AVhich  through  the  sylvan  allej'S  float, 
And  lure  from  mossy  haunts  remote 

The  blossom -loving  bee. 

For  where  the  honeysuckle  climbs, 
And  ample  spread  the  luscious  limes. 

The  toilsome  bees  their  nectar  sip; 
There  too  the  nuts  and  berries  grow. 
Whose  ripening  time  the  schoolboys  know- 
The  berry  blue,  and  purple  sloe. 

The  hazel  and  the  hip. 

Emerging  from  the  forest  glade. 
Scenes  fair  as  mortal  e'er  surveyed 

Burst  sudden  on  the  raptured  view: 
For  now  the  gleams  of  parting  day 
Tint  rock  and  ruin,  inch  and  bay. 
And  softly  tip  with  slanting  ray 

The  wavy  Pentlands  blue. 

The  boatman  hoists  his  slender  sail 
To  catch  the  new-born  coming  gale, 

AVhile  sidelong  lies  the  idle  oar — 
And  sweetly  musing  feels  the  power 
Of  summer  gloaming's  witching  hour. 
When  gazing  on  fair  Aberdour 

And  its  enchanting  shore. 

Or  from  the  blue  unruffled  bay 

Goes  the  Avheeled  bark  no  calms  delay. 

Or  winds  deter,  these  coasts  between; 
And  from  its  deck  the  gazer  sees 
Wood-fringed  shores  that  ever  please. 
Or  the  high  Hewes'  majestic  trees. 

And  rocks  with  ivy  green. 

Northward,  to  woodland  wanderers  dear, 
Cullalo  hills  their  barrier  rear. 

Their  summits  with  rich  forest  clad ; 
While  downward  severing  clumps  are  seen. 
And  slender  lines  of  hedgerow  green. 
With  sloping  sheltered  fields  between. 

For  coming  harvest  glad. 

But  now  around  the  welkin's  brim 
Gather  the  shades  of  evening  dim, 

That  soon  familiar  sights  confuse; 
Far-parted  forests  Seem  to  meet, 
AVhere  swains  in  glade  with  hawthorn  sweet, 
As  here,  the  tale  of  love  repeat, 

And  fameless  poets  muse. 


The  milkmaid  opes  the  paddock  gate, 
AVhere  kine  distended  meekly  wait 

That  stated  fill  her  shining  pail. 
No  more  the  rustics  drudge  and  moil. 
Untrodden  lies  the  fallowed  soil, 
And  all  the  sounds  of  ruder  toil 

Are  hushed  within  the  vale. 

The  daisy  knows  the  dewy  hour. 
And  careful  folds  tlie  tender  flower 

Which  opens  to  the  morning  sun; 
The  star  of  eve  appears  to  view; 
Thin  wreaths  of  smoke,  so  faintly  blue. 
From  hut  and  hamlet  rise  anew — 

And  the  long  day  is  done. 


LINES 


COMPOSED  IX  THE  OLD  CHURCHYARD  OF 
ABERDOUR. 

The  stately  Norman  church  that  shows 

Its  arches  to  the  open  sky, 
The  chancel  where  tall  seedling  grows. 

And  vault  where  nobles  lie; 
The  nameless  grave,  the  lettered  stone. 

To  me  are  more  congenial  themes 
On  whiclx  to  muse  an  hour  alone 

Than  all  ambition's  dreams. 

Here  father,  mother,  children  own 

Some  little  spot  of  common  earth, 
And  cluster  round  the  pillared  stone 

As  round  the  parent  hearth. 
While  some  beneath  those  hillocks  pressed 

Together  share  the  dreamless  sleep, 
Whose  kindred  take  their  lasting  rest 

By  distant  shore  and  deep. 

Some  sleep  on  India's  sultry  shore, 

One  where  the  ocean  waves  o'erwhelm. 
Some  'neath  this  antique  sycamore, 

And  immemorial  elm. 
Yon  tablet  in  the  churchyard  wall, 

Eeared  by  a  sister's  tender  care, 
Records  the  fate  that  haps  to  all — 

The  household's  names  are  there. 

And  stones  around  are  thickly  strewed. 

Which  still  tlie  fond  survivor  rears, 
Where  homely  rhymes  and  sculpture  rude 

Speak  to  our  hopes  and  fears; 
And  holy  text  and  humble  lay 

Foretell  the  Christian's  endless  bliss. 
While  star  and  sun  still  point  the  way 

To  brighter  worlds  than  this. 


236 


EOBEET   MACNISH. 


And  see,  all  eloquent  of  death, 

Are  skull  and  cross-bones  side  by  side; 
The  shuttle  quaintly  carved  beneath 

Tells  how  the  moments  glide. 
The  rose's  stony  petals  there 

Speak  of  a  transient  breath  and  bloom, 
Fit  emblems  of  the  loved  and  fair 

Who  find  an  early  tomb. 

And  spindles  rudely  carved  disclose 

How  fine  the  thread  of  life  is  spun; 
This  sandglass  to  the  gazer  shows 

How  soon  his  race  is  run. 
The  muse  in  artless  numbei's  sings 

Her  tribute  to  the  good  and  just, 
AVhile  cherubim  with  outstretched  wings 

Protects  the  honoured  dust. 

The  worn  and  Aveary  here  at  last 

Eepose  upon  their  lowly  bed, 
And  text  and  arrow  tell  how  fast 

Death's  fatal  weapon  sped ; 
And  how  for  them  fond  eyes  were  dim. 

And  tender  hearts  were  torn; 
While  sculptured  crowns  still  speak  of  Him 

Who  wore  the  crown  of  thorn. 


Beyond  the  sycamores  I  mark 

Th'  inconstant  ocean  ebb  and  flow, 
O'er  which  the  full-sailed  barge  and  bark, 

Like  wandering  pilgrims  go; 
While  in  the  sheltered  haven  nigli, 

Meet  images  of  perfect  rest, 
Some  safe  from  storms  together  lie, 

In  peaceful  pennons  dressed. 

Below,  the  water  of  the  Dour, 

Like  mortal  being,  glides  away ; 
Aloft,  the  weather-wasted  tower 

Looks  down  in  proud  decay : 
The  ash-tree's  verdant  branches  wave 

Above  the  heaving,  hallowed  mould, 
That  soon  shall  shed  o'er  tomb  and  grave 

Their  leaves  of  paly  gold. 

Though  here  no  more  the  anthems  swell, 

And  holy  men  no  longer  preach, 
Stream,  tower,  and  tree  of  frailty  tell; 

While  texts  and  verses  teach. 
Inscribed  above  the  mortal  dust 

Which  gathers  round  the  house  of  praj'cr, 
That  all  who  place  in  God  their  trust 

Immortal  bliss  shall  share. 


EGBERT    MACNISH 


Born  1802  — Died  1837. 


TIosERT  JIacnish,  M.D.,  author  of  the 
Anatomy  of  Drunkenness,  the  Pliilosophy  of 
Sleep,  and  various  contributions  to  Blackwood's 
Magazine,  was  born  at  Glasgow,  February  15, 
1802.  After  receiving  the  elements  of  educa- 
tion in  his  native  city  he  was  placed  under  the 
charge  of  the  Rev.  Alexander  Easton  of  Hamil- 
ton, at  that  time  at  the  head  of  a  flourishing 
academy.  The  acquirement  of  the  French 
language  principally  engaged  the  period  be- 
tween his  leaving  this  school  and  his  entering 
upon  the  study  of  medicine  with  his  grand- 
father and  father,  who  were  then  associated  in 
practice  in  Glasgow.  Having  at  the  age  of 
eighteen  passed  an  examination  before  the 
College  of  Surgeons,  he  obtained  from  the 
University  of  Glasgow  the  degree  of  Magister 
Chlrurgke.  After  eighteen  montlis  of  country 
practice  in  Caithness,  where  his  health  failed, 
he  went  abroad  and  spent  a  year   in  Paris. 


With  the  medical  prelections  of  Broussais  and 
the  surgical  ones  of  Dupuytren  he  was  much 
delighted;  he  met  Cuvier,  and  formed  an 
acquaintanceship  with  Gall.  On  his  return 
to  Scotland  he  settled  in  Glasgow,  which  con- 
tinued to  be  his  place  of  residence  until  his 
death. 

In  1826  Dr.  Macnish  became  a  contributor 
of  prose  and  verse  to  the  most  celebrated 
magazine  of  the  day — Blackwood.  His  elabo- 
rate treatises,  more  especially  the  Anatomy  of 
Drunkenness  and  the  Philosophy  of  Sleep, 
gained  for  him  great  reputation  at  home,  and 
carried  his  name  to  the  United  States,  from 
whence  the  degree  of  Doctor  of  Laws  was  sent 
to  him.  They  were  also  translated  into  the 
French  and  German  languages.  Di-.  IMacnish 
died  Jan.  16, 1837;  and  so  perished  in  the  prime 
of  life,  and  in  the  bloom  of  his  fame  as  well 
as  of  his  professional  usefulness,  a  man  whom 


EOBEET   MACNISH. 


£37 


Scotland  may  well  number  among  her  gifted 
children.  A  critic  said  of  him  —  "There  was 
always  a  spring  of  life  about  him  that  vivified 
his  pages  and  animated  and  delighted  his 
readers."  A  few  years  after  Macnish's  death 
two  volumes  of  his  essays,  poems,  and  sketches, 


with  a  memoir  of  his  life  written  by  his  friend 
Dr.  D.  M.  Moir,  the  author  of  many  beautiful 
poetical  productions,  was  published  in  London. 
To  this  work  we  are  indebted  for  the  subjoined 
poems,  as  well  as  for  the  facts  contained  in 
this  brief  sketch. 


TO    THE   EHINE. 

Majestic  stream!  whose  hundred  fountains 
Have  birth  among  the  heathy  mountains, 
Where  .she  who  chains  my  soul  doth  dwell, 
I  love  thee  more  than  words  can  tell. 

'Tis  not  thy  track  o'erhung  with  towers 
Of  antique  mould — and  clustering  bowers- 
'Tis  not  thy  waves,  romantic  Rhine, 
Eolling  away  'mong  hills  of  pine — 
'Tis  not  the  matchless  beauty  given 
To  thine  o'erarching  woods — as  heaven 
Sighs  o'er  them  with  her  airy  spell- 
That  bids  thee  in  my  memory  dwell. 

Far  other  ties,  majestic  river. 
Have  bound  thee  to  this  heart  for  ever. 
The  mountains  whence  thy  streams  arise 
Are  gladden'd  over  by  her  ej'es — 
Her  starry  eyes  whose  glance  divine 
Was  oft  in  rapture  tum'd  on  mine. 
In  vision  like  a  radiant  gleam, 
I  see  her  mirror'd  on  thy  stream, 
I  hear  her  voice  of  silvery  tone 
Arising  from  thy  waters  lone: 
I  hear  her  lute's  bland  echo  come 
With  voice  so  soft— so  all  but  dumb- 
That  sound  hath  well-nigh  striven  in  vain 
To  mould  the  melancholy  strain. 
Which  empty  silence  fain  would  quell 
For  ever  in  his  voiceless  cell. 

River  of  rivers!  unto  me 
Thy  lucid  breast  shall  ever  be 
A  shrine  with  thousand  gifts  o'erflowing — 
A  spirit  known,  though  all  unknowing. 
Wlien  by  thy  wizard  banks  I  stray, 
Unnumber'd  thoughts  bestrew  my  way- 
Thoughts  rising,  like  thy  gushing  fountains, 
Far  off,  from  those  romantic  mountains 
Where  she  doth  dwell  who  rules  my  heart— 
A  soUtary  star  apart — 
A  wild  flower  in  her  native  glen. 
Far  from  the  busy  strife  of  men. 
What  wonder  then— 0!  lordly  stream- 
Since  like  an  everlasting  dream 
Her  pictured  memory  dwells  with  thee, 
That  thou  art  all  in  all  to  me  ? 
Sweet  is  thy  course,  and  even  the  call 


Of  thunder — when  thy  waterfall 

Grindeth  his  rebel  waves  to  spray, 

And  shadoweth  with  mist  the  day. 

I  love  thee  in  thy  gentle  path — 

I  love  thee  in  thy  moods  of  wrath — 

I  love  thee  when  thou  ghdest  under 

The  boughs  unheard— or  roll'st  in  thunder. 

Yes,  lordly  stream,  whose  hundred  fountains 

Have  birth  among  the  heathy  mountains. 

Where  she  who  chains  my  heart  doth  dwell, 

I  love  thee  more  than  words  can  tell. 


THE  LOVER'S   SECRET. 

Thou  walk'st  in  tender  hght,  by  thine  own  beauty 

made. 
And  all  thou  passest  by  are  hidden  in  the  shade; 
Foi-ms  fair  to  other  eyes  appear  not  so  to  me, 
So  fully  glows  my  heart  with  thoughts  alone  of 

thee. 

I  dream  of  thee  by  night— I  think  of  thee  by  day— 
Thy  form,  where'er  I  go,  o'ertakes  me  on  my  way; 
It  haunts  my  waking  thoughts— it  fills  mine  hom-s 

of  sleep, 
And  yet  it  glads  me  not,  but  only  makes  me 

weep: — 

It  only  makes  me  weep— for  though  my  spirit's 

shrine 
Is  fill'd  with  thee,  I  know  that  thou  can'st  ne'er 

be  mine: 
"Unconquerable    bars,"    raised    up    by    Fate's 

decree. 
Stand,  and  will  ever  stand,  between  my  soul  and 

thee! 

Hope  long  hath  passed  away,  and  nothing  now 

remains 
For  me  but  bootless  love— its  sorrows,  and  its 

pains; 
And  to  increase  each  pang,  I  dare  not  breathe 

thy  name. 
Or,  in  thy  gentle  ear,  confess  my  secret  flame. 

Hope  long  hath  passed  away,  and  still  thou  art 

enshrined 
A  spirit  fair— within  the  temple  of  my  mind: 


238 


EOBEET   CHAMBEES. 


If  I  had  loved  thee  less,  the  secret  thou  hadst 

known 
"';Vliich  strong  affection  binds,  and  binds  to  me 

alone. 

The  secret  thou  hadst  known — but  terror,  lest 

thy  heart 
In  feelings  such  as  mine  should  bear  no  kindred 

part, 
Enchains  my  soul,  and  locks  within  its  silent  urn 
Love  which,  perchance,  from  thee  durst  meet 

with  no  return. 


TO  A   CHILD. 

Thy  memory,  as  a  spell 

Of  love,  comes  o'er  my  mind- 
As  dew  upon  the  purple  bell — 

As  perfume  on  the  wind — 
As  music  on  the  sea — 

As  sunshine  on  the  river — 
So  liatJi  it  always  been  to  me, 

So  shall  it  be  for  ever. 


I  hear  thy  voice  in  dreams 

Upon  me  softly  call, 
Like  echo  of  the  mountain  streams 

In  sportive  waterfall. 
I  see  thy  form  as  Avhen 

Thou  wert  a  living  thing, 
And  blossom'd  in  the  eyes  of  men 

Like  any  flower  of  spring. 

Thy  soul  to  heaven  hath  fled. 

From  earthly  thraldom  free; 
Yet,  'tis  not  as  the  dead 

That  thou  appear' st  to  me. 
In  slumber  I  behold 

Thy  form,  as  when  on  earth — 
Thy  locks  of  waving  gold — 

Thy  sapphire  eye  of  mirth. 

I  hear,  in  solitude. 

The  prattle  kind  and  free 
Thou  utteredst  in  joyful  mood 

AVhile  seated  on  my  knee. 
So  strong  each  vision  seems. 

My  spirit  that  doth  fill, 
I  think  not  they  are  dreams. 

But  that  thou  livest  still. 


EOBEET    CHAMBEES 


Born  1802  — Died  1871. 


It  may  be  doubted  whether  in  recent  years 
the  name  of  any  literary  man  in  Scotland  has 
been  more  widely  known  than  that  of  the  late 
Dr.  Robert  Chambers.  His  career  was  a  kind 
of  which  his  native  land  can  exhibit  perhaps 
more  e.xamples  in  proportion  than  any  other 
country,  and  of  all  her  writers  and  poets  of  the 
nineteenth  century,  not  even  excepting  Sir 
Walter  Scott  or  Professor  Wilson,  he  was  the 
most  thoroughly  Scotch  in  his  mind,  feelings, 
and  character.  With  his  passion  for  reading, 
and  his  indomitable  industry,  he  united  an 
intense  admiration  for  the  land  of  his  birth, 
and  an  unconquerable  determination  from  his 
boyhood  to  celebrate  in  some  way  the  glories 
of  Auld  Scotia — 

"Ev'n  then  a  wish  (I  mind  its  power\ 
A  wish  that  to  my  latest  hour 

Shall  strongly  heave  my  breast; 
That  I,  for  poor  auld  Scotland's  sake, 


Some  usefu'  plan  or  book  could  make. 
Or  sing  a  sang  at  least." 

If  the  devoted  lover  of  his  native  land  did  not 
live  to  sing  such  stanzas  as  Burns  and  Scott 
sang,  he  yet  lived  to  write  "Young  Kandal" 
and  many  other  sweet  songs  which  entitle  him 
to  a  place  in  our  gallery,  and  to  pi'oduce 
upwards  of  seventy  volumes,  exclusive  of  de- 
tached papers,  all  illustrative  of  the  history 
and  progress  of  Scotland — its  literature,  social 
life,  and  antiquities.  He  wandered  over  and 
described  all  its  classic  scenes;  he  collected 
and  garnered  up  the  fast-fading  traditions  and 
national  peculiarities  of  bygone  days;  and 
recorded,  as  no  other  writer  has  done,  the 
story  of  the  rash  and  romantic  military  enter- 
prise of  '•■  Bonnie  Prince  Charlie,"  which  ter- 
minated in  the  ruin  of  the  Stuart  family. 

Eobert  Chambers  was  born  July  10,  1802, 
in  the  ancient  town  of  Peebles,  lying  in  the 


EOBEET   CHAMBERS. 


239 


lovely  pastoral  vale  of  Tweed,  and  the  scene 
of  the  celebrated  old  poem  "  Peblis  to  the 
Play."  He  and  his  elder  brother  William 
were  educated  at  the  schools  of  their  native 
town.  Family  misfortunes  took  their  father 
to  Edinburgh,  and  compelled  Robert,  Mho  was 
intended  for  the  Church,  to  make  choice  of  a 
different  career,  and  to  forego  the  advantages 
of  a  university  education.  At  the  age  of  fifteen 
he  opened  a  small  book-shop  in  Leith  Walk, 
Edinburgh,  his  stock  consisting  entirely  of  the 
wreck  of  the  family  library.  He  managed  his 
little  business  with  so  much  industry  that  in 
1822  he  was  enabled  to  remove  to  a  better 
locality,  and  soon  after  issued  his  first  work,  en- 
titled Illustrations  of  the  Author  of  Waverley. 
Two  years  later  he  published  his  Traditions  of 
Edinburgh,  certainly  in  the  writer's  judgment 
the  most  amusing  book  of  local  antiquities  to 
be  met  with.  Eobert  Chambers'  next  work, 
issued  in  1826,  was  the  Popidar  Ehymes  of 
Scotland,  and  in  the  year  following  his  Pictures 
of  Scotland  appeared.  The  latter  was  a  success- 
ful effort  to  elevate  topographical  and  archaeolo- 
gical details  into  the  region  of  belles-lettres, 
and  it  was  for  many  years  the  best  companion 
for  travellers  in  Scotland.  Enlisted  in  the 
corps  of  writers  for  Constables  Miscellany,  he 
wrote  successively  five  volumes  embodying  the 
histories  of  the  Scottish  rebellions,  of  which 
that  concerning  the  affair  of  1745,  while  true 
as  to  facts,  partakes  of  the  charm  of  a  romance. 
Then  followed  two  volumes  q{  a.  Life  of  James  I. ; 
three  volumes  of  Scottish  Songs  and  Ballads; 
and  four  volumes  of  the  Biographical  Diction- 
ary of  Eminent  Scotsmen.  In  addition  to  writing 
these  various  works,  and  giving  attention  to 
his  business,  he  acted  for  a  time  as  editor  of 
the  Edinburgh  Advertiser,  a  well-established 
journal  belonging  to  Donaldson,  the  founder 
of  the  hospital  in  the  Scottish  capital  which 
bears  his  name. 

In  1832,  amid  much  political  distraction, 
there  was  a  universal  upheaving  in  favour  of 
popular  education  in  Great  Britain.  At  this 
critical  juncture  the  elder  brother  projected 
Chambers's  Edinburgh  Journal,  the  first  num- 
ber of  which  appeared  Feb.  4,  1832,  six  weeks 
before  the  appearance  of  the  Penny  Magazine. 
It  was  a  marvel  in  the  literary  world,  and  at 
once  met  with  surprising  success,  which,  after  a 
period  of  over  forty  years,  it  continues  to  enjoy. 


From  the  first  Robert  was  an  efficient  contri- 
butor to  the  Journal,  his  delightful  essays, 
pathetic  and  humorous,  fixing  the  publication 
firmly  in  popular  esteem.  Animated  by  the 
same  spirit,  the  brothers  now  joined  in  part- 
nership, and  it  is  unnecessary  to  particularize 
the  various  enterprises  in  which  they  were 
unitedly  concerned;  suffice  it  to  say  that  their 
publishing  house  has  become  widely  knoAvn 
throughout  both  Great  Britain  and  America. 
"You  are  aware,"  wrote  Chambers  in  1850  to 
William  Wilson  of  Poughkeepsie,  his  life-long 
friend  and  correspondent,  "that  my  brother 
and  I  conduct  what  you  may  call  a  great 
literary  factory.  We  are  not  publishers  in  the 
ordinary  sense  of  the  word,  but  rather  authors 
and  editors  working  out  our  literary  plans 
through  the  medium  of  a  printing  and  pub- 
lishing concern  in  the  hands  of  a  set  of  subordi- 
nates. Thus  the  literary  man  takes  in  our  case 
his  naturally  due  place  as  the  superior  of  the 
mere  tradesman  publishei-.  It  is  a  curious  pro- 
blem in  literary  affairs  that  we  are  solving,  and 
probably  something  may  be  heard  of  it  twenty 
years  hence.  The  printing  of  the  books  written 
and  edited  by  us  gives  occasion  for  ten  printing 
presses,  the  working  of  which  is  one  of  the 
sights  of  Edinburgh — a  curious  contrast  with 
the  infancy  of  my  concern  in  Leith  Walk, 
where  you  used  to  look  in  upon  me!" 

Robert  Chambers'  next  important  work  was 
his  Cyclopedia  of  English  Literature,  a  pub- 
lication of  higher  rank  than  any  previous  com- 
pilation of  a  similar  character.  It  was  followed 
by  his  Life  and  Letters  of  Robert  Burns, 
including  his  poems.  The  profits  of  one  edi- 
tion, amounting  to  £200,  were  presented  to 
the  daughters  of  Burns'  surviving  sister,  who 
had  herself  previously  received  many  kind- 
nesses from  her  brother's  editor  and  admirer. 
"A  dear  and  faithful  friend  has  Mr.  Chambers 
been  to  me,"  said  the  venerable  lady  to  the 
writer  when  he  visited  her  in  her  cottage  of 
Bridgehouse,  near  Ayr,  in  the  summer  of  1855. 
Writing  to  the  Editor  from  St.  Andrews  a 
short  time  before  his  death,  Sir.  Chambers 
said:  "It  is  only  last  week,  after  an  interval 
of  three  years,  that  I  have  got  once  more  settled 
in  a  home  of  my  own.  My  health,  after  being 
out  of  order  for  an  equal  space  of  time,  is  now 
completely  restored.  I  am  setting  up  a  house- 
hold with  one  young  daughter  and  three  grand- 


240 


EOBEET   CHAMBERS. 


children,  hoping  to  have  a  few  pleasant  lei- 
surely jears  at  the  close  of  a  life  which  has 
perhaps  been  too  active  and  laborious." 

In  1868  the  University  of  St.  Andrews  con- 
ferred on  Eobert  Cliambers  the  honorary  degree 
of  LL.D.  In  his  well-known  hospitable  home 
at  St.  Andrews  the  doctor  dispensed  a  gen- 
erous hospitality,  and  liis  dinners  and  even- 
ing parties  here  had  something  in  them  of 
the  smack  of  old  times.  The  pen  was  now 
taken  up  only  occasionally  as  an  amusement 
in  the  preparation  of  a  L^fe  of  Smollett,  his 
last  literary  work.  The  memoir  when  pub- 
lished bore  strongly,  like  the  archbishop's 
homily  in  Gil  Bias,  "the  marks  of  mortal 
disease,"  though  still  a  not  unpleasing  gossipy 
narrative.  The  remaining  span  of  his  life  was 
happily   accompanied    by  little   if  any   phy- 


sical suffering,  and  he  passed  peacefully  away 
March  17,  1871.  In  the  last  letter  the  Editor 
received  from  Dr.  Cliambers  he  wrote:  "  I  feel 
greatly  interested,  my  dear  general,  in  your 
proposed  selections  from  the  Scottish  poets. 
You  honour  me  much  by  introducing  me  into 
the  Work.  I  think  the  selection  of  my  pieces 
as  good  as  could  be  made.  In  answer  to  your 
query,  the  10th  of  July,  1802,  is  the  date  of 
my  birth.  There  are  no  portraits  of  Barbour, 
Wyntoun,  and  Lyndsay,  nor  of  any  before 
Drummond,  excepting  the  kings,  and  perhaps 
Buchanan."  In  1872  a  memoir  of  Robert 
Chambers,  containing  some  of  liis  poems,  with 
autobiographic  reminiscences  of  William  Cham- 
bers, Avas  issued  at  Edinburgh,  and  immedi- 
ately republished  in  New  York,  both  editions 
meeting  with  a  wide  circulation. 


THE    PEERLESS    ONE. 


Hast  thou  ne'er  marked,  in  festal  hall, 

Amidst  the  lights  that  shone, 
Some    one  who   beamed    more   bright    than 
all- 
Some  gay — some  glorious  one  ! 
Some  one  who,  in  her  fairy  lightness, 

As  through  the  hall  she  went  and  came, 
And  lier  intensity  of  brightness, 

As  ever  her  eyes  sent  out  their  flame. 
Was  almost  foreign  to  the  scene; 

Gay  as  it  was,  with  beauty  beaming, 
Through  which  she  moved : — a  gemless  queen, 

A  creature  of  a  different  seeming 
From  others  of  a  mortal  birth — 

An  angel  sent  to  walk  the  earth! 

Oh,  stranger,  if  thou  e'er  hast  seen 

And  singled  such  a  one. 
And  if  thou  hast  enraptured  been — 

And  felt  thyself  undone; 
If  thou  hast  sigh'd  for  such  a  one. 

Till  thou  wert  sad  with  fears; 
If  thou  hast  gazed  on  such  a  one 

Till  thou  wert  bUnd  with  tears; 
If  thou  hast  sat  obscure,  remote. 

In  comer  of  the  hall, 
Looking  from  out  thy  shroud  of  thought 

Upon  the  festival; 
Thine  eye  through  all  the  misty  throng 

Drawn  by  that  peerless  light, 
As  traveller's  steps  are  led  along 

By  wild-fire  through  the  night: 
Then,  stranger,  haply  dost  thou  know 
The  joy,  the  rapture,  and  the  woe, 


Which  in  alternate  tides  of  feeling, 
Now  thickening  quick — now  gently  stealing 
Throughout  this  lone  and  hermit  breast, 
That  festal  night,  my  soul  possess'd. 

0 !  she  was  fairest  of  the  fair. 

And  brightest  of  the  bright; 
And  there  was  many  a  fair  one  there, 

That  joyous  festal  night. 
A  hundred  eyes  on  her  were  bent, 

A  hundred  hearts  beat  high; 
It  was  a  thing  of  ravishment, 

0  God !  to  meet  her  eye ! 
But  'midst  the  many  who  look'd  on. 

And  thought  she  was  divine, 
0,  need  I  say  that  there  were  none 

W^ho  gazed  with  gaze  like  mine ! 
The  rest  were  like  the  crowd  who  look 

All  idly  up  to  heaven. 
And  who  can  see  no  wonder  there 

At  either  morn  or  even; 
But  I  was  like  the  wretch  embound 
Deep  in  a  dungeon  under  ground, 
Who  only  sees,  through  grating  high, 
One  small  blue  fi-agment  of  the  sky. 
Which  ever,  both  at  noon  and  night. 
Shows  but  one  starlet  shining  bright, 
Down  on  the  darkness  of  his  place. 
With  cheering  and  unblenching  grace; 
The  very  darkness  of  my  woe 
Made  her  to  me  more  brightly  show. 

At  length  the  dancing  scene  was  changed 
To  one  of  calmer  tone, 


EGBERT   CHAMBERS. 


241 


And  she  her  loveliness  arranged 

Upon  fair  Music's  throne. 
Soft  silence  fell  on  all  around, 

Like  dew  on  summer  flowers; 
Bright  eyes  were  cast  upon  the  ground, 

Like  daisies  bent  with  showers. 
And  o'er  that  drooping  stilly  scene 
A  voice  rose  gentle  and  serene, 

A  voice  as  soft  and  slow 
As  might  proceed  from  angel's  tongue. 
If  angel's  heart  were  sorrow-wrung. 

And  wish'd  to  speak  its  woo. 

The  song  was  one  of  those  old  lays 
Of  mingled  gloom  and  gladness, 
Which  first  the  tides  of  joy  can  raise, 

Then  still  them  down  to  sadness; 
A  strain  in  which  pure  joy  doth  borrow 
The  very  air  and  gait  of  sorrow. 
And  sorrow  takes  as  much  alloy 
From  the  rich  sparkling  ore  of  joy. 
Its  notes,  like  hieroglyphic  thing, 
Spoke  more  than  they  seem'd  meant  to  sing. 
I  could  have  lain  my  life's  whole  round 
Entranced  upon  that  billowy  sound, 
Nought  touching,  tasting,  seeing,  hearing. 
And,  knowing  nothing,  nothing  fearing. 
Like  Indian  dreaming  in  his  boat, 
As  he  down  waveless  stream  doth  float. 
But  pleasure's  tide  ebbs  always  fast. 
And  tliese  were  joys  too  loved  to  last. 

There  was  but  one  long  final  swell. 

Of  full  melodious  tone, 
And  all  into  a  cadence  fell, 

And  was  in  breathing  gone. 
And  she  too  went:  and  thus  have  gone 

All — all  I  ever  loved; 
At  first  too  fondly  doted  on. 

But  soon — too  soon  removed. 
Thus  early  from  each  pleasant  scene 

There  ever  has  been  reft 
The  summer  glow — the  pride  of  greon, 

And  but  brown  autumn  left. 
And  oh,  what  is  this  cherished  term. 

This  tenancy  of  clay, 
When  that  which  gave  it  all  its  charm 

Has  smil'd — and  pass'd  away  ? 
A  chaplet  whence  the  flowers  are  fall'n, 
A  shrine  from  which  the  god  is  stolen ! 


SCOTLAND. 

Scotland!  the  land  of  all  I  love, 

The  land  of  all  that  love  me; 
Land,  whose  green  sod  my  youth  has  trod, 

Whose  sod  sliall  lie  above  me. 
Hail,  country  of  the  brave  and  good  ; 

Hail,  land  of  song  and  storv; 

Vol.  II.— Q 


Land  of  the  uncorrupted  heart, 
Of  ancient  faith  and  glory ! 

Like  mother's  bosom  o'er  her  child. 

The  sky  is  glowing  o'er  me; 
Like  mother's  ever-smiling  face. 

The  land  lies  bright  before  me. 
Land  of  my  home,  my  father's  land; 

Land  where  my  soul  was  nourish'd; 
Land  of  anticipated  joy. 

And  all  by  memory  cherish'd! 

Oh  Scotland,  through  thy  wide  domain 

AVhat  hill,  or  vale,  or  river, 
But  in  this  fond  enthusiast  heart 

Has  found  a  place  for  ever? 
Xay,  hast  thou  but  a  glen  or  shaw. 

To  shelter  farm  or  shelling, 
That  is  not  fondly  garner'd  up 

Within  its  depths  of  feeling? 

Adown  thy  hills  run  countless  rills, 

With  noisy,  ceaseless  motion; 
Their  waters  join  the  rivers  broad, 

Those  rivers  join  the  ocean; 
And  many  a  sunny,  flowery  brae. 

Where  childliood  plays  and  ponders, 
Is  freshen'd  by  the  liglitsonie  flood, 

As  wimpling  on  it  wanders. 

Within  thy  long-descending  vales, 

And  on  the  lonely  mountain. 
How  many  wild  spontaneous  flowers 

Hang  o'er  each  flood  and  fountain! 
The  glowing  furze,  the  "  bonnie  broom,' 

The  thistle  and  the  heather; 
The  bluebell  and  the  gowan  fair. 

Which  childliood  likes  to  gather. 

Oh  for  that  pipe  of  silver  sound. 

On  wliich  the  shepherd  lover. 
In  ancient  days,  breathed  out  his  .soul, 

Beneath  the  mountain's  cover! 
Oh  for  that  Great  Lost  Power  of  Song, 

So  soft  and  melancholy. 
To  make  thy  every  hill  and  dale 

Poetically  holy! 

,\nd  not  alone  each  hill  and  dale, 

Fair  as  they  are  by  nature. 
But  every  town  and  tower  of  thine, 

And  every  lesser  feature; 
For  where  is  there  the  spot  of  earth 

Within  my  contemplation. 
But  from  some  noble  deed  or  tiling 

Has  taken  consecration! 

Scotland!  the  land  of  all  I  love, 
The  land  of  all  that  love  me; 


242 


ROBERT   CHAMBERS. 


Land,  whose  green  sod  my  3-outli  has  trod, 

Whose  sod  shall  lie  above  me. 
Ilail,  country  of  the  brave  and  good; 

Hail,  land  of  song  and  story; 
Land  of  the  uncorrupted  heart. 

Of  ancient  faith  and  glory ! 


THE  TRISOXER  OFSPEDLINS. 

To  Edinburgh,  to  Edinburgh, 

The  Jardine  he  maun  ride; 
He  locks  the  gates  behind  him. 

For  lang  he  means  to  bide. 

And  he,  nor  any  of  his  train, 

While  minding  thus  to  flit, 
Thinks  of  the  weary  prisoner, 

Deep  in  the  castle  pit. 

They  were  not  gane  a  day,  a  day, 

A  day  but  barely  four, 
AV^hen  neighbours  spake  of  dismal  cries 

Were  heard  frae  Spedlins  Tower. 

They  mingled  wi'  the  sigh  of  trees. 

And  the  thud-thud  o'  the  lin; 
But  nae  ane  tliocht  'twas  a  deein'  man 

Tiiat  made  that  eldrich  din. 

At  last  they  mind  the  gipsy  loon, 

In  dungeon  lay  unfed; 
But  ere  the  castle  key  was  got, 

The  gipsy  loon  was  dead. 

They  found  the  wretch  stretch'd  out  at  length 

Upon  the  cold,  cold  stone. 
With  starting  eyes  and  hollow  cheek, 

And  arms  peeled  to  the  bone! 

Now  Spedlins  is  an  eerie  house. 

For  oft  at  mirk  midnight 
The  wail  of  Porteous'  starving  cry 

Fills  a'  that  house  wi'  fright. 

"  0,  let  me  out,  0  let  me  out. 
Sharp  hunger  cuts  me  sore; 
If  ye  suffer  me  to  perish  so, 
I'll  haunt  you  evermore!" 

0  sad,  sad  was  the  Jardine  then. 

His  heart  was  sorely  smit; 
Till  he  could  wish  himself  had  been 

Left  in  that  deadly  pit. 

But  "  Cheer  ye,"  cried  his  lady  fair, 
"  'Tis  purpose  makes  the  sin; 


And  where  the  heart  has  had  no  part, 
God  holds  his  creature  clean." 

Then  Jardine  sought  a  holy  man 

To  lay  that  vexing  sprite; 
And  for  a  week  that  holy  man 

Was  praying  day  and  night. 

And  all  that  time  in  Spedlins  house 

Was  held  a  solemn  fast. 
Till  the  cries  waxed  low,  and  the  boglcbo 

In  the  deep  lied  Sea  was  cast. 

There  lies  a  Bible  in  Spedlins  ha', 

And  while  it  there  shall  lie, 
Nae  Jardine  can  tormented  be 

With  Porteous'  starving  cr\-. 

But  Applegarth's  an  altered  man — 

He  is  no  longer  gay; 
The  thought  o'  Porteous  clings  to  him 

Unto  his  dying  day. 


YOUNG   EANDAL. 

Young  Fiandal  was  a  bonnie  lad  when  he  gaed 

awa', 
Young  Randal  was  a  bonnie  lad  when  he  gaed 

awa', 
'Twas  in  the  sixteen  hundred  year  o'  grace  and 

thritty-twa. 
That  Randal,  the  laird's  youngest  son,  gaed  awa. 

It  was  to  seek  his  fortune  in  the  High  Germanie, 
To  fecht  the  foreign  loons  in  the  High  Germanie, 
That  he  left  his  father's  tower  o'  sweet  Willanslee, 
And  monie  mae  friends  in  tlie  North  Countrie. 

He  left  his  mother  in  her  bower,  his  father  in  the 

ha', 
His  brother  at  the  outer  yett,  but  and  his  sisters 

twa. 
And  his  bonnie  cousin  Jean,  that  look'd  owre  the 

castle  wa', 
And  mair  than  a'  the  lave,  loot  the  tears  down  fa'. 

"  Oh,  whan  will  ye  be  back?"  sae  kindly  did  she 

speir, 
"Oh,  whan  will  ye  be  back,  my  hinny  and  my 

dear?" 
"Whenever  I  can  win  eneuch  o'  Spanish  gear. 
To  dress  ye  out  in  pearlins  and  silks,  my  dear." 

Oh,  Randal's  hair  was  coal-black  when  he  gaed 

awa' — 
Oh,  Randal's  cheeks  were  roses  red  when  he  gaed 

awa', 


THOMAS   AIRD. 


243 


And  in  his  bonnie  e'e  a  spark  glintit  high, 

Like  the  merrie,  raerrie  look  in  the  morning  sky. 

Oh,  Randal  was  an  altert  man  whan  he  came 

hanie — 
A  sair  altert  man  was  he  whan  he  came  hame; 
Wi'  a  ribbon  at  his  breast,  and  a  Sir  at  his  name — 
And  gray,  gray  cheeks  did  Randal  come  hame. 

He  lichtit  at  the  outer  yett,  and  rispit  with  the 

ring. 
And  down  came  a  ladye  to  see  him  come  in, 
And  after  the  ladye  came  bairns  f eif teen ; 
"  Can  this  muckle  wife  be  my  true  love  Jean?" 

"  Wliatna  stoure  carle  is  this,''  quo'  the  dame, 
"  Sae  gruff  and  sae  grand,  and  sae  feckless  and 

sae  lame  ? " 
"  Oh,  tell  me,  fair  madame,  are  ye  bonnie  Jeanie 

Graham?" 
"  In  troth,"  quo'  the  ladye,  "  sweet  su-,  the  very 

same." 

He  turn'd  him  about  wi'  a  waefu'  e'e. 

And  a  heart  as  sair  as  sair  could  be; 

He  lap  on  his  horse,  and  awa'  did  wildly  flee. 

And  never  mair  came  back  to  sweet  Willanslee. 

Oh,  dule  on  the  poortith  o'  this  countrie. 
And  dule  on  the  wars  o'  the  High  Germanie, 
And  dule  on  the  love  that  forgetfu'  can  be; 
For  they've  wreck'd  the  bravest  heart  in  this 
hale  countrie. 


LAMENT  FOR  THE  OLD  HIGHLAND 
WARRIORS. 

Oh,  where  are  the  pretty  men  of  yore? 
Oh,  where  are  the  brave  men  gone  ? 
Oh,  where  are  the  heroes  of  the  north? 

Each  under  his  owai  gray  stone. 
Oh,  where  now  the  broad  bright  claymore  ? 

Oh,  where  are  the  trews  and  plaid  ? 
Oh,  where  now  the  merry  Highland  heart? 
In  silence  for  ever  laid. 
Och  on  a  rie,  och  on  a  rie, 

Och  on  a  rie,  all  are  gone; 
Och  on  a  rie,  the  heroes  of  yore. 
Each  under  his  own  gray  stone. 


The  chiefs  that  were  foremost  of  old, 

Macdonald  and  brave  Lochiel, 
The  Gordon,  the  Murray,  and  the  Graham, 

With  their  clansmen  true  as  steel; 
Who  foUow'd  and  fought  with  Montrose, 

Glencairn,  and  bold  Dundee; 
Who  to  Charlie  gave  their  swords  and  their  all, 

And  would  aye  rather  fa'  than  flee. 
Och  on  a  rie,  &c. 

Tlie  hills  that  our  brave  fathers  trod 

Are  now  to  the  stranger  a  store; 
The  voice  of  the  pipe  and  the  bard 

Shall  awaken  never  more. 
Such  things  it  is  sad  to  think  on — 

They  come  like  the  mist  by  day — 
And  I  wish  I  had  less  in  this  world  to  leave, 

And  be  with  them  that  are  away. 
Och  on  a  rie,  &c. 


THE  LADYE  THAT  I   LOVE. 

Were  I  a  doughty  cavalier 

On  fire  for  high-born  dame, 
Witli  sword  and  lance  I  would  not  fear 

To  win  a  warrior's  fame. 
But  since  no  more  stern  deeds  of  blood 

Tiie  gentle  f;iir  may  move, 
I'll  woo  in  softer,  better  mood 

The  ladye  that  I  love. 

For  helmet  bright  with  steel  and  gold, 

And  plumes  that  flout  the  sky, 
I'll  wear  a  soul  of  hardier  mould, 

And  thoughts  that  sweep  as  high. 
For  scarf  athwart  my  corselet  cast, 

With  iier  fair  name  y-wove, 
I'll  have  her  pictur'd  in  my  breast. 

The  ladye  that  I  love. 

No  crested  steed  through  battle  throng 

Shall  bear  me  bravely  on. 
But  pride  shall  make  my  spirit  strong, 

Wliere  honours  may  be  won. 
Amidst  the  great  of  mind  and  heart, 

My  prowess  I  will  prove, 
And  thus  I'll  win,  by  gentler  art, 

The  ladye  tliat  1  love. 


THOMAS    AIED. 


Born  1802  — Died  1876. 


Thomas  Aird,  who  early  distinguished  him- 
self as  a  poet,  was  born  at  Bowden,  Ro.xburgh- 


shire,  August  28,  1802.     He  was  educated  at 
the  University  of  Edinburgh,  where  he  formed 


244 


THOMAS   AIRD. 


the  acquaintance  of  Professor  Wilson,  Dr.  Moir, 
and  otlicr  literary  men.  He  studied  originally 
for  the  ministry  of  the  Church  of  Scotland,  but, 
clianging  his  purpose,  he  embraced  the  freedom 
of  a  literary  life,  and  became  a  frequent  contri- 
butor in  prose  and  verse  to  Blackwood' s  Ma<ja- 
z'ne.  He  also  wrote  for  other  Edinburgh  maga- 
zines, including  tlie  Literary  Journal,  which 
he  for  a  time  edited.  A  volume  of  poems, 
published  about  his  twentieth  year,  evinced  the 
early  promiseof  his  mind ;  and  this  was  followed 
in  1827  by  a  little  treatise  entitled  ReUglous 
Characteristics,  which  won  the  admiration  of 
Professor  Wilson  for  its  high  imaginative  power 
and  exalted  Christian  tone.  Three  years  later 
lie  published  "The  Captive  of  Fez,  a  Piomance," 
in  five  cantos,  which  immediately  gained  for 
the  young  author  a  place  among  the  poets  of 
the  day.  A  brief  extract  among  our  selections 
will  give  some  idea  of  the  character  of  this 
vigorous  and  picturesque  production.  Jlr.  Aird 
w;is  in  1835  appointed  editor  of  the  Dumfries 
Herald  and  Register,  a  Conservative  journal, 
which  met  with  great  success  under  his  editor- 
sliip,  extending  over  a  period  of  twenty -eight 
years.  Its  pages  were  enriched  with  some  of 
his  choicest  verses  and  criticisms,  and  the 
generous  editor  was  always  glad  to  receive  the 
contributions  of  the  youthful  talent  which 
gathered  around  him.  Aird's  next  volume  was 
a  collection  of  admirable  tales  and  sketches, 
entitled  The  Old  Bachelor  in  the  Old  Scottish 
Villaeie.  A  fter  the  death  of  his  friend  Dr.  Moir, 
he  edited  an  edition  of  his  poems,  for  which 
he  prepared  a  memoir.  In  1848  his  poems 
were  published  in  a  collected  form,  -with  some 
new  ones;  tlie  volume  was  Avell  received,  and 
reached  a  fourth  edition  in  1863.  Some  of 
these  pieces  are  of  wild  imaginative  grandeur; 
the  poem  "My  Mother's  Grave,"  it  has  been 
said,  "deserves  a  place  beside  Cowpers  im- 
mortal lines:  it  breathes  a  spirit  of  yearning 
tenderness  and  intensest  pathos."     On  relin- 


quishing the  editorship  of  the  Z)M»)/rie«/7e?-oW, 
and  retii-ing  into  private  life  in  1863,  Mr.  Aird 
was  entertained  at  a  public  dinner  in  Dum- 
fries, and  presented  with  a  handsome  testi- 
monial subscribed  for  by  men  of  all  shades 
of  political  opinion.  Eesident  in  a  beautiful 
country,  with  troops  of  friends  around  him,  his 
remaining  years  glided  on  in  happy  tran- 
quillity. He  died  at  his  residence  of  Castle- 
bank,  Dumfries,  April  25,  1876,  after  ajjainful 
illness  borne  Avith  manly  fortitude. 

In  a  notice  of  the  poet  Avhich  appeared  at 
the  time  of  his  death  it  is  said: — "Thomas 
Aird  resembled  the  great  poet  of  the  English 
lakes  in  various  respects  —  in  his  pure  and 
consecrated  life,  his  musings  among  the  woods 
and  streams,  his  modest  and  retiring  way.s. 
Every  nest  in  spring  was  known  to  him, 
and  every  flower  which  summer  brings.  The 
beautiful  meadow  of  the  Dock,  on  the  banks 
of  the  winding  Nith,  was  his  favourite  haunt, 
and  here  he  used  to  watch  the  autumn  sun  as  ' 
he  sank  in  crimson  clouds  behind  the  hills  of 
Galloway,  and  flushed  the  river  with  his  dying 
glory.  The  numerous  visitors,  who  came  from 
far  and  near,  were  also  dear  to  him,  amongst 
whom  every  season  was  Thomas  Carlyle,  his 
honoured  contemporary  and  friend.  His  death, 
though  not  unexpected,  has  cast  a  shadow  on 
Dumfries,  which  will  miss  for  long  his  familiar 
presence  and  the  quiet  dignity  of  his  dail}' 
walk.  It  is  pleasing  to  know  that  his  remains 
will  rest  in  the  place  which  is  associated  with 
his  name,  not  far  from  the  grave  which  holds 
the  sacred  ashes  of  Burns,  and  from  the  vener- 
able church  of  St.  Michael,  in  which  for  forty 
years  he  was  a  reverent  worshipper." 

In  a  letter  to  the  Editor  Mr.  Aird  remarks, 
"I  leave  it  to  your  own  judgment  to  select 
what  pieces  you  think  most  suitable  for  your 
publication.  But  if  you  ask  myself,  I  Avould 
say  that  '  Frank  Sylvan,'  '  The  Holy  Cottage,' 
and  '  The  River'  seem  to  be  the  best  liked." 


THE    CAPTIVE    OF    FEZ. 

(extract.  ) 


Gray  morn  appeared.     " 

cried; 
And  forth  was  broug'ht, 

pride, 


My  horse!"  Zemberbo      His  battle-horse — from  Araby  a  gift, 

AVhite  as  the  snows,  and  as  the  breezes  swift: 
A  chosen  foal,  on  Yemen's  barley  fed, 
In  size  and  beauty  grew  the  desert-bred. 


shrill  neicching  in  his 


THOMAS  AIRD. 


245 


Fit  present  for  a  king:  his  bnniished  chest, 
Branched  o'er  with  veins,  and  muscles  ne'er  at 

rest. 
Starts,  throbs,  and  leaps  with  life;  his  eyeballs 

glow; 
Quick  blasts  of  smoke  his  tender  nostrils  blow. 
The  chieftain  sprung  on  him.     The  rolling  drum 
Announced  his  signal  that  the  hour  was  come 
His  men  should  move.    Trumpet  and  deep-smote 

gong 
Quell  to  the  draining  march  the  closing  throng. 
On  through  the  short  defile,  compact  and  slow, 
Betwixt  the  vales,  Zemberbo's  squadrons  go. 
Lo!  the  king's  host.     The  mutual  armies  seen. 
Fierce  shouts  arose,  and  claimed  the  space  be- 
tween. 
Paused  not  the  rebel  phalanx.     On  each  hand 
Hung  cloudy  swarms,  w-hence,  ranging  in  a  band, 
The   stepping   archers,   with  their   pause  com- 
pressed. 
Let  loose  the  glancing  arrows  from  their  breast. 
Nor  less  from  loyal  bows  the  arrowy  rain 
Dark  on  the  advancing  column  fell  amain, 
Advancing  still:  in  crescent-shaped  array, 
The  Fezzan  host  in  its  embosomed  bay 
Receives  it  deep;  but  sharpens  round  away, 
Till  curling-  to  the  column's  flanks  it  turns, 
And  turning  bores  them  with  its  piercing  horas. 
Yet  onward  still,  still  onward  through  the  fight. 
That  column  pushed  its  firm  continuous  might, 
Till,  widening  out,  it  spread  a  breastwork  far 
Across  the  plain,  and  mingled  deep  the  war. 
But  where  is  Julian  ?    At  the  break  of  day 
Came  on  his  father  with  a  bold  array, 
Brought  by  the  message  of  his  son ;  but  fear 
Disdaining  for  himself,  himself  is  here 
Leading  the  warriors  on,  sooner  to  bar 
Zemberbo's  rise,  and  end  a  long-protracted  war. 
O  how  rejoicing  to  his  native  band 
Did  Julian  leap!     His  father,  hand  in  hand 
He'll  fight  with  him !     And  through  that  stormy 

day 
They  crossed  Zemberbo  in  his  fellest  way. 
Faint  toiled  the  staggering  battle.     Fresh  and 

strong, 
A  giant  troop  came  dashingly  along. 
Grim  set,  reserved  for  this:  Lo!  bare  of  head. 
The  black  compacted  turm  Zemberbo  led; 
Low  couching,  forward  bent;  and  stern  and  still 
His  sword  intensely  waited  on  his  will. 
Held  pointed  by  his  side.     Across  his  path 
Resistance  came,  and  eased  his  rigid  wrath, 
^Vhich  bowed  him  corded  down.     How  towering 

rose 
The  mighty  creature,  and  made  shreds  of  foes; 
His  face,  as  far  he  bounded  to  destroy. 
Bright  with  the  sunshine  of  his  wariike  joy! 
He  pointed  to  the  thickest  of  the  fight, 
There  fought  the  King  of  Portugal,  with  might 
There  Julian  fought;  deep  plunged  into  the  fray 
That  sable  corps,  and  cleared  the  crush  away; 


Then,  with  the  stress  of  numbers  hemming  rouml 
That  king,  they  bore  liini  from  the  embattled 

ground. 
And  bore  his  son;  but  not  one  wounding  blade 
Was  dealt  on  them,  for  so  Zemberbo  bade: 
Thus  Julian  and  his  sire  were  captive  made. 
Their  capture  smote  with  fear  the  Fezzan  host; 
It  paused,  it  wavered,  tui-ned,  fled — all  was  lost. 


THE  PtlYER. 

Infant  of  the  weeping  hills, 
Nursling  of  the  springs  and  rills, 
Growing  river,  flowing  ever, 
■\Vimpling,  dimpling,  staying  never, — 
Lisping,  gurgling,  ever  going, 
Lipping,  slipping,  ever  flowing, 
Toying  round  the  polished  stone,   • 
Kiss  the  sedge  and  journey  on. 
Here's  a  creek  where  bubbles  come. 
Whirling  make  your  ball  of  foam. 
There's  a  nook  so  deep  and  cool, 
Sleep  into  a  glassy  pool. 
Breaking,  gushing. 
Downward  rushing. 
Narrowing  green  against  the  bank, 
AVhere  the  alders  grow  in  rank, — 
Thence  recoiling, 
Outward  boiling, 

Fret,  in  rough  shingly  shallows  wide, 
Your  diflicult  way  to  yonder  side. 
Thence  away,  aye  away, 
nickering  down  the  sunny  day, 
In  the  sea,  in  yonder  west. 
Lose  yourself,  and  be  at  rest. 

Thus  from  darkness  weeping  out, 
Flows  our  infant  life  away. 
Murmuring  now  the  checks  about, 
Singing  now  in  onward  play; 
Deepening,  whirling. 
Darkly  swirling, 

Downward  sucked  in  eddying  coves; 
Boiling  with  tumultuous  loves; 
Widening  o'er  the  worldly  sands; 
Kissing  full  the  cultured  lands; 
Dim  with  trouble,  glory-lit. 
Heaven  still  bending  over  it; 
Changing  still,  yet  ever  going, 
Onward,  downward  ever  flowing. 

0  to  be  a  boy  once  more. 
Curly-headed,  sitting  singing 
Midst  a  thousand  flowerets  springing. 
In  the  sunny  days  of  yore, 
In  the  sunny  world  remote, 
With  feelings  opening  in  their  dew, 
And  fairy  wonders  ever  new. 


246 


THOMAS   AIED. 


And  all  the  budding  quicks  of  thought! 

0  to  be  a  boy,  yet  be 

From  all  my  early  follies  free! 
But  were  I  skilled  in  prudent  lore, 
The  boy  were  then  a  boy  no  more. 

Short  our  threescore  years  and  ten, 
Yet  who  would  live  them  o'er  again  ? 
All  life's  good,  ere  they  be  flown, 
AVe  have  felt,  and  we  have  known. 
]\[ore  than  mortal  Avere  our  fear, 
If  doomed  to  dwell  for  ever  here. 

Yet  O,  from  age  to  age,  that  we 
flight  rise  a  day  old  earth  to  see! 
]\Iountains  high,  with  nodding  firs, 
0"er  you  the  clouded  crystal  stirs, 
Tresh  as  of  old,  how  fresh  and  sweet! 
And  here  the  flowerets  at  my  feet. 
Daisy,  daisy,  wet  witli  dew, 
And  all  ye  little  bells  of  blue, 

1  know  you  all;  thee,  clover  bloom, 
Tliee  the  fern,  and  thee  the  broom: 
And  still  the  leaves  and  breezes  mingle 
With  twinklings  in  the  forest  dingle. 

0  through  all  wildering  worlds  I'd  know 

lly  own  dear  place  of  long  ago. 

Pleased  would  the  yearning  spirit  then 

The  doings  learn  of  living  men, 

The  rise  and  fall  of  realms  and  kings. 

And  0  a  thousand  homely  things. 

Deeper  our  care  considerate 

To  know  of  earth's  diviner  state: 

IIow  speeds  the  church,  with  horns  of  light, 

To  push  and  pierce  the  heathen  night? 

AVhat  promise  of  the  coming  day, 

When  sin  and  pain  shall  pass  awaj'. 

And,  under  love's  perpetual  prime, 

Joy  light  the  waving  wings  of  time? 


THE   SWALLOW. 

The  little  comer's  coming,  the  comer  o'er  the 

sea, 
The  comer  of  the  summer,  all  the  sunny  days 

to  be. 
IIow  pleasant  through  the  pleasant  sleep  tliy 

early  twitter  heard — • 
Oh  sAvallow  by  the  lattice!  glad  days  be  thy 

reward ! 

Thine  be  sweet  morning,  Avith  the  bee  that's 
out  for  honey-dew; 

And  glowing  be  the  noontide,  for  the  grasshop- 
per and  you; 

And  mellow  shine,  o'er  day's  decline,  the  sun 
to  light  thee  home! 

What  can  molest  thy  airy  nest?  Sleep  till  the 
morrow  come. 


The  river  blue  that  lapses  through  the  valley, 

hears  thee  sing, 
And  murmurs  much  beneath  the  touch  of  thy 

light-dipping  wing. 
The  thunder-cloud,  over  us  bow'd,  in  deeper 

gloom  is  seen. 
When  quick  relieved  it  glances  to  thy  bosom's 

silvery  sheen. 

The  silent  Power  that  brings  thee  back  with 

leading-strings  of  love 
To  haunts  where  first  the  summer  sun  fell  on 

thee  from  above. 
Shall  bind  thee  more  to  come  aye  to  the  music 

of  our  leaves, 
For  here  thy  young,  where  thou  hast  sprung, 

shall  glad  thee  in  our  caves. 


THE   HOLY   COTTAGE. 

"Come  near,  my  child! "  the  dying  father  said. 
Life's  twilight  dews  lay  heavy  on  his  brow. 
How  softly  o'er  him  did  that  daughter  bow! 
She  wiped  those  dews  away,  she  raised  his  droop- 
ing head. 

He  looked  upon  her  with  a  long,  long  look, 
Thinking  of  all  her  winning  little  ways, 
His  only  gladness  from  her  infant  days, 
Since  God  from  them  away  the  wife  and  mother 
took. 

Oft  to  the  moorland  places  he  his  child 
Led  by  the  hand,  or  bore  upon  his  back. 
The  curlew's  nest  he  show'd  her  in  their  track. 
And  leveret's  dewy  play  upon  the  whinny  wild. 

The  while  he  dug,  his  coat  she  quaintly  dressed 
With  flowers,  aye  peeping  forth  lest  he  might 

see 
The  unfinished  fancy;  then  how  pleased  when  he. 
Much  wondering,  donned  her  work,  when  came 

his  hour  of  rest! 

Down  sate  she  by  him;  and  when  hail  or  rain 
Crossed  that  high  country  with  its  streaming 

cloud, 
She  nestled  in  his  bosom  o'er  her  bowed. 
Till  through  the  whitening  rack  looked  out  the 

sun  again. 

And  when  his  axe  was  in  the  echoing  wood, 
Down  its  shy  depths,  looking  behind  her  oft. 
She  o'er  the  rotting  ferns  and  fungi  soft 
Thro'  boughs  and  blinding  leaves  her  bursting 
way  pursued. 


THOMAS  AIRD. 


247 


The  di'y  twig,  matted  in  the  spear-like  grass, 
Y/here  fresh  from  morning's  womb  the  orbfed 
dew 

Lies  cold  at  noon,  cracked  as  she  stepped  light 

through. 
Startling  the  cushat  out  close  by  the  startled 

lass. 

Her  fluttering  heart  was  ready  then  for  fear: 
Through  the  far  peeping  glades  she  thought 

she  saw 
Forms  beckoning,  luring  her;   the  while  with 

awe, 
The   air  grew  dark  and   dumb,    listening  for 

something  drear. 

The  ferns  were  stin-ed,  the  leaves  were  shaken, 

rain 
Fell  in  big  drops,  and  thunder  muttered  low; 
Back  burst  the  flushed  dishevelled  girl,  and  0 
How  glad  was  she  to  hear  her  father's  axe  again ! 

Blithe,  sitting  in  the  winter  night,  he  made 
Or  mended  by  the  fire  his  garden  gear; 
She  with  her  mates,  their  faces  glancing  clear 
From  shade  to  ruddy  Ught,  quick  flitting  round 
him  played. 

And  aye  some  sly  young  thing,  in  rosy  joyance, 
Looked  up  between  his  knees,  where  she  was 

hid; 
Humming  he  worked  till  she  was  found,  then 

chid, 
But  in  a  way  that  just  lured  back   the  dear 

annoyance. 

Up  grew  the  virgin  in  her  blooming  beautj'. 
Filling  her  father's  ordered  house  with  grace. 
And  ever  o'er  the  Word  she  bowed  her  face, 
Binding  her  days  and  nights  in  one  continuous 
duty. 

When   Sabbath  came,  she   plucked   him   mint 

and  thyme. 
And   led    him   forth,  what    hour  from   farms 

around 
By  stile,  and  sunny  croft,  and  meadow  ground. 
The  parti-coloured  folk  came  to  the  bell's  sweet 

chime. 

The  simple  people,  gathered  by  the  sod 
Of  the  new  grave,  or  by  the  dial-stone. 
Made  way,  and  blessed  her  as  she  led  him  on 
With  short  and  tottering  steps  into  the  house 
of  God. 

And  holy  was  their  Sabbath  afternoon, 
The  sunlight  falling  on  that  father's  head 
Through  their  small  western  casement,  as  he 

read 
Much  to  his  child  of  worlds  which   he  must 

visit  soon. 


And  if,  his  hand  upon  the  Book  still  laid, 
His  spectacles  upraised  upon  his  brow, 
Frail  nature  slept  in  him,  soft  going  now 
She  screened   the  sunny  pane,  those  dear  old 
eyes  to  shade. 

Then  sitting  in  their  garden-plot,  they  saw 
With  what  delicious  clearness  the  far  height 
Seemed  coming  near,  and  slips  of  falling  light 
Lay  on  green  moorland  spot  and  soft  illumined 
shaw. 

Turned  to  the  sunny  hills  where  he  was  nursed, 
The  old  man  told  his  child  of  bloody  times. 
Marked  by  the  mossy  stone  of  half -sunk  rhymes; 
And  in  those  hills  he  saw  her  sainted  mother 
first. 

"I  see  thy  mother  now!  I  see  her  stand 
Waiting  for  me,  and  smiling  holy  sweet; 
The  robe  of  white  is  flowing  to  her  feet; 
And  0  our  good  Lord  Clu-ist,  He  holds  her  by 
the  hand! 

"  Farewell,  my  orphan  lamb!   To  leave  thee  thus 
Is  death  to  me  indeed!     Yet  fear  not  thou! 
On  the  Good  Shepherd  I  do  cast  thee  now: 
'Tis  but  a  Uttle  while,  and  thou  shalt  come  to  us. 

"0  yes!  no  fear!  home  to  us  in  the  skies 
His  everlasting  arms  will  carry  thee. 
Couldst  thou  thy  mother  see,  as  I  do  see! 
My  child!"  he  said,  and  died.     His  daughter 
closed  his  eyes. 


MY  MOTHER'S   GRAYE. 

0  rise,  and  sit  in  soft  attire! 
Wait  but  to  know  my  soul's  desire! 
I'd  call  thee  back  to  earthly  days, 
To  cheer  thee  in  a  thousand  ways ! 
Ask  but  this  heart  for  monument, 
And  mine  shall  be  a  large  content! 

A  crown  of  brightest  stars  to  thee! 
How  did  thy  spirit  wait  for  me, 
And  nurse  thy  waning  light,  in  faith 
That  I  would  stand  'twixt  thee  and  death! 
Then  tarry  on  thy  bowing  shore, 
Till  1  have  asked  thy  sorrows  o'er! 

1  came  not,  and  I  cry  to  save 
Thy  life  from  the  forgetful  grave 
One  day,  tliat  I  may  well  declare 
How  I  have  thought  of  all  thy  care. 
And  love  thee  more  tlian  I  have  done. 
And  make  thy  days  with  gladness  run. 


248 


WILLIAM   BENNET. 


I'd  tell  thee  where  my  j-outh  has  been, 
Of  perils  past,  of  glories  seen; 
I'd  tell  thee  all  my  youth  has  done, 
And  ask  of  things  to  choose  and  shun. 
And  smile  at  all  thy  needless  fears, 
But  bow  before  thy  solemn  tears. 

Come,  walk  with  me,  and  see  fair  earth, 
And  men's  glad  ways;  and  join  their  mirtlil 
Ah  me  !  is  this  a  bitter  jest? 
AVhat  right  have  I  to  break  thy  rest? 
Well  hast  thou  done  thy  worldly  task. 
Nothing  hast  thou  of  me  to  ask. 

ISFen  wonder  till  I  pass  awa}', 
They  think  not  but  of  useless  clay: 
Alas  for  Age,  that  this  should  be! 
But  I  have  other  thoughts  of  thee; 
And  I  would  wade  thy  dusty  grave. 
To  kiss  the  head  I  cannot  save. 

0  for  life's  power,  that  I  might  see 
Thy  visage  swelling  to  be  free  I 
Come  near,  0  burst  that  eartliy  cloud. 
And  meet  me,  meet  me,  lowly  bowed! 
Alas!  in  corded  stiffness  pent. 
Darkly  I  guess  thy  lineament. 

1  might  have  lived,  and  thou  on  earth, 
And  been  to  thee  like  stranger's  birth. 
Mother;  but  now  that  thou  art  gone, 

I  feel  as  in  the  world  alone: 

The  wind  which  lifts  the  streaming  tree. 

The  skies  seem  cold  and  strange  to  me: 

I  feel  a  hand  untwist  the  chain 

Of  all  thy  love,  with  shivering  pain. 

From  round  my  heart:  This  bosom's  bare. 

And  less  than  wonted  life  is  there. 

Ay,  well  indeed  it  may  be  so! 

And  well  for  thee  my  tears  may  flow! 

Because  that  I  of  thee  was  part, 
Made  of  the  blood-drops  of  thy  heart ; 
My  birth  I  from  thy  body  drew, 


And  I  upon  thy  bosom  grew; 
Thy  life  was  set  my  life  upon; 
And  I  was  thine,  and  not  my  own. 

Because  I  know  there  is  not  one 
To  think  of  me  as  thou  hast  done, 
From  morn  till  starlight,  year  by  year: 
For  me  thy  smile  repaid  thy  tear; 
And  fears  for  me,  and  no  reproof, 
When  once  I  dared  to  stand  aloof! 

My  punishment,  that  I  was  far 
When  God  unloosed  t'.iy  weary  star! 
My  name  was  in  Ihy  faintest  breath, 
And  I  was  in  thy  dream  of  death; 
And  well  I  know  what  raised  thy  head, 
AVhen  came  the  mourner's  muffled  tread  ! 

Alas!  I  cannot  tell  thee  now 
I  could  not  come  to  hold  thy  brow. 
And  wealth  is  late,  nor  aught  I've  won 
Were  worth  to  hear  thee  call  thy  son 
In  that  dark  hour  when  bands  remove. 
And  none  are  named  but  names  of  love. 

Alas  for  me,  I  missed  that  hour; 

My  hands  for  this  shall  miss  their  power ! 

For  thee,  the  sun,  and  dew,  and  rain. 

Shall  ne'er  unbind  thy  grave  again, 

Nor  let  thee  up  the  light  to  see. 

Nor  let  thee  up  to  be  with  me! 

Yet  sweet  thy  rest  from  care  and  strife. 
And  many  pains  that  hurt  thy  life! 
Turn  to  thy  God — and  blame  thy  son — 
To  give  thee  more  than  I  have  done: 
Thou  God,  with  joy  beyond  all  years. 
Fill  up  the  channels  of  her  tears ! — 

Thou  car'st  not  now  for  soft  attire, 
Yet  wilt  thou  hear  my  soul's  desire; 
To  earth  I  dare  not  call  thee  more. 
But  speak  from  off  thy  awful  shore: 
0  ask  this  heart  for  monument. 
And  mine  shall  be  a  large  content ! 


WILLIAM    BENNET. 


William  Bennet  was  born  in  the  parish  of 
Glencairn,  Dumfriesshire,  Sept.  29,  1802.  His 
parents  were  in  humble  circumstances,  and  he 
was  early  apprenticed  to  a  mechanic  in  a  neigh- 
bouring parish.     From  boyhood  he  was  fond 


of  rhyming,  and  in  his  nineteentli  year  pub- 
lished a  volume  of  poems,  which  brought  him 
into  connection  with  the  newsjiaper  press.  He 
became  a  contributor  to  the  Dumfries  Courier, 
edited  by  the  poet  MacDiarmid,  and  in  1825-26 


WILLIAM   BENNET. 


249 


conducted  the  Dumfries  JIaijazlne,  for  which 
he  wrote  many  interesting  articles.  In  Decem- 
ber, 1826,  Bennet  was  offered  and  accepted  the 
editorship  of  the  Glasgow  Free  Press,  a  Liberal 
newspaper  which  took  an  active  part  in  the 
struggle  then  going  on  for  political  reform. 
A  few  years  afterwards  he  withdrew  from  the 
Liberal  party,  and  along  with  Sir  Daniel  Sand- 
ford  established  the  Glasgow  Constitutional, 
a  Conservative  journal,  the  editorship  of  which 
he  resigned  in  1836. 

Mr.  Bennet  published  a  second  volume  of 
poetry  under  the  title  of  Songs  of  Solitude,  fol- 
lowed by  a  third  entitled  The  Chief  of  Gleii- 
orchaij,  a  poem  in  five  cantos,  illustrative  of 
H  ighland  manners  and  mythologj^  in  the  middle 
ages.  Both  his  poetry  and  his  prose  contain 
many  sentiments  that  reflect  credit  on  his 
heart  and  indicate  a  lively  and  healthy  ima- 
gination. He  is  also  the  author  of  Pictures 
of  Scottish  Scenes  and  Character,  and  Sketches 
of  the  Isle  of  Man.  After  leaving  Glasgow 
Mr.  Bennet  resided  successively  in  Ireland  and 
England,  and  for  the  past  twenty  years  he  has 


lived  at  Burntisland.  In  a  letter  to  the  Editor 
he  says: — "  I  have  been  engaged  for  twenty- 
five  years  on  a  new  translation  of  the  Scrip- 
tures, and  have  finished  the  whole  of  the  Old 
Testament,  having  recovered  the  genuine  mean- 
ing of  its  own  original  Hebrew;  so  that  part 
of  the  Word  of  God  now  shines  forth  in  native 
brightness  and  intelligibility,  clear  of  all  that 
the  apostasy  has  shrouded  it  Avith  from  the 
ebbing  of  the  Pentecostal  effusion  until  now. 
I  have  also  Avritten  a  grammar  and  dictionary 
of  the  recovered  tongue,  to  let  every  person  see 
and  judge  for  himself  whether  the  ore  of  its 
true  meaning  has  been  reached  or  not.  All 
this  you  would  take  to  be  quite  suppressive  of 
my  'rhythmic  gift.'  On  the  contrary,  how- 
ever, that  gift  has  enabled  me  to  versify  the 
whole  of  the  Psalms,  after  translating  them 
into  prose  like  the  other  books.  It  was  only 
last  week  that  I  put  the  finishing  hand  to  all 
these  labours,  so  that  they  could  at  once  go  to 
the  press;  and  now  I  am  about  to  commence 
with  the  New  Testament,  and  do  my  best  to 
recover  it  from  mistranslation  also." 


BLEST    BE   THE   HOUR  OF   NIGHT. 

Blest  be  the  hour  of  night, 

When,  his  toils  over, 
The  swain  with  a  heart  so  light. 

Meets  with  his  lover! 
Sweet  the  moon  gilds  their  path, 

Arm  in  arm  straying; 
Clouds  never  rise  in  wrath. 

Chiding  their  staying. 

Gently  they  Avhisper  low; 

Unseen  beside  them 
Good  angels  watch,  that  no 

111  may  betide  them. 
Silence  is  everywhere, 

Save  when  the  sighing 
Is  heard,  of  the  breeze's  fall, 

Fitfully  dying. 

How  the  maid's  bosom  glows. 

While  her  swain's  telling 
The  love  that's  been  long,  she  knows. 

In  his  heart  swelling! 
How,  when  his  arms  are  thrown 

Tenderly  around  her. 
Fears  she,  in  words  to  own 

AVhat  he  hath  found  her! 


When  the  first  peep  of  dawn 

Warns  them  of  parting. 
And  from  each  dewy  lawn 

Blythe  birds  are  starting. 
Fondly  she  hears  her  swain 

Yow,  though  they  sever. 
Soon  they  shall  meet  again, 

Mated  for  ever. 


I'LL   THIXK  OX  THEE,  LOVE. 

I'll  think  on  thee,  love,  when  thy  bark 
Hath  borne  thee  far  across  the  deep; 
And,  as  the  sky  is  bright  or  dark, 
'Twill  be  my  fate  to  smile  or  weep; 
For  oh,  when  winds  and  waters  keep 
In  trust  so  dear  a  charge  as  thee, 
My  anxious  fears  can  never  sleep 
Till  thou  again  art  safe  with  me! 

Ill  think  on  thee,  love,  when  each  hour 
Of  twilight  comes,  Avith  pensive  mood. 
And  silence,  like  a  spell  of  power, 
Piests,  in  its  depth,  on  field  and  wood; 
And  as  the  mingling  shadows  brood 
Still  closer  o'er  the  lonely  sea. 


2.30 


HUGH   MILLER. 


Here,  on  the  beach  where  first  we  woo'd, 
ril  pour  to  heaven  my  prayers  for  thee. 

Then  liaply  on  the  breeze's  wing, 
That  to  me  steals  across  the  wave, 
Some  angel's  voice  may  answer  bring 
That  list'ning  heaven  consents  to  save. 
And  oh,  the  further  boon  I  crave 
Perchance  may  also  granted  be, 
That  thou,  return'd,  no  more  shalt  brave 
The  wanderer's  perils  on  the  sea! 


THE   ROSE   OF    BEAUTY. 

Amang  the  breezy  lieights  and  liowes 
Where  winds  the  milk  sae  clearly, 

A  rose  o'  beauty  sweetly  grows, 
A  rose  I  lo"e  most  dearly. 

Wi'  spring's  saft  rain  and  simmer's  sun, 
How^  blooms  my  rose  divinely! 

And  lang  ere  blaws  the  winter  roun'. 
This  breast  shall  nurse  it  kin'ly. 

May  heaven's  dew  aye  freshly  weet 

My  rose  at  ilka  gloamin', 
And  oh,  may  nae  nnhallow'd  feet 

Be  near  it  ever  roamin'i 

I  soon  shall  bu}'  a  snug  wee  cot, 
And  hae  my  rose  brought  thither; 

And  then,  in  that  lowne  sunny  spot, 
We'll  bloom  and  fade  thegither. 


ODE   TO    CRAIGDARROCH   WATER. 

Sweet  native  vale !  amid  whose  calm  repose 
Once  set  my  days  as  joyful  as  they  rose; 
When,  like  the  dawii  arrayed  in  orient  light. 
Life's  cloudless  morning  shone  before  my  sight;- 


When  all  was  bliss  without  one  shade  of  ill. 
And  all  was  hope  that  bliss  would  crown  me  still. 

To  those  delightful  days,  so  long  gone  by, 
How  oft  from  darker  now  I  turn  my  eye, 
And  bid  the  sunshine  on  thy  hills  descend. 
The  gorgeous  rainbows  o'er  thy  valley  bend; 
The  shadows  chase  each  other  o'er  thy  lea, 
Which  were  my  playthings  while  I  dwelt  in  thee! 

For  me  no  more  the  blackbird's  evening  song 
From  hazel  copse  is  poured  thy  vale  along; 
Nor  cuckoo's  herald  voice,  announcing  spring,  " 
Nor  coo  of  dove,  nor  whirr  of  woodcock's  wing. 
Nor  do  thy  nuts,  on  bending  hazel  tree. 
Or  thy  green  wild  sloes,  ripen  more  for  mc. 

Yet  in  my  absence,  nature  still  supplies 
Thy  wonted  charms  to  ravish  others'  eyes; 
Even  as  the  flowerets  on  our  graves  that  grow, 
Bloom  for  the  living,  not  for  those  below. 

Still  does  thy  stream  in  bright  meanders  run. 
With  many  a  troutling  flashing  in  the  sun ; 
Still  do  thy  maids,  amid  the  fragrant  hay, 
With  tales  of  love  beguile  the  summer  day; 
Thy  swains  still  laboin-  in  the  cultured  field. 
Or  court  the  balmy  health  thy  mountains  yield; 
And  still  the  sun  awakes  to  smile  on  thee, 
And  sinks  to  glorious  rest  beyond  Craignee. 

Bloom  on,  sweet  vale — and  flow,  Craigdarroch 

stream ! 
And  yet  of  other  bards  be  oft  the  theme! 
But,  ah!  when  cold  the  hand  that  in  thy  praise 
First  waked  the  lyre,  and  wreathed  thee  with  his 

bays, 
Where  once  he  lived,  shall  there  another  rise 
To  mark  thy  beauties  with  such  fjartial  eyes? 

Shall  all  my  dreams  of  youth  to  him  be  kno^\^l, 
And  all  those  cherished  joys  were  mine  alone. 
Whose  bright  reflection  yet  my  memory  tills. 
Sweet  as  the  moonlight  sleeping  on  thy  hills! 
No!  though  his  lyre  should  more  divinely  sound. 
And  more  of  nature  in  his  verse  be  found. 
There  still  are  feelings  mingled  with  tliis  strain, 
Which,  dead  with  me,  can  ne'er  be  felt  again. 


HUGH    MILLEE 


Born  1802  — Died  1856. 


Hugh  Miller,  the  distinguished  geologist, 
was  born  at  Cromarty,  October  10,  1802.  In 
his  sixteenth  year  he  was  apprenticed  to  a 
stone-mason,  and  it  Avas  while  engaged  as  a 


hewer  in  the  Old  Red  Sandstone  quarries  of 
Cromarty  that  he  achieved  those  discoveries  in 
that  formation  which  marked  a  new  epoch  in 
geological  science.     On  finishing  his  appren- 


HUGH  MILLER. 


251 


ticeship  he  removed  south,  and  worked  at  his 
trade  for  two  years  at  Niddry,  near  Edinburgh. 
Having  been  attacked  by  the  disease  peculiar 
to  stone-masons  he  was  obliged  to  return  to 
his  native  town,  and  several  montlis  elapsed 
before  he  recovered.    He  then  began  to  execute 
sculptured  tablets  and  tombstones  in  Cromarty 
and  its  neighbourhood,  a  task  for  which  his 
skill  as  a  workman  and  perceptions  of  the 
beautiful  admirably  qualified  him.     In  1828 
he  removed  to  the  more  important  town  of 
Inverness,  and  while  employed  in  the  same 
way  here  became  known  to  the  editor  of  the 
Inverness  Courier.    Miller  had  for  many  years 
been   in  the  habit  of  devoting  some  of  his 
leisure  hours  to  poetry  as  well  as  geological 
inquiry,    and   a   number   of    his    lyrics   now 
appeared  in  the  columns  of  the  Courier,  from 
which  office  was  published  in  1829  a  small 
volume  with  the  title  Poems  written  in  the 
Leisure  Hours  of  a  Journeyman  Mason. 

Soon  after  the  publication  of  this  volume  a 
branch  of  the  Commercial  Bank  was  opened  in 
Cromarty,  and   Miller  abandoned    his  work- 
man's tools  to  become  its  accountant.    During 
his  first  year  of  office  he  published  his  Scenes 
and  Legends  of  the  North  of  Scotland,  a  prose 
work  of  very  great  merit,  which  confirmed  and 
widely  extended  his  reputation  as  an  author. 
Shortly    after    he    married    Miss    Lydia    F. 
Fraser,  a  lady  to  whom   he  had   been   long 
engaged,  and  who  survived  her  husband  until 
]\Iarch,  1876.     After  acting  for  some  years  as 
bank- accountant,  during  which  a  part  of  his 
leisure  time  was  occupied  in  writing  for  Wil- 
sons  Tales  of  the  Borders  and   Chambers  s 
Journal,  Miller  in  1840  was  offered  and  ac- 
cepted the  editorship  of  the  Witne.'^s,  a  semi- 
weekly  Edinburgh  newspaper  established  by 
the   party   in    the    Church   of   Scotland   who 
seceded  at  the  Disruption  in  1843.     As  a  con- 
troversial writer  on  ecclesiastical  topics  Miller 
at  once  attained  a  high  rank  among  contem- 
porary editors.     His  first  publication  after  his 
removal  to  Edinburgh  was  the  Old  Red  Sand- 
stone, followed  hy  First  Impressions  of  Emjland 
and  its  People,  a  work  on  the  physical  and 
social  aspects  of  that  country.     Then  came  his 
powerful  work  the  Footprints  of  the  Creator, 
in  reply  to  the  Vestiges  of  the  Natural  His- 
torij  of  Creation.     Among  his  other  works  we 
may  mention  My  Schools  and  Schoolmasters, 


an  interesting  autobiographic  story  of  his  early 
struggles,  which  appeared  in  1854.     His  lust 
work,  the  Testimony  of  the  Pocks,  on  which 
he   had    bestowed    much    time   and    intense 
thought,  was  published  posthumously  in  1857. 
For  some  years  ISIiller's  health  had    been 
gradually   failing  —  the    result    of    incessant 
mental  labour,  and  in  a  measure  had  affected 
his  reason.     On  the  night  of  December  24, 
1856,  he  was  attacked  by  one  of  the  horrible 
trances  that  proved  too  strong  for  him,  for  he 
rose  from  his  bed,  and  after  writing  a  most 
affectionate  note  to  his  Avife  and  children,  he 
committed  suicide.     In  the  morning  his  body, 
half  dressed,  was  found  lying  dead  upon  the 
floor,  the  left  lung  being  pierced  by  a  bullet 
from    his   pistol.       In   this   melancholy   way 
ended  an  honourable  and  useful  life. 

Dr.  John  Brown,  in  his  charming //or«'/S'»6- 
seciva;,  says,  "Few  men  are  endowed  with  such 
a  brain  as  Hugh  Miller— huge,  active,  con- 
centrated, keen  to  fierceness ;  and  therefore 
few  men  need  fear,  even  if  they  misuse  and 
overtask  theirs  as  he  did,  that  it  will  turn,  as 
it  did  with  him,  and  rend  its  master."  Sir 
David  Brewster  said  of  him,  "With  the  excep- 
tion of  Burns  the  uneducated  genius  which 
has  done  honour  to  Scotland  during  the  last 
century  has  never  displayed  that  natural 
refinement  and  classical  taste  and  intellectual 
energy  which  mark  all  the  writings  of  our 
author;"  and  Thomas  Chalmers  asserted,  after 
the  death  of  Sir  Walter  Scott,  "that  Hugh 
Miller  was  the  greatest  Scotchman  alive." 

Hugh  Miller  is  entitled  to  a  place  among 
the  minor  poets  of  Scotland,  but  it  is  as  a 
geologist  and  one  of  the  most  powerful  prose 
writers  of  his  native  land  that  he  is  now,  and 
will  hereafter  be,  indebted  for  his  world-wide 
reputation.  Since  the  date  of  his  decease  a 
volume  of  his  Tales  and  Sketches,  with  a 
memoir  by  Mrs.  Miller,  has  been  published; 
also  a  volume  of  E-isays,  Historiccd  and  Bio- 
graphiccd.  Political  and  Social,  Literary  and 
Scientific,  with  a  preface  by  Peter  Bayne.  The 
same  gentleman  has  written  an  exhaustive 
biography  of  the  eminent  geologist,  in  the 
preparation  of  which  he  received  much  assist- 
ance from  Mrs.  Miller,  herself  the  authoress 
of  several  books  written  under  the  nom-dc- 
plume  of  "  Harriet  Myrtle;"  and  an  excellent 
complete  edition  of  Miller's  works  was  pub- 


252 


HUGH   MILLER. 


lished  in  1872  in  thirteen  volumes.  A  son  of 
Hugh  Miller  is  treading  in  his  father's  .steps 
both  as  a  geologist  and  a  writer.      He  has 


written  a  biography  of  Sir  Roderick  I.  ^Murclii- 
son,  and  is  now  engaged  on  the  geological  sur- 
vey of  England. 


OH!   SOFTLY  SIGHS   THE  WESTLIN'  BREEZE. 


Oil!  softly  sighs  the  westlin'  breeze 

Through  iioweries  pearl  d  \vi'  dew; 
And  brightly  lemes  the  gowden  sky, 

That  .skirts  the  mountain  blue. 
An'  sweet  the  birken  trees  amang, 

Swells  many  a  blithesome  lay; 
An'  loud  the  bratlin  burnie's  voice 

Comes  soundin'  up  the  brae. 

But,  ah!  nae  mair  the  sweets  o'  spring 

Can  glad  my  wearied  e'e; 
Nae  mair  the  summer's  op'ning  bloom 

Gi'es  ought  o' joy  to  me. 
Dark,  dark  to  me  the  pearly  flowers. 

An'  sad  the  mavis'  sang, 
An'  little  heart  hae  I  to  roam 

These  leafy  groves  amang. 

She's  gane!  she's  gane!  the  loveliest  maid! 

An'  wae  o'erpress'd  I  pine; 
The  grass  waves  o'er  my  Alyra's  grave, — 

Ah!  ance  I  ca'd  her  mine. 
What  ither  choice  does  fate  afford, 

Than  just  to  mourn  and  dee! 
Sin'  gane  the  star  that  cheer'd  my  sky. 

The  beam  that  bless'd  my  e'e? 

At  gloamin'  hour  alang  the  burn 

Alane  she  lo'ed  to  stray, 
To  pu'  the  rose  o'  crimson  bloom, 

An'  haw-flower  purple  gray. 
Their  siller  leaves  the  willows  waved, 

As  pass'd  that  maiden  by; 
And  sweeter  burst  the  burdies'  sang 

Frae  poplar  straight  an'  high. 

Fn*  aften  have  1  watch'd  at  e'en 

These  birken  trees  amang, 
To  bless  the  bonnie  face  that  turn'd 

To  where  the  mavis  sang; 
An'  aft  I've  cross'd  that  grassy  path, 

To  catch  my  Myra's  e'e; 
Oh!  soon  this  winding  dell  became 

A  blissful  haunt  to  me. 

Nae  mair  a  wa.sting  form  within, 

A  wretched  heart  I  bore; 
Nae  mair  unkent,  unloved,  and  lone, 

The  warl'  I  wandcr'd  o'er. 


Not  then  like  now  my  life  was  wae. 

Not  then  this  heart  repined, 
Nor  aught  of  coming  ill  I  thought, 

Nor  sigh'd  to  look  behind. 

Cheer'd  by  gay  hope's  enliv'ning  ray, 

An  warm'd  wi'  minstrel  fire, 
Th'  expected  meed  that  maiden's  smile, 

I  strung  my  rustic  lyre. 
That  lyre  a  pitying  muse  had  given 

To  me,  for,  wrought  wi'  toil. 
She  bade  me,  wi'  its  simple  tones, 

The  weary  hours  beguile. 

Lang  had  it  been  my  secret  pride, 

Though  nane  its  strains  might  hear; 
For  ne'er  till  then  trembled  its  chords 

To  woo  a  list'ning  ear. 
The  forest  echoes  to  its  voice 

Fu'  .sad,  had  aft  complained, 
Whan,  mingling  wi'  its  wayward  strain, 

Murmur'd  the  midnight  wind. 

Harsh  were  its  tones,  yet  Myra  praised 

The  wild  and  artless  strain; 
In  pride  I  strung  my  lyre  anew. 

An'  waked  its  chords  again. 
The  sound  was  sad,  the  sparkling  tear 

Arose  in  Myra's  e'e. 
An'  mair  I  lo'ed  that  artless  drap 

Than  a"  the  warl'  could  gie. 

To  wean  the  heart  frae  warldly  grief, 

Frae  warldly  moil  an'  care. 
Could  maiden  smile  a  lovelier  smile. 

Or  drap  a  tend'rer  tear? 
But  now  she's  gane, — dark,  dark  an'  drear. 

Her  lang,  lang  sleep  maun  be; 
But,  ah!  mair  drear  the  years  o'  life 

That  still  remain  to  me! 

Whan  o'er  the  raging  ocean  wave 

The  gloom  o'  night  is  spread, 
If  lemes  the  twinkling  beacon-light. 

The  sailor's  heart  is  glad; 
In  hope  he  steers,  but,  'mid  the  storm, 

If  sinks  the  warning  ray. 
Dees  a'  that  hope,  an'  fails  his  saul, 

O'erpress'd  wi'  loads  o'  wae. 


HUGH   MILLEE. 


253 


OX   SEEING  A   SUN-DIAL   IN    A 
CHURCHYARD. 

Gray  dial-stone,  I  fain  would  know 

AVhat  motive  placed  thee  here, 
Where  darkly  opes  the  frequent  grave, 

And  rests  the  frequent  bier. 
Ahl  bootless  creeps  the  dusky  shade 

Slow  o'er  thy  figured  plain; 
■\Vhen  mortal  life  has  pass'd  away, 

Time  counts  his  hours  in  vain. 

As  sweep  the  clouds  o'er  ocean's  breast 

When  shrieks  the  wintry  wind, 
So  doubtful  thoughts,  gray  dial-stone. 

Come  sweeping  o'er  my  mind. 
I  think  of  what  could  place  thee  here. 

Of  those  beneath  thee  laid, 
And  ponder  if  thou  wert  not  raised 

In  moL-k'ry  o'er  the  dead. 

Nay!  man,  when  on  life's  stage  they  fret. 

May  mock  his  fellow-men; 
In  sooth  their  sob' rest  pranks  aflFord 

Rare  food  for  mock'ry  then. 
But  ah!  when  pass'd  their  brief  sojourn, 

When  heaven's  dread  doom  is  said. 
Beats  there  a  human  heart  could  pour 

Light  mock'ries  o'er  the  dead? 

-  Tiie  fiend  unblest,  who  still  to  harm 

Directs  his  felon  power. 
May  ope  the  book  of  grace  to  him 

Whose  day  of  grace  is  o'er. 
But  sure  the  man  has  never  lived, 

In  any  age  or  clime, 
Could  raise  in  mock'ry  o'er  the  dead 

The  stone  that  measures  time. 

Gray  dial-stone,  I  fain  would  know 

What  motive  placed  thee  here, 
Where  .sadness  heaves  the  frequent  sigh, 

And  drops  the  frequent  tear. 
Like  thy  carved  plain,  gray  dial-stone, 

Grief's  weary  mourners  be; 
Dark  sorrow  metes  out  time  to  them, 

Dark  shade  marks  time  on  thee. 

Yes!  sure  'twas  wise  to  place  thee  here. 

To  catch  the  eye  of  him 
To  whom  earth's  brightest  gauds  appear 

Worthless,  and  dull,  and  dim. 
We  think  of  time  when  time  has  fled 

The  friend  our  tears  deplore; 
The  God  our  light  proud  hearts  deny, 

Oar  grief-worn  hearts  adore. 


Gray  stone,  o'er  thee  the  lazy  night 

Passes  untold  away. 
Nor  is  it  thine  at  noon  to  teach 

When  falls  the  solar  ray. 
In  death's  dark  night,  gray  dial-stone. 

Cease  all  the  works  of  men. 
In  life,  if  Heaven  Avithholds  its  aid. 

Bootless  their  works  and  vain. 

Gray  dial  stone,  while  yet  thy  shade 

Points  out  those  hours  are  mine. 
While  yet  at  early  morn  I  rise, 

And  rest  at  day's  decline; 
Would  that  the  sun  that  formed  thine, 

His  bright  rays  beam'd  on  me. 
That  I,  thou  aged  dial-stone. 

Might  measure  time  like  thee. 


SISTER  JEANIE,  HASTE,  WE'LL  GO. 

Sister  Jeanie,  haste,  we'll  go 
To  where  the  white-starr'd  gowans  grow, 
Wi'  the  puddock-flower,  o'  gowden  hue. 
The  snawdrap  white,  and  the  bonnie  vi'let  blue. 

Sister  Jeanie,  haste,  we'll  go 
To  where  the  blcssom'd  Ulacs  grow, 
To  ^^  here  the  pine  tree,  dark  and  high. 
Is  pointing  its  tap  at  the  cloudless  sky. 

Jeanie,  mony  a  merry  lay 
Is  sung  in  the  young-leaved  woods  to-day; 
Fhts  on  light  wing  the  dragon-flee, 
And  hums  on  the  flowerie  the  big  red  bee. 

Doun  the  bumie  wirks  its  way 

Aneath  the  bending  birken  spray, 
An'  wimples  roun  the  green  moss-stane, 
An'  mourns,  I  kenna  why,  wi'  a  ceaseless  mane. 

Jeanie,  come!  thy  days  o'  play 
Wi'  autumn  tide  shall  pass  away; 
Sune  shaU  these  scenes,  in  darkness  cast, 
Be  ravaged  wild  by  the  wild  winter  blast. 

Though  to  thee  a  spring  shall  rise. 
An'  scenes  as  fair  salute  thine  eyes; 
An'  though,  through  mony  a  cloudless  day, 
My  winsome  Jean  shall  be  heartsome  and  gay; 

He  wha  grasps  thy  little  hand 
Nae  Linger  at  thy  side  shall  stand, 
Nor  o'er  the  flower-besprinkled  brae 
Lead  thee  the  lownest  an'  the  bonniest  way. 

Dost  thou  see  yon  yard  sae  green, 
Speckled  wi'  mony  a  mossy  stane? 


254 


ANDREW  B.   PICKEN. 


A  few  short  weeks  o'  pain  shall  fly, 
An'  asleep  in  that  bed  shall  thy  puir  brother  lie. 

Then  thy  mither's  tears  awhile 
May  chicle  thy  joy  an'  damp  thy  smile; 
But  soon  ilk  grief  shall  wear  awa', 
And  I'll  be  forgotten  by  ane  an'  by  a'. 

Dinna  think  the  thought  is  sad; 
Life  vex'd  me  aft,  but  this  maks  glad ; 
When  eauld  my  heart  and  closed  my  e'e, 
Bonnie  shall  the  dreams  o'  my  slumbers  be. 


ODE  TO  MY  MITHER  TONGUE. 

I  lo'e  the  tones  in  mine  ear  that  rung 

In  the  days  when  care  was  unkind  to  me; 
Ay,  I  lo'e  thee  weel,  my  mither  tongue, 

Though  gloom  the  sons  o'  lear  at  thee. 
Ev'n  now,  though  little  skilled  to  sing, 

I've  rax'd  me  doim  my  simple  lyi-e; 
0!  while  I  sweep  ilk  sounding  string, 

Nymjjh  o'  my  mither  tongue,  ius2)irc! 

I  lo'e  thee  weel,  my  mither  tongnae. 

An'  a'  thy  tales,  or  sad  or  wild; 
Right  early  to  my  heart  they  clung, 

Right  soon  my  darkening  thoughts  beguiled- 
Ay,  aft  to  thy  sangs  o'  a  langsyne  day, 

That  tell  o'  the  bluidy  fight  sublime, 
I've  listen'd,  till  died  the  present  away. 

An'  return'd  the  deeds  o'  departed  tims. 

An'  gloom  the  sons  o'  lear  at  thee  ? 

An'  art  thou  reckoned  poor  an'  mean  ? 
All!  could  I  tell  as  weel's  I  see. 

Of  a'  thou  art,  an'  a'  thou'st  been! 
In  thee  has  sung  the  enraptured  bard 

His  triumphs  over  pain  and  care; 
In  courts  and  camps  thy  voice  was  heard — 

Aft  heard  within  the  house  o'  prayer. 


In  thee,  whan  came  proud  England's  might, 

Wi'  its  steel  to  dismay  and  its  gold  to  seduce, 
Blazed  the  bright  soul  o'  the  Wallace  wight. 

And  the  patriot  thoughts  o'  the  noble  Bruce. 
Thine  were  the  rousing  strains  that  breathed 

Frae  the  warrior-bard  ere  closed  the  fray; 
Thine,  whan  victory  his  temples  wreathed, 

The  sang  that  arose  o'er  the  prostrate  fae. 

An'  loftier  still,  the  enraptured  saint. 

When  the  life  o'  time  was  glimmering  awa'. 
Joyful  o'  heart,  though  feeble  and  faint, 

Tauld  in  thee  o'  the  glories  he  saw — 
C  the  visions  bright  o'  a  coming  life, 

0'  angels  that  joy  o'er  the  closing  grave. 
An'  o'  Him  that  bore  turmoil  an'  strife. 

The  children  o'  death  to  succour  and  save. 

An'  aft,  whan  the  bluid-hounds  track'd  the  heath. 

Whan  follow'd  the  bands  o'  the  bluidy  Dundee, 
The  sang  o'  praise,  an'  the  prayer  o'  death, 

Arose  to  Heaven  in  thee; 
In  thee,  whan  Heaven's  ain  sons  were  call'd 

To  sever  ilk  link  o'  the  papal  chain, 
Thunder'd  the  ire  o'  that  champion  bauld 

Wliom  threat'ningsand  dangers  assailed  in  vr.in. 

Ah!  mither  tongue!  in  days  o'  yore, 

Fu'  mony  a  noble  bard  was  thine; 
The  clerk  o'  Dunkeld,  and  the  coothy  Dunbar, 

An'  the  best  o'  the  Stuart  line; 
An'  him  wha  tauld  o'  Southron  wrang 

Cowed  by  the  might  o'  Scottish  men; 
Him  o'  the  Mount  and  the  gleesome  sang. 

And  him  the  pride  o'  the  Hawthornden. 

Of  bards  were  thine  in  latter  days 

Sma'  need  to  tell,  my  mither  tongue; 
Right  bauld  and  slee  were  Fergie's  lays. 

An'  roared  the  laugh  when  Ramsay  sung; 
But  wha  without  a  tear  can  name 

The  swain  this  warl'  shall  ne'er  forget  ? 
Thine,  mither  tongue,  his  sangs  o'  fame, — 

'Twill  learning  be  to  ken  thee  yet! 


ANDEEW    B.    PICKEN. 


Born  1802  — Died  1849. 


Andrew  Belpbage  Picken,  the  third  son 
of  Ebenezer  Picken  of  Paisley,  was  born  at 
Edinburgh,  November  5, 1802.  Left  an  orphan 
and  his  own  master  at  an  early  age,  and  being 
naturally  of  a  roving  and  adventurous  spirit, 
it  is  not  greatly  to  be  wondered  at  that  in  1822, 


wlien  Sir  Gregor  Macgregor's  infamous  pro- 
spectus was  issued  at  Edinburgh,  the  specious 
promises  and  glowing  pictures  set  forth  in  it 
caused  Picken  eagerly  to  embark  his  little  all 
in  the  vain  hope  of  securing  possessions  on  the 
Mosquito  shore.     He  became  a  leading  indi- 


ANDREW   B.   PICKEN. 


255 


vidual  in  the  unfortunate  expedition  to  Poyais, 
and  the  sufferings  and  privations  endured  by 
himself  and  his  companions  during  their  voyage 
and  on  their  landing  are  vividly  described  in 
several  of  his  poems  and  sketches.  On  leaving 
this  scene  of  liis  misfortunes  he  engaged  with 
a  mahogany  merchant  in  one  of  the  AVest  India 
Islands,  but  soon  becoming  tired  of  the  dull 
monotony  of  liis  new  occupation  he  returned  to 
his  native  land. 

In  182S  Picken  published  a  collected  edition 
of  his  poetical  compositions,  entitled  "The 
IJedouins,  and  other  Poems,"  and  contributed 
a  series  of  tales  and  sketches  under  the  title  of 
"Lights  and  Shadows  of  a  Sailor's  Life"  to 
the  Edinburgh  Observer.  In  1830  he  left  Scot- 
land for  the  United  States,  and  after  visiting 


most  of  the  principal  cities  of  the  L'nion,  and 
passing  through  many  vicissitudes  of  fortune, 
ultimately  settled  in  Montreal,  where  he  was 
well  known  as  an  artist  and  teacher  of  painting 
and  drawing.  Mr.  Picken  was  a  constant  con- 
tributor to  the  newspapers  and  magazines  of 
Montreal,  and  continued  to  be  so  until  a  short 
time  before  his  death,  which  took  place  July  1, 
1819.  His  principal  poem  is  "  The  Bedouins," 
in  three  cantos.  Of  his  prose  tales  that  entitled 
"The  Plague  Ship"  is  considered  the  best. 
Several  of  this  author's  poetical  compositions 
have  been  erroneously  attributed  to  Andrew 
Picken,  a  native  of  Paisley,  who  wrote  some 
occasional  verses  and  several  popular  novels, 
including  the  Black  Watch  and  the  Dominie's 
Lerjacy. 


THE    BEDOUINS. 


(extract.) 


It  is  the  hour  that  green  Kashmeer 
Its  loveliest  aspect  seems  to  wear. 
When  clouds,  hke  blight  ships,  sailing  on 
In  the  red  wake  of  the  sinking  sun. 
The  last  pale  pilgrims  of  his  train. 
Are  wending  towards  the  western  main; 
While  o'er  the  hushed  lake  faintly  creep 
Their  dim  reflected  gleams, 
Like  a  maiden's  eyes,  half  locked  in  sleep. 
Seen  smiling  through  her  dreams; 
And  cedar  heights  and  mountain  crown 
Have  caught  the  shade  of  evening's  frown ; 
And  groups  of  topaz-coloured  lights. 
Such  as  on  stilly  moonless  nights 
Come  shining  down  the  Ganges  oft. 
When  'mid  the  tall  cane  tufts  that  shake 
On  its  green  shores,  in  accents  soft, 
The  Hindoo  girls  their  gazzels  wake, 
And  speed  their  floating  lamps  along 
With  all  the  spells  of  sighs  and  song. 
Lights  like  to  these  are  winking  now 
In  many  a  far  fantastic  row, 
Tracking  the  long  street  and  tall  spire. 
Through  all  the  vale,  with  lines  of  fire. 
These  are  the  painted  lanterns  hung 
From  Bani  roofs  and  galleries. 
Where  ye  may  hear  the  Alme's  song, 
And  see  the  small  white  hanil  that  flies 
The  \'ina's  silver  wires  athwart. 
Awakening  tones  that  fill  the  heart. 
There  ye  may  see  the  dancing  girls. 
And  hear  then-  golden  cymbals  clashing, 
As  their  gay  groups  in  mazy  whirls 
Are  past  the  lighted  casements  dashing, 


Like  sunny  clouds  together  twined 
And  cWven  before  the  samoor  wind. 

Now  is  the  hour  when  lovers  meet 

Far  in  the  sandal  bowers, 

And  the  lone  bulbul  singeth  sweet 

To  his  own  harem  flowers, 

And  o'er  the  folded  lotus  bell 

The  wearied  smi-bee  hymns  his  prayer. 

That  the  coy  flower  may  ope  her  cell 

And  let  him  nestle  there. 

Ah!  many  a  soft  and  silver  tongue 

Weaves  at  this  hour  such  wily  song. 

Xow  is  the  hour  when  token  flowers 

Are  from  Zenana's  wickets  thrown. 

By  guis  that  pine  through  weaiy  hours, 

Unnoticed  and  alone; 

And  through  the  silken  curtains  peep 

Glimpses  of  rich  lips  and  bright  eyes. 

Like  those  that  haunt  the  Moslem's  sleep 

With  promises  of  paradise; 

And  Peri  hands,  to  groups  that  stray 

Beneath  them,  wave  invitingly; 

And  cinnamon  and  basil  blooms, 

Such  as  are  found  on  lovers'  tombs, 

And  bear  a  language  of  their  own 

That  lovers  understand  alone, 

Are  dropped  from  time  to  time  to  them 

That  dare  their  passionate  promise  claim — 

Dare  lean  their  hearts  to  the  floweret's  prayer, 

And  borrow  love's  pinions  to  woo  them  there 

In  their  gilded  prisons — so  far  above 

The  reach  of  every  power  but  love. 


253 


ANDEEW   B.  PICKEN. 


THE  HOME   FEVER. 

A   RECOLLECTION    OF   THE   WEST   INDIES. 

"  Oh  it's  hame— an"  it's  hame,  an'  it's  hame  fain  wad  I  be, 
Hame— hamu— hame  to  my  ain  country." 

We  sate  in  a  green  verandah's  shade, 

Where  the  verdant  "tye-tye"  twmed 
Its  fairy  net-work  around  us,  and  made 
A  harjj  for  the  cool  sea-wind, 
That  came  there,  with  its  low  wild  tones,  at  night. 
Like  a  sigh  that  is  telling  of  past  delight.  . 

And  that  wind,  withits  tale  of  flowers,  had  come 

From  the  island  groves  away; 
And  the  waves,  like  wanderers  returning  home. 
To  the  beach  came  wearily: 
And  the  conch's  far  home  call,  the  parrot's  cry. 
Had  told  that  the  Sabbath  of  night  was  nigh. 

We  sat  alone  in  that  trelliced  bower, 

And  gazed  o'er  the  darkening  deep; 
And  the  holy  calm  of  the  twilight  hour 
Came  over  our  hearts  like  sleep: 
And  we  dreamt  of  the  "banks  and  bonny  braes" 
That  had  gladden'd  our  childhood's  careless  days. 

And  he,  the  friend  by  my  side  that  sate, 

Was  a  boy,  whose  path  had  gone 
'Mid  the  fields  and  the  flowers  of  joy,  that  Fate, 
Like  a  mother,  had  smiled  upon. 
But,  alas !  for  the  time  when  our  hopes  have  wings, 
And  when  memory  to  gi'ief,  like  a  syren,  sings! 

His  home  liad  been  on  the  storaiy  shore 

Of  Albyn's  mountain  land: 
His  car  was  tuned  to  the  breakers'  roar. 
And  he  loved  the  bleak  sea-sand; 
And  the  torrent's  din,  and  the  howling  breeze, 
Had  all  his  soul's  wild  sympathies. 

They  had  told  him  tales  of  the  sunny  lands 

That  rose  over  Indian  seas. 
Where  gold  shone  glancing  from  river  sands. 
And  strange  fruit  bent  the  trees. 
They  had  wiled  him  away  from  his  father's  hearth. 
With  its  voice  of  peace,  and  its  hght  of  mirth. 

Xoir,  that  fruit  and  the  river  gems  were  near. 

And  he  strayed  'neath  the  tropic  sun; 
But  the  voice  of  promise  that  thrilled  in  his  ear 
At  that  joyous  time  was  gone: 
And  the  hope  he  had  chased  'mid  the  wilds  of 

night, 
Had  melted  away  like  a  firefly's  light. 

Oh!  I  have  watched  him  gazing  long 

Where  the  homeward  vessels  lay, 
Cheating  sad  thoughts  with  some  old  song. 
And  wiping  his  tears  away! 
And  well  I  knew  that  that  weary  breast, 
Like  the  djve  of  the  deluge,  pined  for  rest! 


There  was  a  "worm  i'  the  bud"  whose  fold 

Defied  the  leech's  art; 
Consumption's  hectic  plague-spot  told 
A  tale  of  a  broken  heart. 
The  boy  was  dying— but  the  grave's  long  sleep 
Is  bhss  to  those  that  pine,  and  "  watch,  and  weep." 

He  died;  but  memory's  wizard  power, 
With  its  ghost-like  train,  had  come 
To  the  dark  heart's  ruins  at  that  last  hour, 
And  he  murmured,  "Home!  home!  home!" 
And  his  spirit  passed  with  its  happy  dream. 
Like  a  bird  in  the  track  of  a  bright  sunbeam. 

Oh,  talk  of  spring  to  the  trampled  flower. 

Of  light  to  the  fallen  star, 
Of  glory  to  those  that  in  victory's  hour 
Lie  cold  on  the  fields  of  war! 
But  ye  mock  the  exile's  heart  when  ye  tell 
Of  aught  out  the  home  where  it  pines  to  dwell. 


MEXICO. 

I   have   come   from  the  south,  where   the  free 

streams  flow 
'Mid  the  scented  valleys  of  Mexico; 
I  have  come  from  the  vines  and  the  tamarind 

bowers 
With  their  wild  festoons  and  their  sunny  flowers, 
And  wonder  not  that  I  turned  to  part 
From  that  land  of  sweets  with  an  aching  heart. 

I  have  come  from  the  south,  where  the  landward 

breeze 
Comes  laden  with  spices,  to  roam  on  the  seas. 
And  mingle  its  spells  with  the  sea-boy's  lay — 
As  he  carols  aloft  to  the  billows'  sway. 
And  wonder  not  that  I  come  with  sighs 
To  this  colder  clime  and  these  dreary  skies. 

I  have  roamed  through  those  Indian  wild  woods  oft 
When  the  hot  day  glare  fell  shadowed  and  soft. 
And  nought  in  their  green  retreats  was  heard. 
But  the  notes  of  the  hermit  humming-bird. 
Or  the  wayward  murmurs  of  some  old  song. 
That  stole  through  my  reverie,  sad  and  long. 

I  have  stood  bj-^  those  shaded  streams  at  night, 
And  dreamt  of  the  past,  when  the  sweet  starlight 
And  the  sound  of  the  water  came  over  my  soul, 
And  its  joys  lay  hushed  in  their  deep  control; 
And  the  dead  and  the  severed  on  memory  crept. 
With  a  tale  of  my  youth,  and  I  wept — I  wept! 

Oh !  could  my  footstep  but  wander  now 

Where  those  wood  paths  wind  and  those  dark 

streams  flow! 
Oh,  could  I  but  feel  on  my  brow  once  more 
The  fragrant  winds  of  that  golden  shore. 
How  my  heart  would  bound  as  it  hailed  thee  mine, 
Oh  Mexi3o!  land  of  the  olive  and  vine! 


ROBERT  WHITE. 


257 


EOBEET    WHITE. 


Egbert  White  was  born  at  Yetholm,  Rox- 
burghshire, ill  1802.  His  youth  was  spent  at 
Otterburn,  in  Eedesdale,  Northumberland, 
where  liis  father  cultivated  a  small  farm. 
Robert  was  fond  of  reading,  and  their  land- 
lord, who  had  a  good  library,  kindly  allowed 
him  the  us3  of  his  books,  and  in  1825  ob- 
tained a  clerk's  situation  for  him  with  a  trades- 
man in  Newcastle.  In  1850  his  employer,  who 
was  a  bachelor,  died,  and  left  his  whole  estate 
in  Mr.  AVhite's  hands  as  executor  on  behalf  of 
his  sister.  Being  a  high-minded  and  honour- 
able man,  the  lady  reposed  her  entire  confi- 
dence in  him,  and  at  her  death,  in  the  latter 
part  of  186i,  "she  made  me  her  executor,  and 
left  me  quite  independent.  I  live  in  a  fine 
house  of  my  own,  situated  in  the  best  part  of 
the  town.  I  possess  the  best  private  library  in 
the  district,  and  after  forty  years'  faithful  Avork 
I  have  at  my  command  more  capital  than  I 
shall  ever  require." 

Mr.  AVhite,  soon  after  his  removal  to  New- 
castle, became  a  frequent  contributor  both  in 
prose  and  verse  to  the  Newcastle  Magazine. 
In  1829  the  Typographical  Society  of  Newcastle 
printed  at  their  own  cost  his  poem  of  "The 
Tvnemouth  Nun. "    In  1853  Mr.  White  printed 


for  private  circulation  "The  AVlnd,"  another 
poem;  and  in  1856  he  printed,  also  privately, 
"  England,"  a  poem,  which  he  dedicated  to  his 
generous  benefactress.  In  1857,  having  drawn 
up  a  full  and  authentic  account  of  the  Battle  of 
Otterburn,  it  was  published  in  a  volume  of  188 
pages.  In  the  same  year  he  contributed  to  the 
Arclmologla  jEllana,  issued  by  the  Newcastle 
Society  of  Antiquaries,  a  full  account  of  the 
battle  of  Neville's  Cross,  near  Durham.  In 
1859  he  contributed  to  the  same  work  a 
sketch  of  the  Battle  of  Flodden,  with  a  list 
of  all  the  noblemen  and  gentlemen  of  Scot- 
land who  fell  in  that  memorable  engagement. 
Mr.  AVhite  in  1867  collected  his  poeni.s,  songs, 
and  metrical  tales,  which  were  published  at 
Kelso.  Many  of  his  lyrics  are  deservedly  popu- 
lar, and  have  obtained  a  place  in  numerous 
collections  of  Scottish  song.  He  is  well 
known  as  an  enthusiastic  antiquary,  and  has 
contributed  both  prose  and  ver.sc  to  Richard- 
son's Local  Historian's  Table- Booh  of  Nor - 
thumherlaml  and  Durham,  and  other  Avorks 
of  an  antiquarian  character.  In  1858  an 
edition  of  the  poems  and  ballads  of  Dr. 
John  Leyden  was  published,  edited  by  ]Mr. 
White. 


LADY    JEAX.^ 


By  Bothal  Tower  sweet  AA'ansbeck's  stream 

Runs  bickerin'  to  the  sea; 
Aloft,  within  the  breeze  o'  morn. 

The  banner's  wavin'  free. 

There's  joy  in  Bothal's  bonnie  bowers. 
There's  mirth  within  the  ha'; 

But  owre  the  cheeks  o"  Lady  Jean 
The  tricklin'  tear-draps  fa'. 

She  sits  within  her  chamber  high, 
Iler  cousin  by  her  side; 


1  The  scenery  of  this  ballad  is  in  Northumberland. 
Bothal  Castle  is  beautifully  situated  on  the  Wansbeuk, 
a  few  miles  below  Morpeth.  At  Otterburn  stood  a 
tower  or  castle  which  was  long  in  possession  of  the 

Vol.  II.— R 


Yet  swecr  is  she  to  don  the  dress 
That's  fitting  for  a  bride. 

"  0  haste!  Lord  Dacre's  on  his  way; 
Ye  hae  nae  time  to  spare; 
Come  let  me  clasp  that  girdle  jimp. 
And  braid  your  glossy  hair. 

"  0'  a'  the  ladies  i'  the  land, 
Ye'se  be  surpass'd  b}'  nane; 
The  lace  that's  on  your  velvet  robe 
AVi'  goud'U  stand  its  lane. 

Umphrevilles,  a  distinguished  family;  and  the  place 
has  acquired  great  celebrity  in  Border  histojy  and  song 
from  the  battle  fought  there  in  loSS  between  the  heroes 
Douglas  and  Percy.— Ed. 


258 


EGBERT  WHITE. 


"  Tliis  jewell'il  chaplet  ye'll  put  on, 
Tliat  broiderd  necklace  gay; 
For  we  maun  hae  ye  buskit  weel 
On  this,  your  bridal  day." — 

"  Oh!  Ellen,  ye  would  think  it  hard 
To  wed  against  your  will ! 
I  never  loo'd  Lord  Dacre  yet; 
I  dinna  like  him  still. 

"He  kens,  though  oft  he  sued  for  love 
Upon  his  bended  knee, 
Ae  tender  word,  ae  kindly  look, 
He  never  gat  frae  me. 

"And  he  has  gained  my  mothers  car, 
My  father's  stern  command; 
Yet  this  fond  heart  can  ne'er  be  his, 
Altho'  he  claim  my  hand. 

"Oh!  Ellen,  softly  list  to  me! 
I  still  may  'scape  the  snare; 
AVhen  morning  raise  o'er  Otterburne, 
The  tidings  would  be  there. 

"And  hurrying  on  comes  Umfreville, — 
His  spur  is  sharp  at  need; 
There's  nana  in  a'  Northumberland 
Can  mount  a  fleeter  steed. 

"Ah!  weel  I  ken  his  heart  is  true. 
He  will — he  must  be  here: 
Aboon  the  garden  wa'  he'll  wave 
The  pennon  o'  his  spear." — • 

"  Far  is  the  gate,  the  burns  are  deep, 
The  broken  muirs  are  wide; 
Fair  lady,  ere  your  true  love  come, 
Ye'll  be  Lord  Dacre's  bride. 

"  Wi'  stately,  solemn  step  the  priest 
Climbs  up  the  chapel  stair: 
Alas!  alas!  for  Umfreville — 
His  heart  may  weel  be  sair! 

"  Keep  back !  keep  back !  Lord  Dacre's  steed: 
Ye  maunna  trot,  but  gang. 
And  haste  ye!  haste  ye!   Umfreville! 
Your  lady  thinks  ye  lang." — 

In  velvet  sheen  she  wadna  dress; 

Nae  pearls  o'er  her  shone; 
Nor  broider'd  necklace,  sparkling  bright, 

AVould  Lady  Jean  put  on. 

Up  raise  she  frae  her  ctishion'd  seat. 

And  totter'd  like  to  fa'; 
Her  cheek  grew  like  the  rose,  and  then 

Turned  whiter  than  the  snaw. 


"0  Ellen!  tlirow  the  casement  up, 
Let  in  the  air  to  me: 
Look  down  within  the  castle-yard. 
And  tell  me  what  ye  see." — 

"Your  father's  stan'in'  on  the  .steps. 
Your  mother's  at  the  door; 
Out  thro'  the  gateway  comes  the  train. 
Lord  Dacre  rides  before. 

"  Fu'  yauld  and  graeefu'  liclits  he  doun, 
Sae  does  his  gallant  band; 
And  low  he  doffs  his  bonnet  plume, 
And  shakes  your  father's  hand. 

"List!  lady,  list  a  bugle  note! 

It  sounds  not  loud  but  clear; — 
Up!  up!   I  see  aboon  the  wa' 

Your  true  love's  pennon'd  spear!" — 

An'  up  fu'  quick  gat  Lady  Jean; — 
Nae  ailment  had  she  mair: 

Blythe  was  her  look,  and  firm  her  step. 
As  she  ran  doun  the  stair. 

An'  thro'  amang  the  apple-trees. 

An'  up  the  walk  she  flew; 
Until  she  reach'd  her  true  love's  s'.de 

Her  breath  she  scarcely  drew. 

Lord  Dacre  fain  would  see  the  bride. 
He  sought  her  bower  alane; 

But  dowf  and  blunkit  grew  his  look 
When  Lady  Jean  was  gane. 

Sair  did  her  father  stamp  an'  rage, 
Sair  did  her  motlier  mourn; 

She's  up  and  aff  wi'  Umfreville 
To  bonnie  Otterburne. 


MY  NATIVE  LAND. 

Fair  Scotland,  dear  as  life  to  me 

Are  thy  majestic  hills; 
And  sweet  as  purest  melody 

The  music  of  thy  rills. 
The  wildest  cairn,  the  darkest  dell, 

Within  thy  rocky  strand, 
Po.ssess  o'er  me  a  living  spell, — 

Thou  art  my  native  land! 

I  breathed  in  youth  thy  bracing  air 
For  many  a  summer  tide; 

And  saw  with  joy  thy  valleys  fair 
Beneath  me  stretching  wide. 

Amid  thy  classic  haunts  I  found 
.  My  glowing  heart  expand; 


EOBEET  WHITE. 


259 


For  each  to  me  was  sacred  ground, — 
Jline  own  inspiring  land ! 

Endear'd  to  me  is  every  trace 

Of  what  in  tliee  hath  been! 
I  prize  each  consecrated  place, 

Each  thought-awakening  scene. 
I  love  thine  ancient  towers  o'ertlirown 

By  time's  unsparing  hand, 
Where  dwelt  thy  patriots  of  renown, 

Thou  independent  land! 

Loved  country,  when  I  muse  upon 

Thy  dauntless  men  of  old. 
Whose  swords  in  battle  foremost  shone 

Beside  thy  Wallace  bold. 
And  Bruce,  who,  for  our  liberty. 

Did  England's  sway  withstand, 
I  glory  I  was  born  in  thee, 

Aly  own  ennobled  land! 

Ah!  precious  is  the  dust  of  those 

AVho,  by  such  heroes  led, 
For  sake  of  thee,  against  thy  foes, 

In  fiercest  conflict  bled! 
All  unremember'd  though  they  be. 

With  steadfast  heart  and  hand 
They  sold  their  lives  to  make  thee  free, 

Thou  spirit-rousing  land! 

Xor  less  thy  martyrs  I  revere, 

Who  spent  their  latest  breath 
To  seal  the  cause  they  held  so  dear. 

And  conquer'd  even  in  death: 
Their  graves  proclaim  o'er  hill  and  plain, 

iS'o  bigot's  stern  command 
Shall  mould  the  faith  thy  sons  maintain. 

My  dear,  devoted  land! 

And  thou  hast  ties  around  my  heart — 

Attraction  stronger  stili, — 
The  gifted  poet's  sacred  art. 

The  minstrers  matchless  skill: 
Yea,  every  scene  that  Burns  and  Scott 

Have  touch'd,  w  ith  magic  hand, 
Is  in  my  sight  a  hallow'd  spot, — 

Wme  own  distinguished  land! 

Due-reverenced  be  thy  bards  each  one, 

Whose  lays  of  impulse  deep 
Abroad  upon  the  world  have  gone 

Far  as  the  M-ind  may  sweep. 
Be  mine  to  linger  where  they  moved — 

Where  once  they  stood  to  stand, 
And  muse  on  all  they  knew  and  loved 

In  thy  romantic  land! 

0,  when  I  wander'd  far  from  thee, 
I  saw  thee  in  my  dreams, — 


I  mark'd  thy  forests  waving  free — 

1  heard  thy  rushing  streams: 
Thy  mighty  dead  in  life  came  forth: 

I  knew  the  honour'd  band: 
We  spoke  of  thee— thy  fame— thy  worth, - 

Thou  high-exalted  land! 

What  feelings  through  my  bosom  rush 

To  hear  thy  favour'd  name! 
And  when  I  breathe  an  ardent  wish, 

'Tis  mingled  with  thy  fame. 
If  prayer  of  mine  prevail  on  high. 

Thou  shalt  for  ever  stand 
The  noblest  realm  beneath  the  sky. 

My  dearly-cherish'd  land! 


MORXIXG. 

Awake,  my  love!  the  shades  of  night 
Depart  before  the  rising  light; 
The  lovely  sky,  all  dappled  gray, 
Gives  welcome  to  the  god  of  day; 
Yet  fair  and  brightly  though  he  shine, 
His  radiance  cannot  equal  thine! 

Arise,  my  dearest!  come  away! 
To  mark  the  morning  let  us  stray: 
The  genial  air,  so  mild  and  calm, 
Is  fresher  than  the  purest  balm, 
Where  sweets  from  every  shrub  combine 
To  emulate  that  breath  of  thine! 

0  come,  my  gentlest!  come  Mith  me! 
The  deep-green  earth  in  splendour  see; 
But,  gazing  on  her  gorgeous  dress 
Throughout  those  vales  of  loveliness. 
To  where  the  distant  hills  decline, 
Her  beauty  cannot  vie  with  thine! 

Come  forth,  my  love,  the  sky  is  blue: 
Both  blade  and  flower  are  gemm'd  with  dew ! 
The  rich  unfolding  rose  appears 
Blushing  amid  its  pearly  tears. 
And  with  the  lily  would  entwine, 
As  if  to  match  that  hue  of  thine! 

Welcome,  my  love!  both  land  and  sky 
Resound  with  vocal  harmony; 
Yet  all  the  strains  that  warblers  sing, 
Of  melting  music,  cannot  bring 
Such  pure  delight  to  ear  of  mine 
As  those  mellifluous  words  of  thine! 

Come,  let  us  go!  the  brightest  flower, 
Tiie  liveliest  bird  in  forest  bower, 
Exult  not  in  the  season's  pride 
As  I,  when  thou  art  by  my  side; 


260 


JOHN   EAMSAY, 


Nor  shall  I  hence  at  aught  repine, 
Ennobled  by  that  love  of  thinel 

With  thee  all  trial  I  can  brave, 
Wander  o'er  earth  and  stem  the  wave, 
Though  winter  freeze  or  summer  sigh. 
Nor  deem  that  harm  shall  come  me  nigh 
U'hiie  I  possess  a  sacred  shrine 
Within  that  spotless  breast  of  thine! 

All  praise  to  Him  whose  wondrous  care 
Is  mirror'd  in  a  world  so  fair! 
AVhose  goodness  through  the  joyful  spring 
Awakes  from  sleep  each  living  thing. 
And,  kinder  still,  whose  power  divine 
Framed  me  that  hand  and  heart  of  thine! 


THE  CAGED  BIRD. 

To  other  climes  on  changing  wing 

Has  fled  the  wintry  blast; 
And,  robed  in  verdure,  joyful  spring 

Comes  to  our  land  at  last. 
The  dew  is  on  the  daisied  ground, 

Leaves  deck  the  forest  tree; 
But  thus  in  weary  thraldom  bound 

Can  I  delighted  be  ? 

In  dark  green  foliage,  nestling  warm, 

I  first  beheld  the  day: 
'Mong  all  that  eye  or  ear  could  charm, 

I  flew  from  spray  to  spray. 
A  happy  dream  my  life  was  then — 

An  endless  feast  of  joy: 


Now  drooping  lone  must  I  remain 
A  captive  till  I  die! 

No  landscape  fair  attracts  my  sight; 

No  stream  runs  wimpling  by; 
I  scarcely  see  the  radiant  light 

That  beams  on  earth  and  sky. 
The  breeze  brings  not  to  me  its  balm; 

No  pleasure  comes  with  morn; 
Nor  will  my  fluttering  heart  be  calm 

When  all  its  ties  are  torn. 

Here,  in  a  grated  prison  pent, 

I  cannot  stretch  my  wing; 
And  did  I  give  my  bosom  vent. 

How  sadly  I  would  sing! 
'Tis  cruel  if  my  lady  deem 

That  I  can  warble  clear; 
Or  raise,  to  suit  a  pleasing  theme, 

The  music  she  would  hear. 

What  pity!  from  the  forest  tree 

That  man  should  thus  beguile 
A  little  harmless  bird  to  be 

Shut  up  in  durance  vile! 
May  I  consoling  aid  impart 

To  those  who  comfort  seek  ? 
Remove  a  sorrow  from  the  heart, 

A  furrow  from  the  cheek] 

Oh!  but  it  were  a  welcome  time 

Of  harmony  and  mirth. 
Could  bondage  base  and  wanton  crime 

Be  banished  from  the  earth ! 
Then  love  in  dance  with  friendship  dear. 

And  summer,  strewing  flowers. 
Again  would  make  the  world  appear 

Like  Eden's  blissful  bowers. 


JOHN    EAMSAY. 


John  Ramsay,  the  author  of  a  small  volume 
of  poems  entitled  Woodnotesqf  a  Wanderer, 
was  born  at  Kilmarnock  in  1802.  He  received 
but  little  education,  and  was  early  sent  to 
learn  the  trade  of  a  carpet-weaver  in  his  native 
town.  Whilst  employed  in  the  carpet-factory 
he  contributed  some  vcrj'  respectable  verses  to 
the  columns  of  the  Edhihi(r(jh  Lita'ary  Jour- 
ncd.  He  afterwards  tried  business  on  his  own 
account  as  a  grocer,  but  without  success;  and 


hethen  formed  the  resolution  of  earning  alivell- 
hood  by  the  publication  of  his  poetical  writings, 
and  personally  pushing  the  sale  of  the  volume. 
For  a  period  of  fifteen  years  he  travelled  over 
Scotland  selling  his  IFocxZ/iOf'e^,  when  he  became 
agent  of  a  benevolent  society  in  Edinburgh.  Dr. 
Robert  Chambers  says  of  Ramsay's  productions : 
"  I  have  been  struck  with  wonder  at  finding  ex- 
pressions so  forcible  and  eloquent — for  so  they 
deserve   to   be   termed — proceeding    from   an 


WILLIAM  M.   HETHERINGTON. 


261 


individual  who  describes  himself  as  occupying 
so  obscure  and  remote  a  situation  in  society, 
and  who  might  have  been  so  little  expected, 
when  his  education  and  circumstances  were 
taken  into  account,  to  display  accomplishments 


in  such  matters."  Ramsay's  two  best  produc- 
tions, "  Eglinton  Park  Meeting"  and  the 
"Address  to  Dundonald  Castle,"  are  of  con- 
siderable length ;  the  latter  contains  much 
picturesque  and  pathetic  beauty. 


OX   SEEING   A    REDBREAST  SHOT. 

All  ruddy  glowed  the  darkening  west. 
In  azure  were  the  mountains  drest. 
Her  veil  of  mist  had  evening  cast 

O'er  all  the  plain. 
And  slowly  home  the  reapers  passed, 

A  weary  train. 

On  old  Dundonald's  hills  I  lay, 

And  watched  the  landscape  fade  away; 

The  owl  come  from  the  turret  gray. 

And  skim  the  dell, 
AVhile  leaves  from  autumn's  sapless  spray 

Down  rustling  fell. 

While  on  a  thorn  that  widely  spread 
Its  moss-grown  lowly  bending  head, 
Where  long  the  winter's  storm  had  shed 

Its  baneful  power, 
And  oft  returning  summer  clad 

In  leaf  and  flower; 

A  redbreast  sang  of  sunshine  gone. 

And  dreary  winter  coming  on: 

What  though  his  strains  had  never  known 

The  rules  of  art, 
They  woke  to  notes  of  sweetest  tone 

The  trembling  heart. 

Bade  days  return  that  far  had  fled. 
And  hopes  long  laid  among  the  dead. 
And  forms  in  fairy  colours  clad, 

Confused  appear; 
While  melting  Feeling  kindly  shed 

Her  warmest  tear. 

When,  lo!  a  flash,  a  thundering  knell, 
That  startled  Echo  in  her  cell. 


At  once  dissolved  the  pleasing  spell, 

And  hushed  the  song; 

The  little  warbler  lifeless  fell 

The  leaves  among. 

Thus  the  young  bard,  in  some  retreat 
Remote  from  learning's  lofty  seat. 
The  critic,  prowling,  haps  to  meet, 

And  strikes  the  blow, 
That  lays  him,  with  his  prospects  sweet, 

For  ever  low. 


FAREWELL    TO   CRAUFURDLAXD. 

Thou  dark  stream,  slow  wending  thy  deep  rocky 

way. 
By  foliage  oft  hid  from  the  bright  eye  of  day, 
I've  viewed  thee  witli  pleasure,  but  now  must 

with  pain, 
Farewell!  for  I  never  may  see  you  again. 

Ye  woods  wlience  fond  fancy  a  spirit  would  bring, 
That  trimmed  the  bright  pinions  of  thonglat's 

hallowed  wing, 
Your  beauties  will  gladden  some  liappier  swain, 
Farewell!  for  I  never  may  see  you  again. 

I've  roamed  you  unknown  to  care's  life-sapping 

sigh. 
When  prospects  seemed    fair,    and   my   young 

hopes  vfete  high; 
These  prospects  were  false,  and  those  hopes  have 

proved  vain, 
Farewell!  for  I  never  may  see  you  again. 

Soon  distance  shall  bid  my  reft  heart  inidergo 
Those  pangs  that  alone  the  poor  exile  can  know — 
Away!  like  a  craven  why  should  I  complain? 
Farewell !  for  I  never  may  see  you  again. 


WILLIAM   M.    HETHEEINGTON. 


Born  1803  — Died  1865. 


William  JiIaxwell  Hetherixgtox,  D.D., 
LL.D.,  was  born  June  4,  1803,  in  the  parish 


of  Troqueer,  which,  though  adjoining  the  town 
of  Dumfries,  is  situated  in  the  stewartry  of 


262 


WILLIAM   M.    HETHERINGTON. 


Kirkcudbriglit.  His  early  education  was  of 
the  most  limited  character,  and  lie  was  nineteen 
years  of  age  before  he  began  the  study  of  Latin 
or  Greek.  After  nine  months  of  insti'uction 
in  the  classics  he  enrolled  himself  as  a  student 
in  the  University  of  Edinburgli,  where  he 
afterwards  attained  a  Iiigh  rank  for  scholar- 
ship. During  his  college  days  lie  devoted 
much  of  his  leisure  to  the  cultivation  of  his 
poetic  proclivities,  celebrating  the  scenes  and 
manners  of  his  native  county.  In  1829  he 
published  his  first  work,  entitled  "Twelve 
Dramatic  Sketches,  founded  on  the  Pastoral 
Poetry  of  Scotland,"  full  of  gentle  feelings, 
lively  pastoral  descriptions,  and  agreeable  pic- 
tures of  Scottish  character;  but  the  failure  of 
Mr.  Hetherington's  publisher  prevented  the 
volume  meeting  with  the  success  which  it 
would  otherwise  have  had.  In  these  "  Sketches" 
the  young  author  introduced  a  number  of  songs 
in  the  style  of  the  "Gentle  Shepherd,"  many 
of  them  very  beautiful  and  popular. 

Mr.  Hetherington  was  licensed  as  a  proba- 
tioner of  the  Established  Church,  and  in  1836 
was  ordained  to  the  ministerial  charge  of  the 
parish  of  Torphichen,  in  the  presbytery  of 
Linlithgow.  He  proved  an  eloquent  preacher, 
and  although  diligent  in  the  discharge  of  his 
pastoral  duties,  he  found  time  in  his  seques- 
tered rural  charge  for  the  prosecution  of  lite- 
rary composition.  In  1838  he  produced  per- 
haps  the   most   popular  of   his   works,    I'he 


Miiiiste7-'s  Famtltj,  which  had  a  large  circula- 
tion in  Great  Britain  and  the  United  States. 
Three  years  later  he  published  the  Ultitori]  of 
tlie  Church  of  Scotland,  his  most  important 
contribution  to  literature,  and  the  one  by 
which  he  will  be  best  known  to  posterity. 
This  was  followed  in  1843  by  his  Ilhtory  of 
the  Westminster  Assemh/i/  of  Divines. 

Mr.  Hetherington  took  a  leading  part  in  the 
"  Non-intrusion  "  controversy,  and  at  the  seces- 
sion in  1843  he  joined  the  Free  Church  of  Scot- 
land. He  was  afterwards  transferred  to  St. 
Andrews,  that  his  talents  might  be  turned  to  ac- 
count not  only  in  gathering  an  influential  con- 
gregation, but  in  instructing  the  Free  Church 
students  attending  the  university  in  that  town. 
During  the  first  year  of  his  residence  here  he 
established  the  Free  Church  Mar/azine, v,\i\L-h  he 
continued  to  edit  till  the  year  1S4S,  when  he  ac- 
cepted the  position  of  ministerof  Free  St.  Paul's 
Church,  Edinburgh.  During  his  residence  in 
Edinburgh  ho  was  a  frequent  contributor  to 
the  reviews  and  religious  periodicals,  especially 
the  British  and  Foreign  EvanfjeUccd  Beview. 
In  1857  he  was  unanimously  appointed  by  the 
General  Assembly  to  the  chair  of  Apologetics 
and  Systematic  Theology  in  the  Free  Church 
College  of  Glasgow.  He  died  May  23,  1865, 
and  in  accordance  with  his  own  I'cquest  was 
buried  in  the  Grange  Cemetery,  Edinburgh, 
the  last  resting-place  of  Hugh  Miller,  Dr. 
Chalmers,  and  Dr.  Guthrie. 


THE    HEART'S    DIRGE. 


I  wake  not  thus  at  midnight's  hour, 

Resting  my  head,  in  mom-nful  mood, 
Upon  my  hand,  to  muse  on  power, 

Begirt  by  all  her  battle  brood; 
Nor  do  I  frame  the  lay  to  tell 
How  heroes,  crown'd  with  victoiy,  fell, 
When  war-fiends  peal'd  their  frantic  yull 
Upon  the  fields  of  blood. 

No!  Midnight's  smouldering  passions  urge 

The  wailings  that  I  wake  to  pour; 
An  unheard,  melancholy  dirge, 

A  broken  heart's  sad  relics  o'er. 
Poor  sport  of  many  a  bitterest  ill, 
Of  Misery's  pang,  and  Rapture's  thrill, 
Soon  niny'st  thou,  must  thou,  slumber  still. 
Nor  wish  to  waken  more! 


What  wert  thou  when  young  life  was  thine ': 

Did  Hope,  the  angel,  round  thee  cast 
Her  glorious  forms  of  joy  divine 

To  tempt,  then  sweep  in  mockery  past  ? 
Did  Passion,  like  the  siroc  wind, 
That  leaves  no  living  thing  behind, 
Speed  thy  career,  impetuous,  blind,  ' 
To  leave  thee  thus  at  last  ? 

Say,  wert  thou  one  whose  pulses  rose 

As  the  clear  war-note  swell'd  the  gale  ? 
Joy'dst  thou,  amid  encountering  foes, 

Grimly  to  bid  Destruction  hail  ? 
When  Victory  her  pajan  rung, 
Responsive  to  the  cannon's  tongue, 
Hast  thou  from  l)loody  housings  sprung. 
As  rout  roared  down  the  vale? 


WILLIAM   M.   HETHERINGTON. 


263 


Or  did  thy  love-aspirings  pant 

For  that  immortal,  holiest  fame, 
The  bard's  high  lays  alone  can  grant— 

A  stainless  and  a  star-like  name  ? 
Had  Nature  in  her  bounty  smil'd 
On  thee,  her  desert-wandering  child, 
While  each  oasis  in  the  wild 

Show'd  groves  of  verdant  flame  ? 

Or,  had  Love's  wondrous  magic  wrought 

Around  thy  core  a  fatal  spell, 
Till  at  a  look,  a  word,  a  thought. 

Was  brightest  heaven,  or  darkest  hell? 
And  still,  whatever  doom  was  thine, 
Wert  thou  for  aye  a  hallow'd  shrine, 
Where  One,  an  image  all  divine. 
In  sanctity  might  dwell  ? 

Aloft  the  warrior's  war-brand  rusts 
In  peace,  when  age  has  tamed  his  fire; 

The  bard  to  future  times  intrusts 

His  fame— his  soul's  one  strong  desire  ? 

The  lover,— Ah!  he  ne'er  may  rest! 

No  balm,  no  solace  to  his  breast, 

Till,  even  in  despairing  blest. 

His  breaking  heart  expire ! 

Yes!  thine  has  been  the  lover's  doom— 
The  love  that  kills  well  hast  thou  known! 

Behind  the  darkness  of  the  tomb 
Thy  star  of  life  is  set  and  gone! 

Did  she  for  whom  thy  pulse  beat  high, 

Turn  from  thy  disregarded  sigh 

Her  proud  ear,  and  imperious  eye, 
And  let  thee  break  alone  'i 

Warrior,  or  bard,  or  lover  true, 

Whate'er  thou  wert,  or  mightst  have  been, 
Rest  thee,  while  o'er  thy  wreck  I  strew 

Pale  flowers,  and  leaves  of  darkest  green; 
Primroses,  snowdrops,  lilies  fair, 
Spi-ing's  firstlings— Autumn  blossoms  rare, 
That,  trembling  in  the  wintry  air. 

Shrink  from  its  breathings  keen: 

The  cypress  let  me  gather  too, 

The  willow  boughs  that  ever  weep, 
And  blend  them  with  the  sable  yew. 

To  shade  thy  last,  cold,  dreamless  sleep. 
Rest  thee,  sad  heart!  thy  dirge  is  sung. 
The  wreath  funereal  o'er  thee  hung. 
The  pall  of  silence  round  thee  flung, 
Long  be  thy  rest,  and  deep! 


THE   TORWOOD  OAK. 

The  Torwood  Oak!     How  Hke  a  spell 
By  potent  wizard  breathed,  that  name 
•  Bids  every  Scottish  bosom  swell. 

And  burn  with  all  a  patriot's  flame! 


The  past  before  the  rapt  eye  brings— 
Forth  stalk  the  phantom  shades  of  kings. 
And  loud  the  warrior's  bugle  rings 
O'er  gory  fields  of  blood! 

I  see  the  Roman  eagle  whet 

Its  hungry  beak,  I  see  it  soar; 
It  stoops,  I  see  its  pmions  wet. 

Ruffled  and  wet  with  its  own  gore: 
I  see  the  Danish  raven  sweep 
O'er  the  dark  bosom  of  the  deep, — 
Its  scatter'd  plumage  strews  the  steep 
Of  rugged  Albin's  shore. 

Lo!  England's  Edward  comes!— the  plain 
Groans  where  his  marshall'd  thousands  wheel. 

Grim  Havoc  stalks  o'er  heaps  of  slain. 
Gaunt  Famine,  prowling,  dogs  his  heel ! 

Ah!  woe  for  Scotland!  blood  and  woe! 

Fierce  and  relentless  is  the  foe, 

And  treason  points  the  murderous  blow, 
Edges  the  ruthless  steel ! 

But  who  is  he  with  dauntless  brow. 
And  dragon  crest,  and  eagle  eye, 

Whose  proud  form  never  knew  to  bow 
Its  lofty  port  and  bearing  high? 

Around  him  close  a  glorious  band, — 

Few— but  the  chosen  of  the  land; 

Beneath  the  Torwood  Tree  they  stand, 
Freedom  to  gain,  or  die! 

t 

'Tis  he,  the  bravest  of  the  brave! 

Champion  of  Scotland's  liberty, 
Whose  mighty  arm  and  dreadful  glaive 

His  mother-land  could  thrice  set  free! 
That  hero-patriot,  whose  great  name 
Justly  the  foremost  rank  may  claim 
Of  all  that  grace  the  rolls  of  fame— 
Wallace  of  Elderslie! 

Yes,  oft  the  Torwood  Oak  has  bent 

Its  broad  boughs  o'er  his  noble  head; 
Oft,  in  his  hour  of  peril,  lent 

The  shelter  of  its  friendly  shade; 
And  though  rude  Time  and  stern  Decay 
Its  moulder'd  stem  have  swept  away. 
The  hero's  name  there  dwells  for  aye — 
A  name  that  cannot  fade! 


THE  HAWTHORN   TREE. 

0  sweet  are  the  blossoms  o'  the  hawthorn  tree. 
The  bonnie  milky  blossoms  o'  the  hawthorn  tree, 
When  the  saft  wastlin'  wind,  as  it  wanders  o'er 

the  lea. 
Comes  laden  wi'  the  breath  o'  the  hawthorn  tree. 

Lovely  is  the  rose  in  the  dewj'  month  o'  June, 
And  the  lily  gently  bending  beneath  the  sunny 
noon ; 


264 


WILLIAM  M.   HETHERINGTON. 


But  the  dewy  rose,  nor  lily  fair,  is  half  sae  sweet 

to  me, 
As  the  bonnie  milky  blossoms  o'  the  hawthorn  tree. 

0,  blythe  at  fair  and  market  fu'  af  ten  ha'e  I  been, 

And  wi'  a  crony  frank  and  leal  some  happy  hours 
I've  seen; 

But  the  blythest  hours  I  e'er  enjoy'd  were  shar'd, 
my  love,  wi'  thee, 

In  the  gloamin'  'ueath  the  bonuie,  bonnie  haw- 
thorn tree. 

Sweetly  sang  the  blackbird,  low  in  the  woody 

glen, 
And  fragrance  sweet  spread  on  the  gale,  licht 

ower  the  dewy  plain — 
But  thy   saft   voice   and    sighing  breath   were 

sweeter  far  to  me. 
While  whisjiering  o'  love  beneath  the  hawthorn 

tree. 

Auld  time  may  wave  his  dusky  wing,  and  chance 

may  cast  his  die. 
And  the  rainbow  hues  o'  flattering   hope  may 

darken  in  the  sky. 
Gay  summer  pass,  and  winter  stalk  stern  ower 

the  frozen  lea. 
Nor  leaf  nor  milky  blossom  deck  the  hawthorn 

tree; 

But  still  maun  be  the  pulse  that  wakes  this 
glowing  heart  of  mine. 

For  me  nae  mair  the  spring  maun  bud,  nor  sum- 
mer blossoms  shine. 

And  low  maun  be  my  hame,  sweet  maid,  ere  I  be 
false  to  thee. 

Or  forget  the  vows  I  breathed  beneath  the  haw- 
thorn tree. 


OX  VISITING  THE  GRAVES  OP  BESSIE 
BELL  AND  MARY  GRAY. 

'Tis  hallow'd  ground  1  hush'd  be  my  breath  I 

Uncover'd  be  my  head! 
Let  me  tlie  shadowy  Court  of  Death 

Witli  softest  foot.step  tread! 
The  spirit  of  the  place  I  feel, 
And  on  its  sacred  dust  I  kneel  — 

For  Iiere  all  lowly  laid, 
As  ancient  legends  sootlily  say. 
Rest  Bessy  Bell  and  Mary  Gray. 

Scotia's  brown  pines  in  silent  gloom 

Commingle,  broad  and  tall, 
As  Nature's  self  iiad  o'er  their  tomb 

Hung  her  own  solemn  pall; 
A  few  faint  straggling  beams  of  day, 
Amid  the  blent  boughs  shifting,  stray, 


And  on  their  low  homes  fall; 
The  Almond,  gurgling  down  the  vale. 
Pours,  ever  pours,  their  deep  dirge-wail. 

Where  are  the  mounds,  that,  like  twin  waves, 

Young  children  of  the  deep. 
With  gentle  swell  should  mark  the  graves 

AVhere  side  by  side  they  sleep? 
They,  too,  have  melted  quite  away. 
Like  snow-wreaths,  lessening  day  by  day — 

Time's  wasting  touch  can  sweep 
Even  Death's  sad  records  from  Earth's  face. 
Leaving  of  man  no  lingering  trace. 

And  be  it  so!     Their  once  fair  clay, — 

Like  dew-drops  in  the  stream. 
Like  leaves  in  the  wan  year's  decay. 

Like  the  sky-meteor's  gleam, — 
Though  with  its  mother  element, 
Now  undistinguishably  blent. 

That  human  dust  may  seem, 
Refined  and  purified  shall  rise, 
To  bloom  immortal  in  the  skies. 

How  vain  the  pompous  tomb  appears 

Piled  o'er  the  mighty  dead, 
AVhile  viewing  through  the  mist  of  tears 

Where  the  beautiful  are  laid! 
Yes!  in  the  gales  that  round  me  moan. 
The  stream,  the  grove,  the  letter'd  stone. 

Even  in  the  dust  I  tread, 
I  feel  the  presence  of  a  power 
Guarding  this  consecrated  bower. 

Thrice  hallow'd  is  this  lonely  dell. 

Three  spirits,  all  divine — 
Love,  Innocence,  and  Friendship— dwell 

Here,  in  one  common  shrine; 
Here  youth  and  virgin  fair  may  meet. 
May  plight  their  vows  by  moonlight  sweet. 

May  heart  and  hand  entwine: — 
No  faithless  foot  this  turf  may  tread. 
For  here  tliey  reign — the  Sacred  Dead! 


THE  VOICE  OF  STREAMS. 

Awake,  awake  I  ye  voices  that  dwell 

In  streams,  as  they  race  on  their  own  bright 
way! 
Ye  are  awake!  for  I  feel  the  spell 

Around  my  heart  of  your  mystic  lay! 
The  shrill  and  the  gleeful  laugh  of  youth, 

The  timid  sigh  of  the  maiden  fair. 
The  lover's  lute,  and  his  vows  of  truth,  , 

And  the  moans  of  breaking  hearts,  are  there. 


ALEXANDER  BETHUNE. 


265 


There  is  innocent  bliss  in  that  playful  song, 

Rolling  its  rippling  voice  on  mine  ear; 
Light  leaps  my  heart  as  it  glides  along 

In  spring- tide  joyousness  fresh  and  clear; 
For  ne'er  can  the  bosom-chords  sleep  to  the  sound 

Of  the  brooklet  that  luU'd  pure  childhood's  rest; 
Recalling  oft,  as  it  flutters  around, 

Sweet  Eden  dreams  to  the  tinie-chill'd  breast. 

O,  voice  of  the  stream!  thou  art  sweet  and  dear 

In  the  dewy  eve  of  the  flowery  Maj^ 
When  thy  Fairyland  music,  hovering  near, 

Fills  each  soft  pause  in  the  lover's  lay: 
But  the  young  and  the  beautiful  Death  spares  not, 

The  trysting-place — what  is  it  now  ? 
Alas,  alas!  'tis  a  haunted  spot, 

And  a  gushing,  endless  wail  art  thou. 

There  is  mirth  and  sport  in  thy  altering  voice, 

I  hear  it  dancing  adown  the  vale. 
While  the  shout  and  the  song  bid  echo  rejoice. 

And  laughter  rides  on  the  joy-wing'd  gale: — 
The  bleating  of  lambs  on  the  sunny  braes. 

The  lightsome  maiden's  petulant  tongue, 
Blent  with  the  shepherd-boy's  rustic  lays. 

Free  on  the  wandering  breeze  are  flung. 


Hark!  wild  and  dread  is  the  swelling  strain 

That  booms  on  the  mustering  night  wind  by! 
Like  the  shout  of  strife,  and  the  groan  of  pain, 

And  the  psean  of  victory  loud  and  high: 
Of  manhood  it  tells  in  the  noon  of  his  might, 

When  glory  beams  on  his  lofty  brow — 
Wlien  bursts  on  his  bosom  the  torrent  of  fight. 

And  the  powers  of  nature  before  him  bow. 

Now  it  saddens  away  from  its  war-note  prouil, 

And  heaves  its  querulous  murmurings  forth. 
Beneath  the  gloom  of  night's  one  huge  cloud. 

Like  a  dirge-wail  sung  o'er  the  shrouded  earth! 
'Tis  the  plaint  of  age  in  his  winter-eve  dim, 

Laden  with  longings,  regrets,  and  woes, 
When  hope  is  a  dream  of  the  dead  to  him. 

And  pall-like  the  grave  shadows  o'er  him  close. 

Breatlie  on,  breathe  on !  thou  voice  of  the  stream ! 

To  thousand  fancies  thy  notes  give  birth 
In  my  musing  spirit,  and  still  they  seem 

The  storied  records  of  man  and  earth: 
For  thou  hast  partaken  his  mirth  or  moan. 

Since  first  from  Eden  his  steps  were  driven ; 
And  his  fate  shall  speak  in  thy  changeful  tone, 

Till  the  exile  returns  to  his  home  in  heaven. 


ALEXANDER    BETHUNE. 


Born  1804  -  Died  1843. 


The  elder  of  two  remarkable  brotliei's,  Alex- 
ander Bethune  was  born  in  the  parish  of 
Monimail,  Fifeshire,  in  July,  1804.  The  ex- 
treme poverty  of  his  parents  enabled  them  to 
give  liim  but  a  scanty  education  at  the  village 
school,  which  was  supplemented  by  some  in- 
struction in  writing  and  arithmetic  at  home. 
His  boyhood  was  passed  in  the  most  abject 
poverty',  and  at  fourteen  lie  followed  the  occu- 
pation of  a  common  labourer,  working  on 
farms,  in  a  quarry,  and  in  breaking  stones 
on  the  public  highways.  In  spite  of  these 
obstacles,  however,  he  eai'ly  contracted  a  taste 
for  literature,  and  devoted  his  evening  hours 
to  reading  and  the  composition  of  verses  and 
tales.  AVhile  employed  in  breaking  stones  in 
1835  he  wrote  a  very  clear  and  characteristic 
letter  to  the  ]\Iessrs.  Chambers  of  Edinburgh, 
in  which  lie  expressed  a  desire  to  submit  some 
of  his  articles  for  inspection  with  a  view  to 


their  publication  in  the  Edinhurgli  Journal. 
Several  articles  from  his  pen  soon  after  ap- 
peared in  the  columns  of  that  periodical,  and 
thus  began  Bethune's  literary  career.  Tales 
and  Sketches  of  the  Scottish  Peasantry,  part 
of  which  was  written  by  his  brother  John, 
appeared  in  1838,  and  was  most  favourably 
received.  The  year  following  Lectures  on 
Practical  Economy,  the  joint  production  of  the 
two  brothers,  was  published.  In  1843  another 
volume  from  Alexander's  pen  appeared,  en- 
titled The  Scottish  Peasant's  Fireside,  which 
met  with  the  same  kind  reception  extended  to 
the  Tales  and  Sketches.  But  this  was  the 
last  of  his  intellectual  efforts,  and  his  life 
of  struggle  was  drawing  to  a  close.  He  had 
been  offered  the  editorship  of  the  Dumfries 
Standard,  with  a  salary  of  £100  per  annum, 
but  impaired  health  compelled  him  to  decline 
a  position  which  would  have  been  so  congenial 


266 


ALEXANDEE  BETHUNE. 


to  him,  and  for  which  his  talents  well  fitted 
him.  He  became  rapidly  worse,  and  died  at 
Mount  Pleasant,  near  Newburgli,  June  13, 
1843,  in  his  thirty-ninth  year.  His  remains 
were  interred  in  the  grave  of  his  brother  John 
in  Abdie  churchyard.     An  interesting  volume 


of  his  L'lfe,  Correspondence,  and  L'terary 
Remains  was  publislied  in  1845  by  William 
M'Combie.  On  the  death  of  his  brother  in  1839, 
Alexander  collected  his  poems,  and  prepared 
a  memoir  of  his  life,  which  was  published  tlie 
vear  following. 


MUSINGS   OF   CONVALESCENCE. 

After  seclusion  sad,  and  sad  restraint, 
Again  the  welcome  breeze  comes  wafted  far 
Across  the  cooling  bosom  of  the  lake, 
To  fan  my  weary  limbs  and  feverish  brow, 
Where  yet  the  pulse  beats  audible  and  quick — 
And  I  could  number  every  passing  throb. 
Without  the  pressure  which  physicians  use. 
As  easily  as  I  could  count  the  chimes 
By  which  the  clock  sums  up  the  flight  of  time. 

Yet  it  is  pleasing,  from  the  bed  of  sickness, 
And  from  the  dingy  cottage,  to  escape 
For  a  short  time  to  breathe  the  breath  of  heaven, 
And  ruminate  abroad  with  less  of  pain. 
Let  those  who  never  pressed  the  thorny  pillow, 
To  which  disease  oft  ties  its  victim  down 
For  days  and  weeks  of  wakeful  suffering — 
Who  never  knew  to  turn  or  be  turned 
From  side  to  side,  and  seek,  and  seek  in  vain, 
For  ease  and  a  short  season  of  repose — 
Who  never  tried  to  circumvent  a  moan, 
And  tame  the  spirit  with  a  tyrant's  sway. 
To  hear  what  must  be  borne  and  not  complain — 
Who  never  strove  to  wring  from  the  writhed  lip 
And  rigid  brow,  the  semblance  of  a  smile. 
To  cheer  a  friend  in  sorrow  sitting  by, 
Nor  felt  that  time,  in  happy  days  so  fleet. 
Drags  heavily  along  when  dogged  by  pain, 
Let  those  talk  well  of  Nature's  beauteous  face, 
And  her  sublimer  scenes;  her  rocks  and  moun- 
tains; 
Her  clustered  hills  and  winding  valleys  deep; 
Her  lakes,  her  rivers,  and  her  oceans  vast, 
In  all  the  pomp  of  modern  sentiment; 
But  still  they  cannot /fc/  with  half  the  force. 
Which  the  pale  invalid,  imprisoned  long. 
Experiences  upon  his  first  escape 
To  the  green  fields  and  the  wide  world  abroad: 
Beauty  is  beauty — freshness,  freshness,  then; 
And  feeling  is  a  something  to  ho  felt — 
Not  fancied — as  is  frequently  the  case. 

These  feelings  lend  an  impulse  now,  and  hope 
Again  would  soar  upon  the  wings  of  health; 
Yet  is  it  early  to  indulge  his  flight. 
When  death,  short  while  ago,  seem'd  hovering 

near; 
And  the  next  hour  perhaps  may  bring  him  back, 
And  bring  me  to  that  "bourne"  where  I  shall 
sleep — 


Not  like  the  traveller,  though  he  sleep  well. 
Not  like  the  artisan  or  hvimble  hind. 
Or  the  day-labourer  worn  out  with  his  toil, 
Who  pass  the  night  scarce  conscious  of  its  passing, 
Till  morning  with  its  balmy  breath  return. 
And  the  shi-ill  cock-crow  warns  them  from  their 

bed- 
That  sleep  shall  be  more  lasting  and  more  dream- 
less 
Than  aught  which  living  men  on  earth  may  know. 
Well,  be  it  so:  methinks  my  life,  though  short. 
Hath  taught  me  that  this  sublunary  worlil 
Is  something  else  than  fancy  wont  to  paint  it — 
A  world  of  many  cares  and  anxious  thoughts, 
Pains,  sufferings,  abstinence,  and  endless  toil, 
From  which  it  were  small  i^enance  to  be  gone. 
Yet  there  are  feelings  in  the  heart  of  youth, 
Howe'er  depress'd  by  poverty  or  pain, 
Which  loathe  the  oblivious  grave;  and  I  would 

live. 
If  it  were  only  but  to  be  convinced 
That  "  all  is  vanity  beneath  the  sun." — 
Yes !  while  these  hands  can  earn  what  nature  asks, 
Or  lessen,  by  one  bitter  drop,  the  cup 
Of  woe,  which  some  must  drink  even  to  its  dregs, 
Or  have  it  in  their  power  to  hold  a  crust 
To  the  pale  lip  of  famished  indigence, 
I  would  not  murmur  or  rei^ine  though  care. 
The  toil-worn,  frame-tired  ami,  and  heavy  foot, 
Should  be  my  portion  in  this  pilgrimage. 
But  when  this  ceases,  let  me  also  cease, 
If  such  may  be  thy  will,  0  God  of  Heaven! 
Thou  knowest  all  the  weakness  of  my  heart. 
And  it  is  such,  I  would  not  be  a  beggar 
Nor  ask  an  alms  from  charity's  cold  hand : 
I  would  not  buy  existence  at  the  price 
Which  the  poor  mendicant  must  stoop  to  pry. 


A  MOTHER'S  LOVE. 

L'^nliko  all  other  things  earth  knows, 

(All  else  may  fail  or  change) 
The  love  in  a  mother's  heart  that  glows 

Nought  eartlily  can  estrange. 
Concentrated,  and  strong,  and  bright, 

A  vestal  flame  it  glows 
With  pure,  self  sacrificing  light, 

Wiiich  no  cold  shadow  knows. 


DUGALD  MOORE. 


267 


All  that  by  mortal  can  be  clone 

A  mother  ventures  for  her  son; 

If  marked  by  worth  or  merit  high, 

Her  bosom  beats  with  ecstacy; 

And  though  he  own  nor  worth  nor  charm, 

To  him  her  faithful  heart  is  warm. 

Though  wayward  passions  round  him  close, 

And  fame  and  fortune  prove  his  foes; 

Through  every  change  of  good  and  ill, 

Unchanged,  a  mother  loves  him  still. 

Even  love  itself,  than  life  more  dear, — 

Its  interchange  of  hope  and  fear; 

Its  feeling  oft  akin  to  madne.ss; 

Its  fevered  joys,  and  anguish-sadness; 

Its  melting  moods  of  tenderness, 

And  fancied  wrongs,  and  fond  redress. 

Hath  nought  to  form  so  strong  a  tie 

As  her  deep  sympathies  supply. 

And  when  those  kindred  chords  are  broken 

Which  twine  around  the  heart; 
"When  friends  their  farewell  word  have  spoken. 

And  to  the  grave  depart; 
When  parents,  brothers,  husband  die. 

And  desolation  only 
At  every  step  meets  her  dim  eye. 

Inspiring  visions  lonely, — 
Love's  last  and  strongest  root  below, 
Which  widow'd  mothers  only  know. 


Watered  by  each  successive  grief, 
Puts  forth  a  fresher,  greener  leaf: 
Divided  streams  unite  in  one. 
And  deepen  round  her  only  son; 
And  when  her  early  friends  are  gone, 
She  lives  and  breathes  in  him  alone. 


OX  HIS  BROTHER'S  DEATH. 

When  evening's  lengthened  shadows  fall 
On  cottage  roof  and  princely  hall, 
Then  brothers  with  then-  brothers  meet, 
And  kindred  hearts  each  other  greet, 
And  children  wildly,  gladly  press. 
To  share  a  father's  fond  caress: 
But  home  to  me  no  more  can  bring 
Those  scenes  which  are  Ufe's  sweetening. 

No  friendly  heart  remains  for  me, 

Liks  star  to  gild  life's  stormy  sea. 

No  brother,  whose  affection  warm 

The  gloomy  passing  hours  might  charm. 

Bereft  of  all  who  once  were  dear, 

Whose  words  or  looks  were  wont  to  cheer; 

Parent,  and  friend,  and  brother  gone, 

I  stand  upon  the  earth  alone. 


DUGALD    MOOEE. 


Born  1805  — Died  1841. 


DucvLD  ]iIooKE,  a  poet  of  very  superior 
power,  well  known  in  the  west  of  Scotland, 
was  born  in  Stockwell  Street,  Glasgow,  August 
12, 1805.  His  parents  were  in  humble  circum- 
stances, and  at  an  early  age  he  was  apprenticed 
to  Mr.  James  Lumsden,  stationer.  Queen  Street, 
in  whom  he  found  his  earliest  and  mo.st  efficient 
patron.  By  Mr.  Lumsden's  exertions  his  first 
work.  The  African,  and  other  Poems,  was 
brought  out  in  1821).  This  was  succeeded 
by  no  fewer  than  five  other  volumes  of  poems, 
all  published  between  the  years  1829  and  1839, 
and  all  liberally  subscribed  for.  The  pecuniary 
success  of  his  early  publications  enabled  Moore 
to  set  up  as  a  bookseller  and  stationer  in  his 
native  city,  where  he  was  gradually  rising  in 
wealth  and  reputation,  when  suddenly  cut  off 


by  inflammation,  January  2,  1841.  He  died 
unmarried,  having  resided  all  his  life  with  his 
mother,  to  whom  he  was  much  attached.  In 
the  Necropolis,  where  he  lies  buried,  a  massive 
monument  surmounted  by  a  bust  was  erected 
to  his  memory  by  his  personal  friends  and 
admirers. 

Moore  was  pre-eminently  self-taught, his  edu- 
cation at  school  having  been  of  the  most  scanty 
description.  All  his  works,  though  subject  in 
some  cases  to  objection  on  the  score  of  accuracy 
or  sound  taste,  di.splay  unequivocal  marks  of 
genius.  He  possessed  a  vigorous  and  fertile 
imagination,  great  force  of  diction,  and  free- 
dom of  versification.  His  muse  loved  to  dwell 
on  the  vast,  the  grand,  the  terrible  in  nature. 
He  dealt  little  iu  matters  of  everyday  life  or 


263 


DUGALD   MOOEE. 


everyday   feeling.     Professor   Wilson   said  of  {  of  Glasgow,  whose  poems — both  volumes arc 

hh  Af)-lcan  and  other  Poems,  &m\  Bard  of  the     full  of  uncommon  power  and  frequently  ex- 
Xorth,  "My  ingenious  friend  Dugald  Moore  j  hibit  touches  of  true  genius. " 


THE   VOICE  OP   THE   SPIRIT. 

Sister!  is  this  an  hour  for  sleep? — 

Should  slumber  mar  a  daughter's  prayer, 
When  drinks  her  father,  on  the  deep. 

Death's  chalice  in  despair  ? 
Though  I  have  rested  in  the  grave, 

Long  with  oblivion's  ghastly  crowd, 
Yet  the  wild  tempest  on  the  wave 

Hath  roused  me  from  my  shroud ! 

'Tis  but  a  few  short  days  since  he, 

Our  father,  left  his  native  land. 
And  I  was  there,  when  by  the  sea 

Ye  wept, — and  grasp'd  each  parting  hand; 
I  hover'd  o'er  you,  when  alone 

The  farewell  thrill'd  each  wounded  heart — 
The  breeze  then  raised  its  warning  tone, 

And  bade  the  ship  depart. 

I  saw  the  bark  in  sunshine  quit 

Our  own  romantic  shore; 
Thou  heard'st  the  tempest — it  hath  smit 

The  proudest — now  no  more; 
Amid  the  ocean's  solitude. 

Unseen,  I  trod  its  armed  deck. 
And  watch'd  our  father  when  he  stood 

In  battle  and  in  wreck. 

But  stronger  than  a  spirit's  arm 

Is  His  who  measures  out  the  sky — 
Who  rides  upon  the  volley 'd  storm 

When  it  comes  sweeping  by. 
The  tempest  rose; — I  saw  it  burst, 

Like  death  upon  the  ocean's  sleep; 
The  warriors  nobly  strove  at  first. 

But  iierish'd  in  the  deej). 

High  floating  on  the  riven  storm, 

I  hover'd  o'er  the  staggering  bark — 
Oh  God!  I  saw  our  father's  form 

Sink  reeling  in  the  dark ! 
I  hung  above  the  crew,  and  drank 

Their  wild — their  last  convulsive  prayer; 
One  thunder  roll,  then  down  they  sank. 

And  all  was  blackness  there! 

Our  father  strove  in  vain  to  brave 

The  hurricane  in  all  its  wrath, 
My  airy  foot  was  on  the  wave 

That  quench'd  his  latest  breath : 
I  smoothed  the  sea's  tremendous  brim, 

The  fearful  moment  that  he  died. 
And  spread  a  calmer  couch  for  him 

Than  those  who  perish'd  by  his  side. 


The  wild  waves,  flung  by  giant  death 

Above  that  lone,  that  struggling  crew — 
Shrunk  backward,  when  my  viewless  breath 

Came  o'er  their  bosoms  blue; 
I  saw  beneath  the  lightning's  frown, 

Our  father  on  the  billows  roll, 
I  smote  the  hissing  tempest  down, 

And  clasp'd  his  shrinking  soul. 

Then,  hand  in  hand  we  journey'd  on. 

Far — far  above  the  whirlwind's  roar. 
And  laugh'd  at  death,  the  skeleton. 

Who  could  not  scathe  us  more! 
Around,  the  stars  in  beauty  flung 

Their  pure,  their  never-dying  light. 
Lamps  by  the  Eternal's  fiat  hung 

To  guide  the  sph-it's  flight. 


TO   THE   CLYDE. 

When  cities  of  old  days 
But  meet  the  savage  gaze, 
Stream  of  my  early  ways. 

Thou  wilt  roil, 
Though  fleets  forsake  thy  btcast. 
And  millions  sink  to  rest, — 
Of  the  bright  and  glorious  west 

Still  the  soul. 

AVhen  the  porch  and  stately  arch, 
AVhich  now  so  proudly  perch 
O'er  thy  billows,  on  their  march 

To  the  sea, 
Are  but  ashes  in  the  sliower; 
Still  the  jocund  summer  hour, 
From  his  cloud  will  weave  a  bower 

Over  thee. 

When  the  voice  of  human  power 
Has  ceased  in  mart  and  bower; 
Still  the  broom  and  mountain  flower 

Will  thee  bless: 
And  the  mists  that  love  to  stray 
O'er  the  Highlands,  far  away. 
Will  come  down  their  deserts  gray 

To  thy  kiss. 

And  the  stranger,  brown  with  toil. 
From  the  far  Atlantic's  soil, 
Like  the  pilgrim  of  tiie  Nile, 
Yet  may  come 


WILLIAM  ANDEESON. 


209 


To  search  the  solemn  heaps 
Tliat  moulder  by  tlij'  deeps, 
Where  desolation  sleeps. 
Ever  dumb. 

Though  fetters  vet  should  clank 
O'er  the  gay  and  princely  rank 
Of  cities  on  thy  bank. 

All  sublime; 
Still  thou  wilt  wander  on, 
Till  eternity  has  gone, 
And  broke  the  dial-stone 

Of  old  Time. 


HANNIBAL,    OX   DRIXKIXG  THE 
POISON. 

And  have  I  thus  outlived  the  brave 

Who  wreath'd  this  wrinkled  brow?  — 
And  has  earth  nothing  but  a  grave 

To  shield  her  conqueror  now  ? 
Ah,  glory!  thou'rt  a  fading  leaf, — 
Thy  fragrance  false — thy  blossoms  brief— 

And  those  who  to  thee  bow 
Worship  a  falling  star— whose  path 
Is  lost  in  darkness  and  iu  death. 

Yet  I  have  twined  the  meed  of  fame 

This  ancient  head  around, 
And  made  the  echo  of  my  name 

A  not  undreaded  sound ; 
Ay — there  are  hearts,  Italia,  yet 
Within  thee,  who  may  not  forget 

Our  battle's  bloody  mound, 
When  thy  proud  eagle  on  the  wing 
Fell  to  the  earth,  a  nerveless  thing! 


Yes,  'mid  thy  vast  and  fair  domams, 

Thou  sitt'st  in  terror  still, 
While  this  okl  heart,  and  these  shrunk  veins, 

Have  one  scant  cb-op  to  spill; 
Even  in  the  glory  of  thy  fame 
Thou  shrinkest  still  at  Afric's  name,— 

'Tis  not  a  joyous  thrill; 
Thou  hast  not  yet  forgotten  quite 
The  hurricane  of  Cannae's  fight! 

Though  chased  from  shore  to  shore,  I  yet 

Can  smile,  proud  land,  at  thee; 
And  though  my  coimtry's  glory  set, 

Her  warrior  still  is  free ! 
On  prostrate  millions  thou  may'st  tread, 
But  never  on  this  aged  head — 

Ne'er  forge  base  bands  for  me! 
This  arm,  which  made  thy  thousands  vain. 
May  wither— but  ne'er  wear  thy  chain. 

True,  they  are  gone— those  days  of  fame — 

Those  deeds  of  might — and  I 
Am  nothing — but  a  dreaded  name. 

Heard  like  storms  rushing  by: 
Then  welcome,  bitter  draught— thou'rt  sweet 
To  warrior  spirits  that  would  meet 

Their  end — as  men  should  die, — 
Hearts  that  would  hail  the  darksome  grave, 
Ere  yet  degraded  to  a  slave. 

Carthage— farewell!     My  dust  I  lay 

Not  on  thy  summer  strand; 
Yet  shall  my  spirit  stretch  away 

To  thee,  my  father's  land. 
I  fought  for  thee— I  bled  for  thee— 
I  perish  now  to  keep  thee  free; 

And  wlien  the  invader's  band 
Thy  children  meet  on  battled  plain, 
My  soul  shall  charge  for  thee  again! 


WILLIAM    ANDEESON. 


Born  1805  — Died  1866. 


William  ANDERso>f,  an  industrious  and  pro- 
lific writer,  was  born  at  Edinburgh,  December 
10,  1805.  After  being  educated  in  his  native 
city  he  became  clerk  to  a  Leith  merchant,  but 
he  afterwards  gave  up  this  situation  and  entered 
the  office  of  a  writer  in  Edinburgh,  with  the 
intention  of  making  the  law  his  profession. 
In  1830  he  published  a  volume  entitled  Poeti- 
cal Aspirations.  In  the  year  following  he 
proceeded  to  London,  where  he  formed   the 


acquaintance  of  Allan  Cunningham  and  other 
men  of  letters.  For  some  years  after  this  he 
resided  in  Abei'deen,  employed  on  the  Journal 
and  Advertise)-  newspapers  of  that  city;  and  in 
1836  he  returned  to  London,  where  he  contri- 
buted extensively  to  the  magazines.  In  1839 
his  Landscape  Lyrics  appeared  in  a  handsome 
quarto  volume,  and  in  1842  he  published  a 
valuable  work,  The  Popular  Scottish  Bio- 
fjraphy.    Mr.  Anderson  was  also  the  editor  of  a 


270 


AVILLIAM   ANDEESON. 


series  of  fire  volumes,  Treasury  of  History  and 
Bio'jraph]/,  Treasury  of  Nature,  Science,  and 
Art,  &c. ;  an  edition  of  Lord  Byron's  works 
with  a  memoir  and  notes;  and  various  other 
publications.  He  was  connected  for  some  time 
with  the  Witness  newspaper,  and  in  1845  re- 
moved to  Glasgow  to  assist  in  establishing  the 
Daily  Mail,  the  first  daily  newspaper  issued 
in  Scotland.  In  1853  he  began  an  important 
and  extensive  work,  entitled  The  Scottish  Na- 
tion; or  the  Surnames,  Families,  Literature, 
Honours,  and  Biographical  History  of  the 
People  of  Scotland.     This  work,  published  by 


Fullarton  &  Co.  in  three  large  volumes,  engaged 
its  author  for  nearly  twelve  years,  and  is  likely 
to  prove  his  most  enduring  literary  monument. 
In  1855  he  published  the  "Young  Voyager," 
a  poem  descriptive  of  the  search  after  Sir  John 
Franklin,  and  intended  for  juvenile  readers. 
Mr.  Anderson  ended  a  life  of  much  literary 
activity  August  2,  1866,  aged  sixty-one  years. 
The  following  pieces  are  selected  from  a  col- 
lected edition  of  his  poems  published  in  1845, 
and  from  which  the  author  omitted  many  of 
his  earlier  compositions,  not  deeming  them 
"worthy  of  further  reprint." 


TO  A  WILD   FLOWER. 

In  what  delightful  land. 
Sweet-scented  flower,  didst  thou  attain  thy  birth  ? 
Thou  art  no  offspring  of  the  common  earth. 

By  common  breezes  fanned! 

Full  oft  my  gladdened  eye, 
In  pleasant  glade,  on  rivei-'s  marge  has  traced 
(As  if  there  planted  by  the  hand  of  Taste), 

Sweet  flowers  of  every  dye; 

But  never  did  I  see. 
In  mead  or  mountain,  or  domestic  bower, 
'Mong  many  a  lovely  and  delicious  flower. 

One  half  so  fair  as  thee! 

Thy  beauty  makes  rejoice 
My  inmost  heart.  —  I  know  not  how  'tis  so, — 
Quick-coming  fancies  thou  dost  make  me  know, 

For  fragrance  is  thy  voice: 

And  still  it  comes  to  me, 
In  quiet  night,  and  turmoil  of  the  day. 
Like  memory  of  friends  gone  far  away. 

Or,  haply,  ceased  to  be. 

Together  we'll  commune. 
As  lovers  do,  when,  standing  all  apart, 
No  one  o'erhears  the  whispers  of  their  heart. 

Save  the  all-silent  moon. 

Thy  thoughts  I  can  divine, 
Although  not  uttered  in  vernac'lar  words; 
Thou  me  remind'st  of  songs  of  forest  birds; 

Of  venerable  wine; 

Of  earth's  fresh  shrubs  and  roots; 
Of  summer  days,  when  men  their  thirsting  slake 
In  the  cool  fountain,  or  the  cooler  lake. 

While  eating  wood-grown  fruits: 


Thy  leaves  my  memory  tell 
Of  .sights,  and  scents,  and  sounds,  that  come  again. 
Like  ocean's  murmurs,  when  the  balmy  strain 

Is  echoed  in  its  shell. 

The  meadows  in  their  green. 
Smooth-running  waters  in  the  far-off  ways. 
The  deep-voiced  forest  where  the  hermit  prays, 

In  thy  fair  face  are  seen. 

Thy  home  is  in  the  wild, 
'Mong  .sylvan  .shades,  near  music-haunted  springs. 
Where  peace  dwells  all  apart  from  earthly  things, 

Like  some  secluded  child. 

The  beauty  of  the  sky. 
The  music  of  the  woods,  the  love  that  stii's 
Wherever  nature  charms  her  worshippers, 

Are  all  by  thee  brought  nigh. 

I  shall  not  soon  forget 
What  thou  hast  taught  me  in  my  solitude; 
My  feeUngs  have  acquired  a  taste  of  good, 

Sweet  flower!  since  first  we  met. 

Thou  bring'st  unto  the  soul 
A  blessing  and  a  peace,  inspiring  thought! 
And  dost  the  goodness  and  the  power  denote 

Of  Him  who  formed  the  whole. 


AT   E'ENING  AVHAN  THE  KYE. 

At  e'ening  whan  the  kye  war  in, 

An'  lasses  milking  thrang, 
A  neebour  laird  cam'  ben  the  byre, 

The  busy  maids  amang; 
He  stood  ahint  the  routin'  kye 

An'  round  him  glowered  a  wee. 
Then  stole  to  Avhar  young  Peggy  sat, 

The  milk  pail  at  her  knee. 


WILLIA^I   ANDERSON. 


271 


"Sweet  Peggy,  lass,"  thus  spoke  the  lainl, 

"Wilt  listen  to  iny  tale?" 
"Stan"  out  the  gate,  laird,"  Peggy  cried, 
"Or  you  will  coup  the  pail; 
Mind,  Hawkie  here's  a  timorous  beast. 
An'  no  acquent  wi'  you." 
"Ne'er  fash,"  quo'  he,  "the  milking  time's 
The  sweetest  time  to  woo. 

"  Ye  ken,  I've  aften  tauld  ye  that 

I've  thretty  kye  and  mair, 
An'  ye'd  be  better  owning  them 

Than  sittin'  milkin'  there. 
My  house  is  bein,  and  stocket  weel 

In  hadden  and  in  ha', 
An'  ye've  but  just  to  say  the  word 

Tae  leddy  be  o'  a'." 

"AVheesht,  laird,"  quo'  Peggy,  "diuna  mak' 

Yersel'  a  fule  an'  me, 
I  thank  ye,  for  your  offer  kind. 

But  sae  it  canna  be. 
Jilaybe  yer  weel  stocked  house  and  farm. 

An'  thretty  lowing  kine, 
May  win  some  ither  lassie's  heart. 

They  hae  nae  charms  for  mine; 

"For  in  the  kirk  I  hae  been  cried, 

My  troth  is  pledged  and  sworn, 
An'  tae  the  man  I  like  mysel' 

I'll  married  be  the  morn." 
The  laird,  dumfoundered  at  her  words. 

Had  nae  mair  will  to  try'r; 
But  turned,  and  gaed  far  faster  out, 

Than  he'd  come  in  the  byre. 


I  conld  gi-eet  whan  I  think  hoo  my  siller  dccreast, 
In  the  feasting  o'  those  who  came  only  to  feast. 

The  fulsome  respec'  to  my  gowd  they  did  gie 
I  thought  a'  the  time  was  intended  for  me. 
But  whancver  the  end  o'  my  money  they  saw, 
Their  friendsliip,  like  it,  also  flickered  awa'. 

My  ad^-ice  ance  was  sought  for  by  folk  far  and 

near, 
Sic  great  wisdom  I  had  ere  I  tint  a'  my  gear, 
I'm  as  weel  able  yet  to  gie  counsel,  that's  trae. 
But  I  may  jist  baud  my  wheesht,  for  I'm  naebody 

noo. 


I'M   NAEBODY  NOO. 

I'm  naebody  noo,  though  in  days  that  are  gane, 
Whan  I'd  hooses,  and  lands,  and  gear  o'  my  ain, 
There  war'  mony  to  flatter,  and  mony  to  praise, 
And  wha  but  mysel'  was  sae  prood  in  those  days! 

Ah!  then  roun'  my  table  wad  visitors  thrang, 
Wha  laughed  at  my  joke,  and  applauded  my  sang, 
Though  the  tane  had  nae  point,  and  the  tither 

nae  glee; 
But  of  coorse  they  war'  grand  when  comin'  frae  me ! 

WTaan  I'd  plenty  to  gie,  o'  my  cheer  and  my  crack, 
There  war'  plenty  to  come,  and  wi'  joy  to  partak' ; 
But  whanever  the  water  grew  scant  at  the  well, 
I  was  welcome  to  drink  all  alane  by  mysel'. 

Whan  I'd  nae  need  o'  aid,  there  were  plenty  to 

proffer. 
And  noo  whan  I  want  it,  I  ne'er  get  the  offer; 


DRYBL'RGH  ABBEY. 

By  Tweed's  fair  stream,  in  a  secluded  spot, 
Rises  an  ivy-crowned  monastic  pile; 
Beneath  its  shadow  sleeps  the  Wizard  Scott; 
A  ruin  is  his  resting-place— no  vile 
Unconsecrated  graveyard  is  the  soil; — 
Few  moulder  there,  but  these  the  loved,  the 

good, 
The    honoured,   and    the    famed;   and    sweet 

flowers  smile 
Around  the  precincts  of  the  Abbeyhood, 
While  cedar,  oak,  and  yew  adorn  that  solitude. 

Hail,  Dry  burgh !  to  thy  sylvan  shades  all  hail  I— 
As  to  a  shrine,  from  places  far  away, 
With  awe-struck  spirit,  to  thy  classic  vale 
Shall  pilgrims  come,  to  muse,  perchance  to 

pray; 
More  hallowed  now  than  in  thy  elder  day, 
For  sacred  is  the  earth  wherein  is  laid 
The  Poet's  dust;  and  still  his  mind,  his  lay. 
And  iiis  renown,  shall  flourish  undecayed. 
Like    his  loved  country's    fame,   that  is  not 

doomed  to  fade. 


THPvOUGH  THE  'WOOD. 

Through  the  wood,  through  the  wood. 

Warbles  the  merle! 
Through  the  wood,  through  the  wood, 

Gallops  the  earl ! 
Y'et  he  heeds  not  its  song 

As  it  sinks  on  his  ear. 
For  he  lists  to  a  voice 

Than  its  music  more  dear. 

Through  the  wood,  through  the  wood, 

Once  and  away. 
The  castle  is  gained. 

And  the  lady  is  gay; 


272 


HENEY   G.   BELL. 


When  her  smile  waxes  sad, 
And  her  eyes  become  dim, 

Iler  bosom  is  glad, 
If  she  gazes  on  him! 

Through  tlie  wood,  through  tlie  wood, 

Over  the  wold. 
Rides  onward  a  band 

Of  true  warriors  bold; 
They  stop  not  for  forest, 

Tliey  lialt  not  for  water; 


Their  chieftain  in  sorrow 
Js  seeking  his  daughter. 

Through  the  wood,  through  the  wood. 

Warbles  the  merle; 
Through  the  wood,  through  the  wood. 

Prances  the  earl; 
And  on  a  gay  palfrey 

Comes  pacing  his  bride: 
While  an  old  man  sits  smiling, 

In  joy,  by  her  side. 


HENEY    G.    BELL 


EoRN  1805  — DiKD  1874. 


IIexry  Glassford  Bell,  the  son  of  James 
Bell,  advocate,  was  born  in  Glasgow  in  1805. 
His  early  life  was  spent  chiefly  in  Edinburgh, 
to  which  city  his  father  removed  in  1811. 
Educated  at  the  University  of  Edinburgh,  he 
early  exhibited  a  predilection  for  literature, 
and  at  the  close  of  his  college  curriculum  he 
wrote  for  Constable's  Miscellany  a  "  ilemoir 
of  jMary  Queen  of  Scots,"  in  two  volumes, 
which  was  so  popular  as  to  pass  through  several 
editions  and  to  be  translated  into  sevei-al 
modern  languages.  In  1829  he  established  the 
Edtnliuryh  Literary  Journal,  which  he  con- 
ducted with  marked  ability  for  three  years. 
As  the  editor  of  this  periodical  he  formed  an 
intimacy  with  many  of  the  most  distinguished 
literary  men  who  lived  in  Edinburgh  at  the 
beginning  of  the  second  quarter  of  the  present 
century.  He  was  the  friend  and  frequent 
companion  of  Professor  Wilson,  who  speaks  of 
Bell  with  respect  and  aflPection  in  his  Noctes, 
where  he  appears  under  the  name  of  Tallboys. 
In  1832  Mr.  Bell  was  admitted  to  practise  as 
an  advocate,  when  his  literary  and  artistic 
tastes  became  in  some  measure  subordinated 
to  the  weightier  business  of  his  profession.  In 
1839  he  was  appointed  a  sheriff-substitute  of 
Lanarkshire,  a  position  in  which  his  thorough 
knowledge  of  law  and  his  sound  judgment 
gave  such  satisfaction,  that  in  1867,  on  the 
death  of  Sir  Archibald  Alison,  sheriff  of  Lan- 
arkshire, he  received  the  vacant  sheriffdom, 
and  he  continued  to  fulfil  the  duties  of  this 


important  and  honourable  office  with  distinc- 
tion until  his  death,  January  7,  1874. 

In  1831  jMr.  Bell  published  a  volume  of 
poems  entitled  Summer  and  Winter  Hours, 
followed  the  year  after  by  J///  Old  Portfolio, 
a  collection  of  miscellaneous  pieces  in  prose 
and  verse.  From  time  to  time,  at  intervals 
snatched  from  the  discharge  of  his  professional 
duties,  he  gave  to  the  world  several  volumes 
and  poetical  brochures,  the  latest  of  which 
appeared  in  1865  with  the  title  of  Romances 
and  other  Minor  Poems.  This  volume  fairly 
entitles  its  author  to  a  place  in  our  Collection, 
containing  as  it  does  the  fruits  of  mature 
thought,  with  which  much  of  the  poetic  fervour 
of  youthful  feeling  is  beautifully  blended. 
Mr.  Bell  was  also  an  acknowledged  connois.seur 
in  art,  and  did  inestimable  service  to  the 
people  of  Scotland  as  well  ^s  to  professional 
artists  by  his  labours  in  establishing  in  1833 
the  Pioyal  Association  for  the  Promotion  of  the 
Fine  Arts  in  Scotland.  He  frequently  appeared 
on  the  public  platform  as  an  eloquent  speaker 
on  subjects  relating  to  art,  literature,  and 
social  science;  and  was  for  many  years  one  of 
the  best-known  men  in  the  western  capital. 

One  of  the  journals  of  his  native  city  said  of 
Sheriff  Bell :  ' "  There  are  two  kinds  of  eminence, 
and  among  the  men  who  have  concentrated 
their  lives  on  a  single  pursuit  or  a  single 
problem  Mr.  Bell  will  not  take  a  foremost 
rank.  But  rarely  in  the  long  list  of  our  great 
lawvers   has  there  been  found   one  who  has 


HENEY   G.   BELL. 


273 


combined  a  technical  reputation  so  indisput- 
ably  high    with   accomplishments   and    sym- 
pathies so  varied   and  so  acute.      From  the 
time  when,  amid  the  regrets  of  his  friends  the 
Ettrick  Shepherd  and  others  of  the  admiring 
circle  which  gathered  round  the  brilliant  young- 
Edinburgh   advocate,    he   left  the  gardens  of 
the  Muses  for  the  courts  of  Themis,  he  devoted 
himself  with  an  unsurpassed  and  unsurpassable 
assiduity  to  the  duties  of  his  profession.     But, 
as  lias  been  the  case  with  our  greatest  lawyers, 
his  literary  powers  and  tastes  ever  went  hand 
in  hand  with  his  keen  logical  perceptions;  and 
those  who  knew  him  best  can  recall  no  pleas- 
anter  hours  of  intellectual  interest  than  those 
spent  in  his  discussions  of  the  speculative  and 
practical  points  at  issue  in  the  cases  on  which 
he  was  engaged.     Mr.  Bell  was  a  great  lawyer 
and  a  great  deal  more.     He  was  one  of  the 
first  of  our  few  good  dramatic  censors;  among 
patrons  of  art  a  Mrecenas;  of  Scotch  critics  of 
poetry  among  the  best  that  our  century  has 
produced,  and  himself  no  mean  poet.     Many 
of  his  writings  in  prose  and  verse  will  bear  a 
favourable  comparison  with  the  most  deserv- 


edly popular  volumes  of  recent  times.     But — 
and  in  this  respect  also  he  is  associated  with 
several  of  the  most  conspicuous  of  his  country- 
men— though  his  works  were  good  and   his 
work  was  excellent,  the  man  was  more  excel- 
lent.    As  with  Irving  and  Chalmers,  and  his 
old   friend   John    AVilson,    what   he   has   left 
behind  can  give  no  adequate  impression  of  the 
space  he  filled  in  the  minds  and  hearts  of  those 
Avho  were  privileged  to  enjoy  his  companion- 
ship.      Henry   Glassford    Bell   was   in   some 
respects  the  last  of  a  race — ultimns  Eomanorum 
— of  the  men  who  could  think,  and  live,  and 
talk,    and   revolve   great    problems    in   their 
minds,  and  yet  keep  a  cheerful  face  before  all 
the  world.     With  that  world  he  was  always 
on  good  terms,  but  without  surrendering  an 
inch  of  his  independence.     He  had  almost  the 
innocence  of  a  child  with  the  fortitude  of  a 
sage.     If  he  had  a  fault,  it  was  extreme  good 
nature.      His   own   inner   convictions   might 
have  taken  a  more  vivid  and  trenchant  form 
had  he  been  less  chary  of  letting  others  into 
the  secrets  known  only  to   those  nearest  to 
him." 


MARY    QUEEX    OF    SCOTS. 

EUe  f  tait  de  ce  monde  ou  les  plus  belles  choses 
Ont  le  pile  destiu.— Malhkbbe. 


I  looked  far  back  into  the  past,  and  lo!  in  bright 

array, 
I  saw,  as  in  a  dream,  the  forms  of  ages  pass'd 

away. 

It  was  a  stately  convent,  with  its  old  and  lofty 

walls, 
And  gardens  with  their  broad  green  walks,  where 

soft  the  footstep  falls; 
And  o'er  the  antique  dial-stone  the  creeping  sha- 
dow crept. 
And,  all  around,  the  noonday  light  m  drowsy 

radiance  slept. 
No  sound  of  busy  life  was  heard,  save,  from  the 

cloister  dim, 
The  tinkling  of  the  silver  bell,  or  the  sisters'  holy 

hymn. 
And  there  five  noble  maidens  sat  beneath  the 

orchard  trees, 
In  that  first  budding  spring  of  youth,  when  all 

its  prospects  please; 
And  little  reck'd  they,  when  they  sang,  or  knelt 

at  vesper  prayers, 

Vol.  II.— S 


That  Scotland  knew  no  prouder  names— held 
none  moi-e  dear  than  theirs; 

And  Httle  even  the  loveliest  thought,  before  the 
Virgin's  shrine, 

Of  royal  blood,  and  high  descent  from  the  ancient 
Stuart  line; 

Calmly  her  happy  days  flew  on,  uncounted  in  their 
flight, 

And,  as  they  flew,  they  left  behind  a  long  con- 
tinuing light. 

The  scene  was  changed. — It  was  the  court,  the 
gay  court  of  Bourbon, 

Whei-e,  'neath  a  thousand  silver  lamps,  a  thou- 
sand courtiers  throng; 

And  proudly  kindles  Henry's  eye,  well  pleased,  I 
ween,  to  see 

The  land  assemble  all  its  wealth  of  grace  r.nd 
chivalry; — 

Gray  Montmorencj',  o'er  whose  head  has  pass'd 
a  storm  of  years. 

Strong  in  himself  and  children,  stands,  the  first 
among  his  peers; 


274 


HENRY   G.   BELL. 


Next  him  the  Guises,  who  so  well  fame's  steepest 
heights  assail'd, 

And  walk'd  ambition's  diamond  ridge,  where 
bravest  hearts  have  fail'd, — 

And  higher  yet  their  path  shall  be,  and  stronger 
wax  their  might, 

For  before  them  Montmorency's  star  shall  pale 
its  waning  light; 

There  too  the  Prince  of  Cond^  wears  his  all 
unconquer'd  sword. 

With  great  Coiigni  by  his  side, — each  name  a 
household  word ! 

And  there  walks  she  of  Medici,  that  proud 
Italian  line, 

The  mother  of  a  race  of  kings,  the  haughty 
Catherine! 

The  forms  that  follow  in  her  train  a  glorious  sun- 
shine make, 

A  milky  way  of  stars  that  grace  a  comet's  glit- 
tering wake: 

But  fairer  far  than  all  the  crowd,  who  bask  on 
fortune's  tide. 

Effulgent  in  the  light  of  youth,  is  she,  the  new- 
made  bride! 

The  homage  of  a  thousand  hearts  —the  fond  deep 
love  of  one — 

The  hopes  that  dance  around  a  life  whose  charms 
are  but  begun. 

They  lighten  up  her  chestnut  eye,  they  mantle 
o'er  her  cheek. 

They  sparkle  on  her  open  brow,  and  high-soul'd 
joy  bespeak. 

Ah!  who  shall  blame,  if  scarce  that  day,  through 
all  its  brilliant  hours. 

She  thought  of  that  quiet  convent's  calm,  its 
sunshine  and  its  flowers  ? 

The   scene   was  changed. — It  was  a  bark  that 

slowly  held  its  way, 
And  o'er  its  lee  the  coast  of  France  in  the  light 

of  evening  lay; 
And  on  its  deck  a  lady  sat,  who  gazed  with  tear- 
ful eyes 
Upon  the  fast  receding  hills  that  dim  and  distant 

rise. 
No  marvel  that  the  lady  wept, — there  was  no 

land  on  earth 
She  loved  like  that  dear  land,  although  she  owed 

it  not  her  birth: 
It  was  her  mother's  land;  the  land  of  childhood 

and  of  friends; 
It  was  the  land  where  she  had  found  for  all  her 

griefs  amends; 
The  land  where  her  dead  husband  slept;  the  land 

where  she  had  known 
The  tranquil  convent's  hush'd  repose,  and  the 

splendours  of  a  throne : 
No  marvel  that  the  lady  wept, — it  was  the  land 

of  France, 
The  chosen  home   of  chivalry,   the  garden  of 

romance ! 


The  past  was  bright,  like  those  dear  hills  so  far 
behind  her  bark; 

The  future,  like  the  gathering  night,  was  ominous 
and  dark! — • 

One  gaze  again— one  long  last  gaze;  "Adieu,  fair 
France,  to  thee!" 

The  breeze  comes  forth — she  is  alone  on  the  un- 
conscious sea. 

The  scene  was  changed. — It  was  an  eve  of  raw 

and  surly  mood. 
And  in  a  turret-chamber  high  of  ancient  Holyrood 
Sat  Mary,  listening  to  the  rain,  and  sighing  with 

the  winds. 
That  seem'  d  to  suit  the  stormy  state  of  men's 

uncertain  minds. 
The  touch  of  care  had  blanch'd  her  cheek,  her 

smile  was  sadder  now ; 
The  weight  of  royalty  had  press'd  too  heavy  on 

her  brow; 
And  traitors  to  her  councils  came,  and  rebels  to 

the  field; 
The  Stuart  sceptic  well  she  sway'd,  but  the  sirord 

she  could  not  wield. 
She  thought  of  all  her  blighted  hopes,  the  dreams 

of  youth's  brief  day, 
And  summon'd  Rizzio  with  his  lute,  and  bade 

the  minstrel  play 
The  songs  she  loved  in  other  years,  the  songs  of 

gay  Navarre, 
The  songs,  perchance,  that  erst  were  sung  by 

gallant  Chatelar: 
They  half  beguiled  her  of  her  cares,  thej' soothed 

her  into  smiles, 
They  won  her  thoughts  from  bigot  zeal,  and  fierce 

domestic  broils. 
But  hark!  the  tramp  of  armed  men!  the  Douglas' 

battle-crj' ! 
They  come,  they  come !   and  lo !   the  scowl  of 

Ruthven's  hollovv  eye ! 
Stern  swords  are  drawn,  and  daggers  gleam,  her 

words,  her  prayers  are  vain. 
The  ruffian  steel   is   in   his  heart — the  faithful 

Rizzio's  slain ! 
Then  Mary  Stuart  brush'd  aside  the  tears  that 

trickling  fell; 
"Now   for  my   father's   arm,"  she   said,    "my 

woman's  heart,  farewell !" 

The  scene  was  changed. — It  was  a  lake,  with  one 

small  lonely  isle. 
And  there,  within  the  prison  walls  of  its  baronial 

pile. 
Stern  men  stood  menacing  their  queen,  till  she 

should  stoop  to  sign 
The   traitorous   scroll   that  snatch'd   the  crown 

f i-om  her  ancestral  line : 
"  My  lords,  my  lords!"  the  cajitive  cried,  "were 

I  but  once  more  free. 
With  ten  good  knights  on  yonder  shore  to  aid 

my  cause  and  me. 


HENRY   G.   BELL. 


275 


That  parchment  would  I  scatter  wide  to  every 

breeze  that  blows, 
And  once  more  reign,  a  Stuart  queen  o'er  my 

remorseless  foes ! " 
A  red  spot  burn'd  upon  her  cheek,  stream'd  her 

rich  tresses  down; 
She  wrote  the  words — she  stood  erect,  a  queen 

without  a  crown ! 

The  scene  was  changed. — A  royal  host  a  royal 

banner  bore; 
The  faithful  of  the  land  stood  round  their  smiling 

queen  once  more: 
She  staid  her  steed  upon  a  hill,  she  saw  them 

marching  by, 
She  heard  their  shouts,  she  read  success  in  every 

flashing  eye: 
The  tumult  of  the  strife  begins— it  roars — it  dies 

away. 
And  Mary's  troops  and  banners  now,  and  courtiers 

— where  are  they  ? 
Scatter'd,  and  strewn,  and  flying  far,  defenceless 

and  undone — 

0  God !  to  see  what  she  has  lost,  and  think  what 

guilt  has  won; 

Away!  away!  thy  gallant  steed  must  act  no  lag- 
gard's part; 

Yet  vain  his  speed,  for  thou  dost  bear  the  arrow 
in  thy  heart. 

The   scene   was   changed. — Beside   the   block  a 

sullen  headsman  stood. 
And  gleam'd  the  broad  axe  in  his  hand,  that  soon 

must  drip  with  blood. 
With  slow  and  steady  step  there  came  a  lady 

through  the  hall. 
And    breathless   silence   chain'd    the    lips,   and 

touch'd  the  hearts  of  all; 
Rich  were  the  sable  robes  she  wore,  her  white 

veil  round  her  fell, 
And  from  her  neck  there  hung  the  cross — that 

cross  she  loved  so  well ! 

1  knew  that  queenly  form  again,  though  blighted 

was  its  bloom, 

I  saw  that  grief  had  deck'd  it  out — an  offering 
for  the  tomb! 

I  knew  the  eye,  though  faint  its  light,  that  once 
so  brightly  shone; 

I  knew  the  voice,  though  feeble  now,  that  thrill'd 
with  every  tone; 

I  knew  the  ringlets,  almost  gray,  once  threads  of 
living  gold ; 

I  knew  that  bounding  grace  of  step,  that  sym- 
metry of  mould. 

Even  now  I  see  her  far  away,  in  that  calm  con- 
vent aisle, 

I  hear  her  chant  her  vesper-hymn,  I  mark  her 
holy  smile, — 

Even  now  I  see  her  bursting  forth,  upon  her  bridal 
morn. 


A  new  star  in  the  firmament,  to  light  and  glory 

born! 
Alas,  the  change!  she  placed  her  foot  upon  a 

triple  throne. 
And  on  the  scaffold  now  she  stands,  besids  the 

block,  alone! 
The  little  dog  that  licks  her  hand,  the  last  of  all 

the  crowd 
Who  sunn'd  themselves  beneath  her  glance,  and 

round  her  footsteps  bow'd  ! 
Her  neck  is  bar'd — the  blow  is  struck — the  soul 

has  pass'd  away! 
The  bright,  the  beautiful,  is  now  a  bleeding  piece 

of  clay! 
A  solemn  text !     Go,  think  of  it,  in  silence  and 

alone. 
Then  weigh  against  a  grain  of  sand  the  glories  of 

a  throne ! 


THE  KINGS  DAUGHTER. 

It  was  a  lord  and  a  gentle  maid 

Sat  in  a  greenwood  bower, 
And  thus  the  brave  Sir  Alfred  said 

To  the  greenwood's  fairest  flower: — 

"  I  have  loved  thee  well,  sweet  Rosalie, — 
With  thee  I  could  live  and  die; 

But  thou  art  a  maid  of  low  degree, 
And  of  princely  race  am  I. 

"I  have  loved  thee  well,  sweet  Rosalie, 

I  have  loved  a  year  and  a  day; 
But  a  different  fate  is  in  store  for  me, 

And  I  must  no  longer  stay. 

"  Thou  art  a  cottage  maiden,  love. 
And  know  not  thy  own  pedigree; 

And  I  must  marry  the  king's  daughter. 
For  she  is  betrothed  to  me." 

There  was  a  smile  on  Rosalie's  lip. 
But  a  tear  in  her  blue  eye  shone; 

The  smile  was  all  for  her  lover's  fate. 
The  tear  perchance  for  her  own. 

And  down  fell  her  ringlets  of  chestnut  hair, 

Down  in  a  shoMer  of  gold; 
And  she  hid  her  face  in  her  lover's  arms, 

AVith  feelings  best  left  untold. 

Then  slowly  rose  she  in  her  bower, 
With  something  of  pride  and  scorn. 

And  she  look'd  like  a  tall  and  dewy  flow'r 
That  lifts  up  its  head  to  the  morn. 

She  flung  her  golden  ringlets  aside, 
And  a  deep  blush  crimsou'd  her  cheek, — 


276 


HENEY   G.   BELL. 


"Heaven  bless  thee,  Alfred,  and  th}-  young 
bride. 
Heaven  give  you  the  joy  you  seek! 

"  Thou  wert  not  born  for  a  cottage,  love. 
Nor  yet  for  a  maiden  of  low  degree; 

Thou  wilt  find  thy  mate  in  the  king's  daughter — 
Forget  and  forgive  thy  Itosalie. " 

Sir  Alfred  has  flung  him  upon  his  steed. 

But  he  rides  at  a  iaggaril  pace; 
Of  the  road  he  is  travelling  he  takes  no  heed, 

And  a  deadly  paleness  is  on  his  face. 

Sir  Alfred  has  come  to  tlie  king's  palace, 

And  slowly  Sir  Alfred  lias  lighted  down; 
He   sigh'd   when   he   thought   of  the   king's 
daughter — 
He  sigh'd  when  he  thought  of  her  father's 
crown. 

"0!  that  my  home  were  the  greenwood  bower, 
Under  the  shelter  of  the  greenwood  tree! 

01  tiiat  my  strength  had  been  all  my  dower. 
All  my  possessions  Kosalie!  " 

Sir  Alfred  has  entered  the  royal  liall 
'Midst  a  thousand  nobles  in  rich  array; 

But  he  who  was  once  more  gay  than  all, 
Has  never,  I  ween,  one  word  to  say. 

The  king  sat  high  on  his  royal  throne, 

Tliough  his  hairs  were  gray,  his  arm  was 
strong; 
"Good  cousin,"  he  said,  in  a  jocund  tone, 
"Is  it  thou  or  thy  steed  that  has  stay'd  so 
long? 

"  But  it  boots  not  now — Bring  forth  the  bride! 

Thou  hast  never  yet  my  daugliter  seen; 
A  woeful  fate  it  is  thine  to  bide. 

For  her  hair  is  red  and  her  eyes  are  green!" 

The  bride  came  forth  in  a  costly  veil. 
And  nought  of  her  face  could  Alfred  see; 

But  his  cheek  grew  yet  more  deadly  pale. 
And  he  fell  down  faltering  upon  Jiis  knee: 

"Pardon!  pardon!  my  liege,  my  kino;! 

And  let  me  speak  while  I  yet  am  free; 
But  were  she  fair  as  the  flowers  of  spring. 

To  your  daugiiter  I  never  can  husband  be." 

Lightning  flash'd  from  the  king's  fierce  eye, 
And  tliunder  spoke  in  his  angry  tone, — 

"  Then  the  death  of  a  traitor  thou  slialt  die. 
And   thy  marriage  peal  shall  be  torture's 
moan!" 


"I  never  feared  to  die.  Sir  King, 

But  my  plighted  faith  I  fear  to  break; 

I  never  fear'd  the  grave's  deep  rest, 

But  the  pangs  of  conscience  I  fear  to  wake." 

Out  then  spoke  the  king's  daughter. 

And  haughtily  spoke  she, — 
"  If  Sir  Alfred  is  vow'd  to  another  love. 

He  shall  never  be  claim'd  by  me; — 

"  If  Sir  Alfred  is  vow'd  to  another  love, 

AVhy,  let  the  knight  go  free: 
Let  him  give  his  hand  to  his  other  love, 

There  are  hundreds  as  good  as  he!" 

AVith  a  careless  touch  she  threw  back  her  veil, 

As  if  it  by  chance  might  be; 
And  who  do  you  think  was  the  king's  daughter? 

His  own — his  long-loved  Rosalie! 

First  he  stood  like  a  marble  stone. 

And  she  like  a  lily  sweet, 
Then  a  sunny  smile  o'er  his  features  shone. 

And  then  he  was  at  her  feet. 


BLOSSOMS. 

It  is  a  lesson  sad  and  true. 

Of  human  life  to  me, 
To  mark  the  swelling  fruit  push  olF 

The  blossoms  from  the  tree, — 

The  silver  blossoms,  ruby  strcak'd. 

That  scent  the  summer  air. 
That  gleam  among  the  dark  green  leaves. 

And  make  a  sunshine  there; 

The  dew-drop's  fragrant  dwelling-place 
Through  all  the  gentle  night; 

The  latticed  window's  fairy  screen 
From  morning's  flush  of  light, 

No  wonder  that  the  young  bird  sits 
Among  the  boughs  and  sings; 

He  finds  companionship  in  them, — 
Soft-breathing  lovely  things! 

No  wonder  that  the  fair  child  wreathes 
Their  riches  round  her  brow; 

The}'  are  themselves  an  emblem  meet 
Of  what  that  child  is  now. 

Alas!  like  childhood's  thoughts  they  die- 

They  drop — they  fade  away; 
A  week — a  little  week — and  then. 

The  blossoms — where  are  thev  ? 


HENRY  G.   BELL. 


You  tell  me  tlie\'  make  room  for  fruit, 

A  more  substantial  store; 
But  often  stolen  ere  'tis  ripe, 

Oft  rotten  at  the  core. 

I  do  not  love  the  worthless  gifts, 
That  bend  our  childhood  down, 

And  give  us  for  our  chaplet  wreath 
Ambition's  leaden  crown; 

I  do  not  love  the  fruits  that  push 
Our  flowery  hopes  away, — 

The  silver  blossoms,  ruby-strcak'd, 
Ahl  dearer  far  are  they ! 


Bo  welcomed  as  the  love  for  which  my  soul  doth 

long? 
No,  lady!  love  ne'er  sprang  out  of  deceit  and 

wrong. 


I   LOVED   TIIEE. 

I  loved  thee  till  I  knew 

That  thou  had'st  loved  before, 
Then  love  to  coldness  grew, 

And  passion's  reign  was  o'er; 
What  care  I  for  the  lip, 
Ruby  although  it  be. 
If  another  once  might  sip 

Those  sweets  now  given  to  me  ? 
What  care  I  for  the  glance  of  soft  affection  full. 
If  for  another  once  it  beamed  as  beautiful  ? 

That  ringlet  of  dark  hair — 

'Twas  worth  a  misei-'s  store; 
It  was  a  spell  'gainst  care 

That  next  my  heart  I  wore; 
But  if  another  once 

Could  boast  as  fair  a  prize. 
My  ringlet  I  renounce, — 

'Tis  worthless  in  my  eyes: 
I  envy  not  the  smiles  in  which  a  score  may  bask, 
I  value  not  the  gift  which  all  may  have  who  ask. 

A  maiden  heart  give  me, 

That  lock'd  and  sacred  lay, 
Though  tried  by  many  a  key 

That  ne'er  could  find  the  way. 
Till  I,  by  gentler  art, 

Touch'd  the  long-hidden  spring. 
And  found  that  maiden  heart 

In  beauty  gUttcring; — 
Amidst  its  herbage  buried  like  a  flower. 
Or  like  a  bii-d  that  sings  deep  in  its  leafy  bower. 

No  more  shall  sigh  of  mine 

Bo  heaved  for  what  is  past; 
Take  back  that  gift  of  thine, 

It  was  the  first— the  last;— 
Thou,  mayst  not  love  him  now 

So  fondly  as  thou  didst. 
But  shall  a  broken  vow 

Be  prized  because  thou  bid'st— 


MY  YIS-A-YIS. 

That  olden  lady  !— can  it  be? 

Well,  Avell,  how  seasons  .slip  away! 
Do  let  me  hand  her  cup  of  tea 

That  I  may  gently  to  her  say — 
"Dear  madam,  thirty  years  ago, 

When  both  our  hearts  were  full  of  glee. 
In  many  a  dance  and  courtly  show 

I  had  you  for  my  vis-a-vis. 

'••  That  pale  blue  robe,  those  chestnut  curls. 

That  Eastern  jewel  on  your  wrist, 
That  neck-encircling  string  of  pearls 

■Whence  hung  a  cross  of  amethyst, — 
I  see  them  all,— I  see  the  tulle 

Looped  up  with  roses  at  the  knee. 
Good  Lord!  how  fresh  and  beautiful 

Was  then  your  cheek,  my  vis-a-vis! 

"  I  hear  the  whispered  praises  yet, 

The  buzz  of  pleasure  when  you  camo, 
The  rushing  eagerness  to  get 

Like  moths  within  the  fatal  flame: 
As  April  blossoms,  fiiint  and  sweet. 

As  apples  when  you  shake  the  tree, 
So  hearts  fell  showering  at  your  feet 

In  those  glad  days,  my  vio-a-vis. 

"And  as  for  me,  my  breast  was  filled 

With  silvery  light  in  every  cell: 
My  blood  was  some  rich  juice  distilled 

From  amaranth  and  asphodel : 
Jly  thoughts  were  airier  than  the  lark 

That  carols  o'er  the  flowe/y  lea; 
They  well  might  breathlessly  remark: 

'  By  Jove!  that  is  a  vis-avis!' 

"0  time  and  change,  what  is't  you  mean? 

Ye  gods!  can  I  believe  my  ears? 
Has  that  bald  portly  person  been 

Your  husband,  ma'am,  for  twenty  years? 
That  six-foot  officer  your  son, 

Who  looks  o'er  his  m.oustache  at  me! 
Why  did  not  Joshua  stop  our  sun 

When  I  was  first  your  vis  a-vis? 

"  Forgive  me,  if  I've  been  too  bold, 
Permit  me  to  return  your  cup; 
]Mv  heart  was  beating  as  of  old, 

One  drop  of  youth  still  bubbled  up." 


278 


HENRY   G.    BELL. 


So  spoke  I:  then,  like  cold  December, 
Only  these  brief  words  said  she: 

■  I  do  not  in  the  least  remember 
I  ever  was  vour  vis-a-vis." 


THE  EXD. 

I  know  at  length  the  trutli,  my  fiiend, — 
Some  ten  or  fifteen  seasons  more, 

And  then  for  me  there  comes  tiie  end — 
My  joys  and  sorrows  will  be  o'er. 

Kor  deem  I  the  remaining  years, 

Which  soon  most  come  and  soon  must  go. 

Which  wake  no  hopes,  excite  no  fears. 
Will  teach  me  more  than  now  I  know. 

They'll  bring  the  same  unfrnitful  round, 

The  nightly  rest,  the  daily  toil, 
The  smiles  that  soothe,  the  slights  that  wound. 

The  little  gain,  the  feverish  moil. 

As  manhood's  fire  burns  less  and  less, 
The  languid  heart  grows  cold  and  dull. 

Alike  indifferent  to  success, 
And  careless  of  the  beautiful. 

Nought  but  the  past  awakes  a  throb, 
And  even  the  past  begins  to  die, — 

The  burning  tear,  the  anguished  sob. 
Give  place  to  listless  apathy. 

And  when  at  last  death  turns  the  key. 
And  throws  the  earth  and  green  turf  on, 

Whate'er  it  was  that  made  up  me. 
Is  it,  my  friend,  for  ever  gone? 

Dear  friend,  is  all  we  see  a  dream? 

Does  this  brief  glimpse  of  tim.e  and  space 
Exhaust  the  aims,  fulfil  the  scheme 

Intended  for  the  human  race? 

Sliall  even  the  star-exploring  mind, 
AVhich  thrills  with  spiritual  desire, 

Be,  like  a  breath  of  summer  wind. 
Absorbed  in  sunshine  and  expire! 

Or  will  what  men  call  death  restore 

The  living  myriads  of  the  past? 
Is  dying  but  to  go  before 

The  myriads  who  will  come  at  last? 

If  not,  whence  sprung  the  thought?  and  whence 

Perception  of  a  power  divine, 
"Who  syml)ols  forth  omnipotence 

In  flowers  that  bloom,  in  suns  that  shine? 


'Tis  not  these  fleshly  limbs  that  think, 
'Tis  not  these  filmy  eyes  that  see; 

Tho'  mind  and  matter  break  the  link, 
Mind  does  not  therefore  cease  to  be. 

Such  end  is  but  an  end  in  part. 
Such  death  is  but  the  body's  goal; 

Blood  makes  the  pulses  of  the  heart. 
But  not  the  emotions  of  the  soul. 


WHY  10  MY  SPIRIT  SAD? 

Why  is  my  spirit  sad? 
Because  'tis  parting,  each  succeeding  year, 
With  something  that  it  used  to  hold  more  dear 

Than  aught  that  now  remains; 
Because  the  past,  like  a  receding  sail, 
Flits  into  dimness,  and  the  lonely  gale 

O'er  vacant  waters  reigns. 

Why  is  my  spirit  sad? 
Because  no  more  within  my  soul  there  dwell 
Thoughts  fresh  as  flowers  that  fill  the  moun- 
tain dell 

AVitli  innocent  delight; 
Because  I  am  aweary  of  the  strife 
That  with  hot  fever  taints  the  springs  of  life, 

Making  the  day  seem  night. 

Why  is  my  spirit  sad? 
Alas!  ye  did  not  know  the  lost — the  dead, 
Who  loved  with  me  of  yore  green  paths  to 
tread — 

The  paths  of  young  romance; 
Ye  never  stood  with  us  'ncath  summer  skies. 
Nor  saw  the  rich  light  of  their  tender  eyes — 

The  Eden  of  their  glance. 

Why  is  my  spirit  sad? 
Have  not  the  beautiful  been  ta'en  away, — 
Are  not  the  noble-hearted  turned  to  clay — 

Wither'd  in  root  and  stem? 
I  see  that  others,  in  whose  looks  are  lit 
The  radiant  joys  of  youth,  are  round  me  yet,— 

But  not — but  not  like  them! 

I  would  not  be  less  sad! 
J.Iy  days  of  mirth  are  past.  Droops  o'er  my  brow 
The  sheaf  of  care  in  sickly  paleness  now, — 

The  present  is  around  me; 
Would  that  the  future  were  both  come  and 

gone, 
And  that  I  lay  where,  'neath  a  nameless  stone, 

Crush'd  feelings  could  not  wound  me! 


GEOEGE   ALLAN. 


279 


GEOEGE    ALLAN 


Born  1806  — Died  1835. 


Georgk  Allan  Avas  the  youngest  son  of  a 
farmer  at  Paradjkes,  near  Edinburgh,  Avhere 
he  was  born  February  2,  1806.  In  his 
thirteenth  year  he  lost  both  his  parents,  lie 
became  an  apprentice  to  a  writer  to  the  signet, 
and  in  course  of  time  a  member  of  the  profes- 
sion, but  soon  abandoned  legal  pursuits  and 
proceeded  to  London  to  begin  the  career  of  an 
author.  Here  he  formed  the  acquaintance  of 
Allan  Cunningham  and  Mr.  and  Mrs.  S.  C. 
Hall,  who  recognized  his  talents  and  encour- 
aged his  literary  aspirations.  But  his  health 
did  not  correspond  with  his  litei'ary  enthusiasm, 
and  in  1829  he  accepted  an  appointment  in 
Jamaica.  The  climate  of  the  "West  Indies  not 
suiting  him,  he  resigned  his  appointment  and 
returned  home  in  1830.  Soon  after  he  ob- 
tained the  editorship  of  the  Dumfries  Journal, 
a  Conservative  newspaper,  and  this  situation 
he  held  for  three  years  with  great  popularity 
and  success.  His  next  connection  was  as 
literary  assistant  to  the  Messrs.  Chambers  of 
Edinburgh.  Whilst  here  he  contributed  many 
excellent  articles  to  the  Edinburgh  Journal 
and  wrote  extensively  for  the  Scotsman  news- 
paper.    He  was  also  the  author  of  a  Life  of  Sir 


Walter  Scott,  which  enjoyed  for  years  a  wide 
popularity;  and  he  assisted  Mr.  Peter  JIacleod 
in  preparing  the  Original  National  Melodies 
of  Scotland,  to  which  he  furnished  several  con- 
tributions. 

In  1831  Mr.  Allan  married  Mrs.  Mary  Hill, 
a  widow,  the  eldest  daughter  of  Mr.  Wm.  Pagan 
of  Curriestanes  and  niece  of  Allan  Cunning- 
ham. In  1834  he  obtained  a  situation  in  the 
stamp  office,  which  insured  him  a  moderate 
competence  without  depriving  him  of  oppor- 
tunity to  prosecute  his  literary  occupations. 
But  soon  after  this  promising  point  was  reached 
his  career  was  suddenly  terminated.  His  in- 
tellectual and  poetical  ardour  had  been  too 
much  for  the  frame  it  tenanted;  the  delicate 
nervous  organization,  which  had  both  animated 
and  enfeebled  him,  sank  under  the  too  close 
application  of  his  mind,  and  he  died  suddenly 
at  Jauefield,  near  Leith,  August  15,  1835,  in 
the  thirtieth  year  of  his  age,  leaving  behind 
him  a  name  both  as  a  prose  writer  and  a  poet 
Avhich  few  so  young  are  fortunate  to  establish. 
A  large  amount  of  unpublished  manuscript, 
left  behind  by  Mr.  Allan,  is  now  in  the  posses- 
sion of  his  family. 


IS    YOUR   WAE-PIPE   ASLEEP] 


CLANSMAN. 

Is  your  war-pipe  asleep,  and  foi-  ever,  M  'Crimman? 

Is  your  war-pipe  asleep,  and  for  ever? 

Shall  the  pibroch  that  welcom'd  the  foe  to  Benaer, 

Be  hushed  when  we  seek  the  dark  wolf  in  his  lair, 

To  give  back  our  wrongs  to  the  giver  ? 

To  the  raid  and  the  onslaught  our  chieftains  have 

gone, 
Like  the  course  of  the  fire-flaught  their  clan.smen 

passed  on, 
With  the  lance  and  the  shield  'gainst  the  foe 

they  have  bound  them. 
And  have  ta'en  to  the  field  with  their  vassals 

around  them. 
Then  raise  your  wild  slogan-cry — on  to  the  foray! 


Sons  of  the  heather-hill,  pinewood,  and  glen. 
Shout  for  M'Pherson,  M'Leod,  and  the  Moray, 
Till  the  Lomonds  re-echo  the  challenge  again! 

m'crimman. 

Youth  of  the  daring  heart!  bright  be  thy  doom. 
As  the  bodings  which  light  up  thy  bold  spii'it  now ; 
But  the  fate  of  M'Crimman  is  closing  in  gloom, 
And  the  breath  of  the  gray  wraith  hath  pass'd 

o'er  his  bi"ow. 
Victorious,  in  joy,  thou'lt  return  to  Benaer, 
And  be  clasped  to  the  hearts  of  thy  best  beloved 

there ; 
But     M'Crimman,     M'Crimman,     M'Crimman, 

never — 

Never!  Never!  Never! 


280 


GEORGE  ALLAN. 


CLANSMAN. 

Wilt  tlioii  shrink  from  the  doom  tliou  canst  shun 

not,  M'Crimman? 
Wilt  thou  shrink  from  the  doom  thou  canst  shun 

not? 
If  thy  course  must  lie  brief,  let  the  i^roud  Saxon 

know 
That  the  soul  of  M'Crimman  ne'er  quail'd  when 

a  foe 
Bared  his  blade  in  the  land  he  had  won  not! 
Where  the  light-footed  roe  leaves  the  wild  breeze 

behind, 
And  the  red  heatlicr-l)loom  gives  its  sweets  to 

the  wind, 
There  our  broad  pennon  (lies,  and  the  keen  steeds 

are  prancing, 
'Mid  the  startling  war-cries,  and  the  war-weapons 

glancing, 
Then  raise  your  wild  slogan-ciy — on  to  the  forayl 
Sous  of  the  heather-hill,  pinewood,  and  glen; 
Shout  for  M'Pherson,  M'Leod,  and  the  Moray, 
Till  the  Lomonds  re-echo  the  challenge  again! 


OLD   SCOTLAND. 

The  breeze  blows  fresh,  my  gallant  mates. 

Our  vessel  cleaves  her  way, 
Down  ocean's  depths,  o'er  heaven's  heights, 

Through  darkness  and  through  spray. 
No  loving  moon  shines  out  for  us, 

No  star  our  course  to  tell — 
And  must  we  leave  old  Scotland  thus? 

My  native  land,  farev/ell! 

Then  fast  spread  out  the  flowing  sheet, 

Give  welcome  to  the  wind! 
Is  there  a  gale  we'd  shrink  to  meet 

When  treachery's  behind  ? 
The  foaming  deep  our  couch  will  be, 

The  storm  our  vesper  bell, 
The  low'ring  heaven  our  canopy. 

My  native  land,  farewell! 

Away,  away  across  the  main. 

We'll  seek  some  happier  clime, 
Where  daring  is  not  deemed  a  stain, 

Nor  loyalty  a  crime. 
Our  hearts  are  wrung,  our  minds  are  toss'd, 

Wild  as  the  ocean's  swell; 
A  kingdom  and  a  birthright  lost! 

Old  Scotland,  fare  thee  well! 


Wlien  o'er  the  heart  come  tiioughts  o"  wae, 
Like  shadows  on  Glenfillan's  tower. 

Is  tliis  the  weird  that  I  maun  dree. 
And  a'  around  sae  glad  and  gay. 

Oh  hon  an  righ,  oh  lion  an  rigii, 
Young  Donald  frac  his  love's  away. 

The  winter  snaw  nac  mair  docs  fa', 

The  rose  blooms  in  our  mountain  bower, 
The  wild  flowers  on  the  castle  wa' 

Are  glintin'  in  the  summer  shower. 
But  wliat  are  summer's  smiles  to  me, 

AVhen  he  nae  langer  here  could  stay; 
Oh  lion  an  righ,  oh  hon  an  righ, 

Young  Donald  frae  his  love's  away. 

For  Scotland's  crown,  and  Charlie's  right, 

The  flre-cross  o'er  our  hills  did  flee. 
And  loyal  swords  were  glancin'  bright, 

And  Scotia's  bluid  was  warm  and  free. 
And  though  nae  gleam  of  hope  I  see, 

My  prayer  is  for  a  brighter  day: 
Oh  hon  an  rigli,  oh  hon  an  righ, 

Young  Donald  frae  liis  love's  awav. 


YOUNG  DONALD. 

An  eiry  night,  a  cheerless  day, 
A  lanely  hame  at  gloamin'  hour, 


I   WILL   THINK   OF    THEE   YET. 

I  will  think  of  thee  yet,  though  afar  I  may  be. 
In  the  land  of  the  stranger,  deserte<l  and  lone. 
Though  the  flo\vers  of  this  earth  are  all  wither'd 

to  me, 
And  the  hopes  which  once  blo:m'd  in  my  bo3om 

are  gone; 
I  will  think  of  thee  yet,  and  the  ^■ision  of  night 
Will  oft  bring  tliine  image  again  to  my  sight, 
And  the  tokens  will  be,  aa  the  dream  passes  by, 
A  sigh  from  the  heart  and  a  tear  from  the  eye. 

I  will  think  of  thee  yet  though  misfortune  fall  chill 
O'er  my  path,  as  yon  st^rm-cloud  that  low'rs  on 

the  lea, 
And  I'll  deem  that  this  life  is  worth  cherishing  still. 
While  I  know  that  one  heart  still  beats  warmly 

for  me. 
Yes!  grief  and  despair  may  encompass  me  round, 
'Till  not  e'en  the  shadow  of  peace  can  be  found; 
But  mine  anguish  will  cease  when  my  thoughts 

turn  to  you. 
And  the  wild  mountain  land  which  my  infancy 

knew. 

I  will  think  of  thee;  oh!  if  I  e'er  can  forget 
The  love  that  grew  warm  as  all  others  grew  cold, 
'Twill  but  be  when  the  sun  of  my  reason  hath  set. 
Or  memory  fled  from  her  care-haunted  hold; 
But  while  life  and  its  woes  to  bear  on  is  my  doom, 
Shall  my  love  like  a  flower  in  the  wilderness  bloom ; 
And  thine  still  shall  be,  as  so  long  it  hath  been, 
A  light  to  mv  soul  when  no  other  is  seen. 


JOHN  STEELING. 


2S1 


JOHN    STEELING 


Born  1306  — Died  1844. 


JoHX  Sterling,  the  second  son  of  Edward 
and  Hester  Sterling,  was  born  at  Kames 
Castle,  in  the  island  of  Bute,  July  20,  1806. 
Ills  parents  were  born  in  Ireland,  but  -were 
both  of  good  Scotch  families.  Wiien  John 
was  tliree  years  old  the  family  removed  to 
Llanblethian  in  Glamorganshire,  and  here  his 
childhood  was  nurtured  amid  scenes  of  wild 
and  romantic  beauty.  At  first  he  attended 
a  school  in  the  little  town  of  Cowbridge,  and 
Avhen  the  family  removed  to  London  in  1814 
he  was  sent  to  schools  at  Green v.-ich  and  Black- 
heath,  and  finally  to  Christ's  Hospital.  AVhen 
at  school  he  was  known  as  a  novel  -  reader, 
devouring  everything  that  came  in  his  way. 
At  sixteen  he  was  sent  to  Glasgow  University, 
and  at  twenty  he  proceeded  to  Trinity  Col- 
lege, Cambridge,  where  he  had  for  his  tutor 
Julius  Hare,  the  future  archdeacon,  one  of  his 
two  biographers,  Thomas  Carlyle  being  the 
other.  Though  not  an  e.xact  scholar.  Sterling 
became  extensively  and  well  read.  His  studies 
were  irregular  and  discursive,  but  extended 
over  a  wide  range.  Among  his  companions 
at  college  were  Richard  Trench,  Frederick 
Maurice,  Lord  Houghton  (then  Monckton 
Miines),  and  others,  Avho  were  afterwards  his 
fast  friends  through  life. 

The  laAv  had  been  originally  intended  as 
Sterling's  profession,  but  after  hesitating  for 
some  time  he  at  last  decided  upon  literature, 
and,  joining  his  friend  JIauriee,  purchased  the 
A  fhenceum,  in  which  appeared  his  first  literary 
effusions.  In  1830  he  married  Miss  Susannah 
Barton,  daughter  of  Lieut. -General  Barton. 
Soon  after  his  marriage  he  became  seriously  ill 
— so  ill  that  his  life  was  long  despaired  of. 
His  lungs  were  affected,  and  the  doctors  recom- 
mended a  warmer  climate.  He  accordingly 
went  to  the  West  Indies,  and  spent  upwards 
of  a  year  in  the  beautiful  island  of  St.  Yincent, 
where  some  valuable  property  had  been  left  to 
the  Sterling  family  by  a  maternal  uncle.  In 
1832  he  returned  to  England  greatly  improved 
in  health.     From  thence  he  proceeded  to  Ger- 


many, where  he  met  his  friend  and  former 
tutor,  with  whom  he  had  much  serious  conver- 
sation on  religious  topics,  which  resulted  in 
his  entering  the  Church.  He  returned  to 
England,  was  ordained  deacon  in  1834,  and 
became  Mr.  Hare's  curate  at  Hertsmonceux 
immediately  after.  He  entered  earnestly  on 
the  duties  of  his  new  calling,  but  after  a  few 
months  he  resigned  on  the  plea  of  delicate 
health,  and  returned  to  London.  For  the  sake 
of  a  more  genial  climate  he  went  to  France, 
and  afterwards  to  Madeira,  occupying  his 
leisure  hours  in  writing  prose  and  poetry  for 
Blaclcirood.  In  addition  to  his  numerous 
contributions  to  this  magazine  and  the  quarter- 
lies, he  was  the  author  of  Arthur  Coningshy, 
a  novel  published  in  1830.  Professor  "Wilson 
early  recognized  his  merit  as  a  poet  and  essay- 
ist, and  bestowed  very  lavish  praise  upon  him. 
He  Avas  a  swift  genius,  Carlyle  likening  him 
to  "sheet-lightning." 

For  several  years  Sterling  led  a  kind  of 
nomadic  life,  fleeing  from  place  to  place  in 
search  of  health.  He  visited  London  for  the 
last  time  in  1843,  when  Carlyle  dined  with 
him.  "I  remember  it,"  he  says,  "as  one  of 
the  saddest  dinners;  though  Sterling  talked 
copiously,  and  our  friends — Theodore  Parker 
one  of  them — were  pleasant  and  distinguished 
men.  All  was  so  haggard  in  one's  memory, 
and  half- consciously  in  one's  anticipations: 
sad,  as  if  one  had  been  dining  in  a  ruin,  in 
the  crypt  of  a  mausoleum."  Carlyle  saw  Ster- 
ling afterwards,  and  the  following  is  the  con- 
clusion of  his  last  interview  with  him: — "We 
parted  before  long;  bed-time  for  invalids  being 
come,  he  escorted  me  down  certain  carpeted 
back-stairs,  and  would  not  be  forbidden.  We 
took  leave  under  the  dim  skies;  and,  alas! 
little  as  I  then  dreamt  of  it,  this,  so  far  as  I 
can  calculate,  must  have  been  the  last  time  I 
ever  saw  him  in  the  world.  Softly  as  a  common 
evening  the  last  of  the  evenings  had  passed 
awa\',  and  no  other  would  come  for  me  for 
evermore."     Sterling  died  at  his  residence  at 


282 


JOHN   STEELING. 


Ventnor  in  the  Me  of  Wight,  Sept.18, 1844,— 
cut  down,  like  Siielley  and  Keats  and  Michael 
Bruce,  when  on  the  road  to  fame.  IIisreniain.s 
were  inten-ed  in  tiic  beautiful  little  burial- 
ground  of  Bonchurch. 

In  1839  a  volume  of  Sterling's  poems  was 
issued  in  London,  and  reprinted  in  the  United 
States.  They  are  full  of  tenderness,  fancy, 
and  truth.  "The  Sexton's  Daughter,"  a 
striking  lyrical  ballad  written  in  early  youth, 
is  among  the  most  popular  of  his  poetical  pro- 
ductions. In  1S41  his  poem  in  seven  books, 
entitled  "The  Election,"  Avas  published,  fol- 
lowed in  1843  by  the  spirited  tragedy  of 
"Strafford."  "Essays  and  Talcs  by  John 
Sterling,  collected  and  edited,  with  a  Memoir  of 
his  Life, by  Julius  Charles  Hare,M-  A.,  Kector  of 
Hertsmonceux,"  in  two  volumes,  was  published 
in  London  in  1848.  On  reading  that  life, 
interesting  and  beautiful  though  it  is,  one 
could  not  help  feeling  that  there  was  a  great 
deal  remaining  untold,  and  that  the  tone  in 


speaking  of  his  religious  opinion  was  unneces- 
sarily apologetic.  To  this  circumstance  we  owe 
the  "  Life  by  Carlyle,"  in  which  a  correspondent 
says:  "Archdeacon  Hare  takes  up  Sterling  as 
a  clergyman  merely.  Sterling  I  find  was  a 
curate  for  exactly  eight  months;  during  eight 
months  and  no  more  had  he  any  special  rela- 
tion to  the  Church.  But  he  was  a  man,  and 
had  relation  to  the  Universe  for  eight-and- 
thirty  years;  and  it  is  in  this  latter  character, 
to  which  all  the  others  were  but  features  and 
transitory  hues,  that  we  wish  to  know  him. 
His  battle  with  hereditary  church  formulas 
was  severe;  but  it  was  by  no  means  his  one 
battle  with  things  inherited,  nor  indeed  his 
chief  battle;  neither,  according  to  my  observa- 
tion of  what  it  was,  is  it  successfully  delineated 
or  summed  up  in  this  book."  And  so  his 
countryman  and  friend  gave  to  the  world 
another  and  a  better  portraiture  of  John  Ster- 
ling— one  of  those  lovely  and  noble  spirits  that 
charm  and  captivate  all  beholders. 


TO  A  CHILD. 

Dear  child!  whom  sleep  can  hardly  tame. 
As  live  and  beautiful  as  flame. 
Thou  glancest  round  my  gi-aver  hours 
As  if  thy  crown  of  wild-wood  flowers 
Were  not  by  mortal  forehead  worn, 
But  on  the  summer  breeze  were  borne, 
Or  on  a  mountain  streamlet's  waves 
Came  glistening  down  from  di'camy  caves. 

With  bright  round  cheek,  amid  whose  glow 
Delight  and  wonder  come  and  go; 
And  eyes  whose  inward  meanings  play, 
Congenial  with  the  light  of  day; 
And  brow  so  calm,  a  home  for  thought 
Before  he  knows  his  dwelling  wrought; 
Though  wise  indeed  thou  seemest  not, 
Thou  brightenest  well  the  wise  man's  lot. 

That  shout  proclaims  the  undoubting  mind; 
That  laughter  leaves  no  ache  behind; 
And  in  thy  look  and  dance  of  glee, 
Unforced,  imthought  of,  simply  free. 
How  weak  the  schoolman's  formal  art 
Thy  soul  and  body's  bliss  to  part! 
I  hail  thee  Childhood's  very  Lord, 
In  gaze  and  glance,  in  voice  and  word. 

In  spite  of  all  foreboding  fear, 
A  thing  thou  art  of  present  cheer; 
And  thus  to  be  beloved  and  known. 


As  is  a  rushy  fountain's  tone, 

As  is  the  forest's  leafy  shade. 

Or  blackbird's  hidden  serenade: 

Thou  art  a  flash  that  lights  the  whole — 

A  gush  from  nature's  vernal  soul. 

And  yet,  dear  child!  within  thee  lives 
A  power  that  deeper  feeling  gives. 
That  makes  thee  more  than  light  or  air. 
Than  all  things  sweet,  and  all  things  fair; 
And  sweet  and  fair  as  aught  may  be, 
Diviner  life  belongs  to  thee. 
For  'mid  thine  aimless  joys  began 
The  perfect  heart  and  will  of  man. 

Thus  what  thou  art  foreshows  to  me 
How  greater  far  thou  soon  shalt  be; 
And  while  amid  thy  garlands  blow 
The  winds  that  warbling  come  and  go. 
Ever  within,  not  loud  but  clear, 
Prophetic  murmur  fills  the  ear. 
And  says  that  every  human  birth 
Anew  discloses  God  to  earth. 


THE   ROSE   AND   THE    GAUXTLET. 

Low  spake  the  knight  to  the  peasant-girl, — 
"  I  tell  thee  sooth,  I  am  belted  earl; 
Fly  with  me  from  this  garden  small. 
And  thou  shalt  sit  in  my  castle's  hall. 


JOHX   STEELING. 


283 


"  Thou  slialt  have  porap,  and  wealth,  ami  plea- 
sure, 
Joys  beyond  thy  fancy's  measure; 
Here  with  my  sword  and  horse  I  stand, 
To  bear  thee  away  to  my  distant  land. 

"  Take,  thou  fau-est!  this  full-blown  rose, 
A  token  of  love  that  as  ripely  blows." 
With  his  glove  of  steel  he  pluck'd  the  token, 
But  it  fell  from  his  gauntlet  crushed  and  broken. 

The  maiden  exclaim'd, — "Thou  scest,  Sir  Knight, 
Thy  fingers  of  iron  can  only  smite; 
And,  like  the  rose  thou  hast  torn  and  scatter'd, 
1  in  thy  grasp  shovild  be  wrecked  and  shattered." 

She  trembled  and  blush'd,  and  her  glances  fell; 
But '  she   turned    from   the   Knight,   and    said, 

"Farewell!" 
"  Not  so,"  he  cried,  "will  I  lose  my  prize; 
I  heed  not  thy  woi'ds,  but  I  read  thine  eyes." 

He  lifted  her  up  in  his  grasp  of  steel. 

And  he  mounted  and  spurred  with  furious  heel ; 

But  her  cry  drew  forth  her  hoary  sire. 

Who  snatched  his  bow  from  above  the  fire. 

Swift  from  the  valley  the  warrior  fled. 
Swifter  the  bolt  of  the  cross-bow  sped; 
And  the  weight  that  pressed  on  the  fleot-foot 

horse 
Was  the  living  nian,  and  the  woman's  corse. 

That  morning  the  rose  was  bright  of  hue; 
That  morning  the  maiden  was  fair  to  view; 
But  the  evening  sun  its  beauty  shed 
On  the  wither'd  leaves,  and  the  maiden  dead. 


THE  SPICE-TREE. 

The  spice-trce  lives  in  the  garden  green; 
Beside  it  the  fountain  flows; 
And  a  fair  bird  sits  the  boughs  between, 
And  sings  his  melodious  woes. 

No  greener  garden  e'er  was  known 
Within  the  bounds  of  an  earthly  king; 
No  lovelier  skies  have  ever  shone 
Than  those  that  illumine  its  constant  Spring. 

That  coil -bound  stem  has  branches  three; 
On  each  a  thousand  blossoms  grow; 
And,  old  as  aught  of  time  can  be, 
The  root  stands  fast  in  the  rock  below. 

In  the  spicy  shade  ne'er  seems  to  tire 
The  fount  that  builds  a  silvery  dome; 
And  flakes  of  purple  and  ruby  fire 
Gush  out,  and  sparkle  amid  the  foam. 


The  fair  white  bird  of  flaming  crest, 
And  azure  wings  bedropt  with  gold, 
Ne'er  has  he  known  a  pause  of  rest, 
But  sings  the  lament  that  he  framed  of  old. 

"0!  Princess  bright!  how  long  the  night 
Since  thou  art  sunk  in  the  waters  clear! 
How  sadly  they  flow  from  the  depth  below — 
How  long  must  I  sing  and  thou  wilt  not  hear  .' 

"The  waters  play,  and  the  flowers  are  gay, 
And  the  skies  are  sunny  above; 
I  would  that  all  could  fade  and  fall, 
And  I  too  cease  to  mourn  my  love. 

"0!  many  a  year,  so  wakeful  and  drear, 

1  have  sorrow'd  and  watched,  beloved,  for  thee! 

But  there  comes  no  breath  from  the  chambers  of 

death, 
^Vllile  the  lifeless  fount  gushes  under  the  tree. " 

The  skies  grow  dark,  and  they  glare  with  red. 
The  tree  shakes  otf  its  spicy  bloom ; 
The  waves  of  the  fount  in  a  black  pool  spread. 
And  in  thunder  sounds  the  garden's  doom. 

Down  springs  the  bird  with  long  shrill  cry. 
Into  the  sable  and  angry  flood; 
And  the  face  of  the  pool,  as  he  falls  f:om  high, 
Curdles  in  circling  stains  of  blood. 

Bvit  sudden  again  upswells  the  fount; 
Higher  and  higher  the  waters  flow — 
In  a  glittering  diamond  arch  they  mount. 
And  round  it  the  coloui-s  of  morning  glow. 

Finer  and  finer  the  watery  mound 
Softens  and  melts  to  a  thin-spun  veil. 
And  tones  of  music  circle  around. 
And  bear  to  the  stars  the  fountain's  tale. 

And  swift  the  eddying  rainbow  screen 
Falls  in  dew  on  the  grassy  floor; 
Under  the  Spice-tree  the  garden's  Queen 
Sits  by  her  lover,  who  waits  no  more. 


SIIAKSPERE. 

How  little  fades  from  earth  when  sink  to  rest 
The  hours  and  cares  that  moved  a  great  man's 

breast ! 
Though  nought  of  all  we  saw  the  grave  may  spare, 
His  life  pervades  the  woi'ld's  impregnate  air; 
Though  Shakspere's  dust  beneath  our  footstcpj 

lies, 
His  spirit  breathes  amid  his  native  skies; 
With  meaning  won  from  him  for  ever  glows 
Each  air  that  England  feels,  and  star  it  knows; 
His  whispered  words  from  many  a  mother's  voice 
Can  make  her  sleeping  child  in  dreams  rejoice; 


284 


JOHN   STERLING. 


And  gleams  from  spheres  he  first  conjoined  to 

earth, 
Are  blent  with  rays  of  each  new  morning's  birth. 
Amid  the  sights  and  tales  of  common  things, 
Leaf,  flower,  and  bird,  and  wars,  and  deaths  of 

kings,— 
Of  shore,  and  sea,  and  nature's  daily  round. 
Of  life  that  tills,  and  tombs  that  load,  the  ground, 
His  visions  mingle,  swell,  command,  pace  by. 
And  haunt  with  living  presence  heart  and  eye; 
And  tones  from  him,  by  other  bosoms  caught. 
Awaken  flush  and  stir  of  mounting  thought. 
And  the  long  sigh,  and  deep  impassioned  thrill, 
Rouse  custom's  trance  and  spur  the  faltering  will. 
Above  the  goodly  land,  more  his  than  ours. 
Ho  sits  supreme,  enthroned  in  skyey  towers; 
And  sees  the  heroic  brood  of  his  creation 
Teach  larger  life  to  his  ennobled  nation. 
0  .shaping  brain!  0  flashing  fancy's  hues! 
0  boundless  heart,  kei)t  fresh  by  pity's  dews! 
0  wit  humane  and  blithe!  O  sense  sublime ! 
For  each  dim  oracle  of  mantled  Time ! 
Transcendant  Form  of  Man!  in  whom  we  read 
Mankind's  wliole  tale  of  Impulse,  Thought,  and 

Deed! 
Amid  the  expanse  of  years,  beholding  thee. 
We  know  how  vast  our  world  of  life  may  be; 
Wherein,  perchance,  with  aims  as  pure  as  thine, 
Small  tasks  and  strengths  may  be  no  less  divine. 


THE   HUSBANDMAN. 

Eartli,  of  man  the  bounteous  motlicr, 
Feeds  hira  still  with  corn  and  wine; 

He  who  best  would  aid  a  brother, 
Shares  with  hini  these  gifts  divine. 

Many  a  power  Avithin  her  bosom. 
Noiseless,  hidden,  works  beneath; 

Hence  are  seed,  and  leaf,  and  blossom, 
Goldea  ear  and  clustered  wreath. 

These  to  swell  with  strengtli  and  beauty 

Is  the  royal  task  of  man; 
Man's  a  king;  his  throne  is  duty. 

Since  his  work  on  earth  began. 

Bud  and  harvest,  bloom  and  vintage — 
These,  like  man,  are  fruits  of  earth; 

Stamped  in  chiy,  a  iieavenly  mintage, 
All  from  dust  receive  their  birth. 

Barn  and  mill,  and  wine-vat's  treasures, 
Earthly  goods  for  earthly  lives — 

These  are  nature's  ancient  pleasures; 
These  her  child  from  her  derives. 

What  tlie  dream,  but  vain  rebelling, 
If  from  earth  we  souglit  to  flee? 


'Tis  our  stored  and  ample  dwelling; 
'Tis  from  it  the  skies  we  see. 

Wind  and  frost,  and  hour  and  season, 
Land  and  water,  sun  and  shade — 

Work  with  these,  as  bids  thy  rea.son, 
For  they  work  thy  toil  to  aid. 

Sow  thy  seed,  and  reap  in  gladness; 

Man  himself  is  all  a  seed; 
Hope  and  hardship,  joy  and  sadness — 

Slow  the  plant  to  ripeness  lead. 


THE  TWO  OCEANS. 

Two  seas,  amid  tlie  night, 

In  the  moonsliine  roll  and  sparkle — 
Now  spread  in  the  silver  light. 

Now  sadden,  and  wail,  and  darkle; 
The  one  has  a  billowy  motion. 

And  from  land  to  land  it  gleams; 
Tlie  other  is  sleep's  wide  ocean, 

And  its  glimmering  waves  are  dreams: 
The  one,  with  murmur  and  roar, 

Bears  fleet  around  coast  and  islet; 
The  other,  witliout  a  shore. 

Ne'er  knew  the  track  of  a  pilot. 


LOUIS  XV. 

The  king  with  all  his  kingly  tr;',i:i 

Had  left  his  Pompadour  behind, 

And  forth  he  rode  in  Senart's  wood 

The  royal  beasts  of  chase  to  find. 

That  day  by  chance  the  monarch  mused. 

And  turning  suddenly  away, 

He  struck  alone  into  a  path 

That  far  from  crowds  and  courtiers  lay. 

He  saw  the  pale  green  shadows  play 
Upon  the  brown  untrodden  earth; 
He  saw  the  birds  around  him  flit 
As  if  he  were  of  peasant  birth ; 
He  saw  the  trees  that  knew  no  king 
But  him  who  bears  a  woodland  axe; 
He  thought  not,  but  he  looked  about 
Like  one  who  skill  in  thinking  lacks. 

Then  close  to  him  a  footstep  fell. 

And  glad  of  human  sound  was  he. 

For  truth  to  say  he  found  himself 

A  weiglit  from  which  he  fain  would  flee. 

But  that  which  he  Avould  ne'er  have  guessed 

Before  him  now  most  plainly  came; 


JOHN   STERLING. 


235 


The  man  upon  his  Aveary  back 
A  coffin  bore  of  rudest  frame. 

"Why,  who  art  thou?"  exclaimed  the  king; 

'■'  And  what  is  that  I  see  thee  bear?" 

'•■  I  am  a  labourer  in  the  wood, 

And  'tis  a  coffin  for  Pierre. 

Close  by  the  royal  hunting-lodge 

You  may  have  often  seen  liini  toil; 

But  he  will  never  work  again, 

And  1  for  him  must  dig  the  soil." 

Tlie  labourer  ne'er  had  seen  the  king. 
And  tills  lie  thouglit  was  but  a  man, 
Who  made  at  first  a  moment's  pause. 
And  then  anew  his  talk  began: 
"  I  think  I  do  remember  now, — 
He  had  a  dark  and  glancing  eye. 
And  I  have  seen  his  slender  arm 
With  wondrous  blows  the  pick-axe  ply. 

"  Pray  tell  me,  friend,  what  accident 
Can  thus  have  killed  our  good  Pierre?" 
"Oh!  nothing  more  tlum  usual,  sir; 
He  died  of  living  upon  air. 
'Twas  hunger  killed  the  poor  good  man. 
Who  long  on  empty  hopes  relied; 
He  could  not  pay  gabell  and  tax. 
And  feed  his  children,  so  he  died." 

The  man  stopped  short,  and  then  went  on, — 
"  It  is,  you  know,  a  common  tiling; 
Our  children's  bread  is  eaten  up 
By  courtiers,  mistresses,  and  king." 
The  king  looked  hard  upon  tlie  man, 
And  afterwards  the  coffin  eyed, 
Then  spurred  to  ask  of  Pompadour, 
How  came  it  that  the  peasants  died. 


MIRABEAU.i 

Xot  oft  has  peopled  earth  sent  up 
So  deep  and  wide  a  groan  before. 
As  when  the  word  astounded  France 
— "  The  life  of  Mirabeau  is  o'er!  " 
From  its  one  heart  a  nation  wailed, 
For  well  the  startled  sense  divined 
A  greater  power  had  fled  away 
Than  aught  that  now  remained  behind. 

The  scathed  and  haggard  face  of  will. 
And  look  so  strong  with  weaponed  thought, 

1  A  few  of  Sterling's  minor  13'rics,  such  as  "Mira- 
beau," are  eloquent,  and,  wliile  defaced  by  conceits  and 
lu'osaic  expressions,  show  flaslies  of  imagination  which 
brighten  the  even  twiliglit  of  a  meditative  joet. — 
E.  C.  ^ted.nan. 


Had  been  to  many  million  hearts 

The  all  between  themselves  and  naught; 

And  so  they  stood  agliast  and  pale. 

As  if  to  see  the  azure  skj' 

Come  shattering  down,  and  show  beyond 

The  black  and  bare  infinity. 

For  he,  while  all  men  trembling  peered 
Upon  the  future's  empty  space, 
Had  strength  to  bid  above  the  void 
The  oracle  unveil  its  face; 
And  when  his  voice  could  rule  no  more, 
A  thicker  weight  of  darkness  fell. 
And  tombed  in  its  sepulchral  vault 
The  wearied  master  of  the  spell. 

A  myriad  hands  like  shadows  weak. 
Or  stiff  and  sharp  as  bestial  claw.s. 
Had  sought  to  steer  the  fluctuant  mass 
That  bore  his  country's  life  and  laws; 
The  rudder  felt  his  giant  hand. 
And  quailed  beneath  the  living  grasp 
That  now  must  drop  the  helm  of  fate, 
Nor  pleasure's  cup  can  madly  clasp. 

France  did  not  reck  how  fierce  a  storm 

Of  rending  passion,  blind  and  grim. 

Had  ceased  its  audible  uproar 

When  death  sank  heavily  on  him; 

Nor  heeded  they  the  countless  days 

Of  toiling  smoke  and  blasting  flame, 

That  now  by  this  one  final  hour 

Were  summed  for  him  as  guilt  and  shume. 

The  wondrous  life  that  flowed  so  long 
.\  stream  of  all  commixtures  vile. 
Had  seemed  for  them  in  morning  light 
With  gold  and  crystal  waves  to  smile. 
It  rolled  with  mighty  breadth  and  sound 
A  new  creation  through  the  land. 
Then  sudden  vanished  into  earth, 
And  left  a  barren  waste  of  sand. 

To  them  at  first  the  world  appeared 
Aground,  and  lying  shipwrecked  there, 
A  nd  freedom's  folded  flag  no  more 
With  dazzling  sun-burst  filled  the  air; 
But  'tis  in  after  years  for  men 
A  sadder  and  a  greater  thing, 
To  muse  upon  the  inward  heart 
Of  him  who  lived  the  people's  king. 

0!  wasted  strength!     0!  light  and  calm 
And  better  hopes  so  vainly  given! 
Like  rain  upon  the  herbless  sea 
Poured  down  by  too  benignant  heaven — 
We  see  not  stars  unfixed  by  Avinds, 
Or  lost  in  aimless  thunder-peals, 
But  man's  large  soul,  the  star  supreme, 
In  guideless  whirl  how  oft  it  reels! 


286 


THOMAS   BEYDSON. 


The  mountain  hears  the  torrent  dasli, 
But  rocks  will  not  in  billows  run; 
No  eagle's  talons  rend  away 
Those  eyes,  that  joyous  drink  the  sun; 
Yet  man,  by  choice  and  purpose  weak, 
Upon  his  own  devoted  head 
Calls  down  the  flasli,  as  if  its  fires 
A  crown  of  peaceful  glory  shed. 

Alas! — yet  wherefore  mourn?     The  law 
Is  holier  than  a  sage's  prayer; 
The  godlike  power  bestowed  on  men 
Demands  of  them  a  godlike  care; 
And  noblest  gifts,  if  basely  used, 
Will  sternliest  avenge  the  wrong, 
And  grind  Avith  slavish  pangs  the  slave 
AVhom  once  they  made  divinely  strong. 


The  lamp  that,  'mid  the  ?acred  cell, 
On  heavenly  forms  its  glory  sheds, 
Untended  dies,  and  in  the  gloom 
A  poisonous  vapour  glimmering  spreads. 
It  shines  and  flares,  and  reeling  ghosts 
Enormous  through  the  twilight  swell. 
Till  o'er  the  withered  world  and  heart 
liings  loud  and  slow  the  dooming  knell. 

No  more  I  hear  a  nation's  shout 
Around  the  hero's  tread  prevailing, 
No  more  I  hear  above  his  tomb 
A  nation's  fierce  bewildered  wailing; 
1  stand  amid  the  silent  night. 
And  think  of  man  and  all  his  woe, 
AVith  fear  and  i)ity,  grief  and  awe. 
When  I  remember  Mirabeau. 


THOMAS    BEYDSON 


Born  ISOG  — Died  1855. 


Hev.  Thomas  Brydsox,  a  minister  of  the 
Established  Church  of  Scotland,  and  the  author 
of  several  fine  songs  and  sonnets,  was  born  at 
Glasgow  in  1806.  On  completing  his  studies 
at  the  universities  of  his  native  city  and  Edin- 
burgh, he  became  a  licentiate  of  the  Church. 
He  acted  successively  as  an  assistant  in  the 
parishes  of  Greenock,  Oban,  and  Kilmalcolm 
in  Eenfrewshire;  and  in  1839  Avas  ordained 
minister  of  Levern  Church,  near  Paisley.  In 
1842  he  became  parish  minister  of  Kilmalcolm, 
where  he  remained  until  his  deatii,  Jan.  28, 
1855.  In  1829  a  volume  was  published  in 
Glasgow,  entitled  "Poems  by  Thomas  Bryd- 
son,"  followed  in  1831  by  "Pictures  of  the 
Past,"  a  collection  of  his  poetical  compositions, 
c'.iaracterized  by  much  sweetness  and  elegance 


of  expression.  He  was  a  frequent  contributor 
to  the  London  annuals,  to  the  Repuhllc  of 
Letters,  and  to  t\\& Edhihimjh Literary  Journnl. 
Henry  G.  Bell  said  of  Brydson's  second  volume : 
"  With  our  friend  Brydson  the  readers  of  tlie 
Journal  are  too  well  acquainted  to  require  a 
lengthened  criticism  or  recommendation  of  his 
little  volume  at  our  hands.  Here  he  is  as  Ave 
have  ever  found  him  —  Avithout  any  straining 
for  effect — luxuriating  in  the  beautiful  and  the 
grand  of  external  nature — unceasingly  finding 

• '  tongues  in  trees,  books  in  the  running  brooks. 

Sermons  in  stones,  and  good  in  everytliing.' 

Vre  know  none  Avhom  Ave  have  more  reason  to 
esteem  for  independent  and  manly  sentiment 
and  reflection." 


THE   FALLEN   ROCK. 


No  mortal  hand,  save  mine,  hath  yet 
Upon  th}'  cold  form  prest. 

Thou  mighty  rock,  just  freshly  torn 
From  off  the  cliff's  dark  breast, — 

So  steep  that  never  hunter  climbed 
Unto  its  helm  of  shoaa', 


To  gaze  across  the  Avide  expanse 
Of  desert  spread  beloAv. 

But  yesterday  the  fleecy  cloud 
Went  curling  o'er  thy  face; 

But  3'esternight  the  eagle  slept 
Within  thv  calm  embrace: 


THOMAS   BRYDSON. 


287 


While  moon  and  stars,  thine  ancient  friends, 

In  glory  journey'd  by, 
And  bathed  thee  Avith  their  purest  light, 

Up  in  the  silent  sky. 

Ah,  me  I  and  thou  art  downward  hurl'd 

Unto  this  lowly  glen; 
From  thy  majestic  place  of  pride, 

Down  to  the  haunts  of  men; 

Thou  who  throughout  all  time  hast  been 

So  lofty  and  so  lone. 
That  voice  of  human  joy  or  grief 

Scarce  reach'd  thy  marble  throne. 

Thou'st  stood  unmoved,  while  age  on  age 

Earth's  myriads  pass'd  away; 
Strange  destiny,  methinks,  that  I 

Should  mark  thyself  decay. 


ALL  LOVELY  AND  BRIGHT. 

All  lovely  and  bright,  'mid  the  desert  of  time, 
Seem  the  days  when  I  wander'd  with  you. 

Like  the  green  isles  that  swell  in  this  far-distant 
clime. 
On  the  deeps  that  are  trackless  and  blue. 

And  now  while  the  torrent  is  loud  on  the  hill, 
And  the  howl  of  the  forest  is  drear, 

I  think  of  the  lapse  of  our  own  native  rill — 
I  think  of  thy  voice  with  a  tear. 

■  The  light  of  my  taper  is  fading  away, 

It  hovers,  and  trembles,  and  dies; 
The  far-coming  morn  on  her  sea-paths  is  gi'ay. 
But  sleep  will  not  come  to  mine  eyes. 

Yet  why  should  I  ponder,  or  why  should  I  grieve 
O'er  the  joys  that  my  childhood  has  known? 

We  may  meet,  when  the  dew-flowers  are  fragrant 
at  eve, 
As  we  met  in  the  days  that  are  gone. 


DU NOLLY  CASTLE.  1 

The  breezes  of  this  vernal  day 

Come  whispering  through  thine  empty  hall. 
And  stir,  instead  of  tapestry. 

The  weed  upon  its  wall, — 

.\nd  bring  from  out  the  murmuring  sea. 
And  bring  from  out  the  vocal  wood, 

I  The  remains  of  this  picturesque  ruin  occupy  a  fine 
site  on  the  shore  of  the  bay  of  Obau.— Ed. 


The  sound  of  nature's  joy  to  thee, 
Mocking  thy  solitude. 

Yet,  proudly  'mid  the  tide  of  years 

Thou  lift'st  on  high  thine  airy  form, — 

Scene  of  primeval  hopes  and  fears! 
Slow  yielding  to  the  storm. 

From  thy  gi-ay  portal,  oft  at  morn, 
The  ladies  and  the  squires  would  go; 

While  swell'd  the  hunter's  bugle-horu 
In  the  green  glen  below. 

And  minstrel  harp,  at  starry  night. 
Woke  the  high  strain  of  battle  here; 

When  with  a  wild  and  stern  delight, 
The  warrior  stoop'd  to  hear. 

All  fled  for  ever!  leaving  nought 
Save  lonely  walls  in  ruin  green, 

AVhich  dimly  lead  my  wandering  thought 
To  moments  that  have  been. 


PO'K-HEAD  W00D.2 

0,  Po'k-head  wood  is  bonnie. 

When  the  leaves  are  in  their  prime: 

0,  Po'k-head  wood  is  bonnie 
In  the  tunefu'  summer  time. 

Up  spake  the  brave  Sir  Archibald— 

A  comely  man  to  see — 
'Twas  there  I  twined  a  bower  o'  the  birk 

For  my  true  love  and  me. 

The  hours  they  lichtsomely  did  glide. 
When  we  twa  linger't  there; 

Nae  human  voices  but  our  ain 
To  break  the  summer  air. 

0,  sweet  in  memory  are  the  flowers 
That  blossom'd  round  the  spot, — 

I  never  hear  sic  music  noo, 

As  swell'd  the  wild  bird's  note. 

The  trembling  licht  amang  the  leaves — 
The  licht  and  the  shadows  seen — 

I  think  of  them  and  Eleanor, 
Her  voice  and  love-fiU'd  een. 

0,  Po'k-head  Avood  is  bonnie, 

When  the  leaves  are  in  their  prime; 

0,  Po'k-head  wood  is  bonnie 
In  the  tunefu'  summer  time. 


2  ro'k-head  is  a  local  contraction  for  Pollock  head;  a 
wood  on  the  Tollock  estate  in  Renfrewshire.— Ed. 


28S 


THOMAS   BRYDSON. 


I  KENXA  AVHATS  COME  OWER  II IM. 

I  kenna  wliat's  come  owcr  him, 

He's  no  tlie  lad  he  used  to  be; 
I  kenna  what's  come  ower  him, 

The  blythe  blink  has  left  his  e'c. 
He  wanders  dowie  by  himsel', 

Alanj;  the  burn  and  through  the  glen: 
His  secret  grief  he  winna  tell — 

I  wish  that  he  would  smile  again. 

There  was  a  time — alake  the  day! — 

Ae  word  o'  mine  could  male'  him  glad; 
But  noo,  at  every  word  I  say, 

I  think  he  only  looks  mair  sad. 
The  last  time  I  gaed  to  the  fair 

AVi'  Willie  o'  the  birken-cleugh, 
Like  walkin'  ghost  he  met  us  tliere — 

And  sic  a  storm  was  on  his  brool 

I'm  wae  to  see  the  chiel  sac  glum, 

Sae  dismal-like  frae  morn  to  e'en; 
Than  sic  a  cast  as  this  had  come, 

I'd  rather  Willie  ne'er  ha'e  seen. 
I  kenna  what's  come  ower  iiim. 

He's  no  the  lad  he  used  to  be: 
I  kenna  what's  come  ower  him — 

The  blythe  blink  has  left  his  e'e. 


THE  EARTHQUAKE. 

Her  parents  and  her  lover  waved  adieu 
From  out  the  vine-clad  cottage,  and  away 
The  maiden  pass'd,  like  sunbeam  from  the  day, 

Into  the  ancient  forest,  to  renew 

Her  wonted  task  of  gath'ring  lowly  flowers 
For  the  far  city : — Innocent  and  j^onng 
She  wander'd,  singing  to  the  birds,  that  sung 

Amid  the  balmy  foliage  of  the  bowers. 

Eve  fell  at  length — and  to  the  well-known  steep. 
That  gave  again  her  native  vale  to  view. 
The  maiden  came. — Earth  shook — and,  burst- 
ing thro'. 

She  sees  an  ocean  o'er  that  valley  sweep. — 
Ah,  me! — she  has,  'neath  heaven's  all-circling 

dome, 
Xo  parent — and  no  lover — and  no  home! 


THE  GIPSIES. 

It  is  the  night — and  ne'er  from  yonder  skies, 
High-piled  amid  the  solitudes  of  time. 
And  based  on  all  we  vainly  call  sublime. 


Did  she  look  lovelier  with  her  staiTy  eyes; — 

The  music  of  the  mountain-rill  comes  down, 
As  if  it  came  from  heaven  with  peace  to  earth. 
And  from  yon  niin'd  tower,  where  ages  gone 
Have  left  theii-  footsteps  —  hark  I   the  voice  of 
mirth : 
The  gipsy  wanderers,  with  their  little  band 
Of  raven-tressed  boys  and  girls,  are  there; 

And  when  the  song  of  that  far-distant  land, 
From  whence  they  sprung,  is  wafted  through  the 
air, 
I  dream  of  scenes  where  towers  Ihe  mystic 

pile — 
The  Arab  and  his  wastes — the  rushings  of  the 
Nile! 


FALLING   LEAYE-S. 

Down  fall  the  leaves;  and,  o'er  them  as  we  tread, 
'Tis  strange  to  think  they  were  the  buds  of 

spring. 
Whose   balm-breath   met  us  on  the  zephyr's 
wing, 
\Vlien  mirth  and  melody  were  round  us  spread, 
And  skies  in  placid  brightness  overhead. 

And  streams  below  with  many  a  dimpled  ring-! 
'Tis  strange  to  think,  that  when  the  bee  did 
sing 
Her  sunny  song,  on  summer's  flowery  mead. 
They  were  the  locks  that  waved  on  summer's 
brow  I 
But  stranger  far,  to  think,  that  the  white  bones 
We  tread  upon,  among  the  churchyard  stones, 

Once  moved  about,  as  we  are  moving  now 
In  youth,  in  manhood,  and  in  hoaiy  age — 
Oh!   then,   let  time  and   change  our   thoughts 
engage! 


RETROSPECTION". 

We  look  upon  ourselves  of  other  days. 
As  if  we  looked  on  beings  that  are  gone; 
For  fancy's  magic  ray  hath  o'er  them  thrown 

A  glor j^,  that  grows  brighter  as  we  gaze ! 

Then,  then,  indeed,  was  pleasure's  mirthful  maze 
Our  own,  and  happiness  no  shade  as  now: 
We  met  her  on  the  mead,  and  on  the  brow 

Of  the  unpeopled  mountain,  and  her  ways 

Were  where  our  footsteps  wandered.     Still  we 
see 

Her  phantom  form,  that  flits  as  we  pursue 
O'er  the  same  scenes,  where  jocund  once  and 
free. 

And  all  unsought,  she  with  our  young  thoughts 
gi-ew! 
So,  to  the  parting  sailor,  evermore 
She  seems  to  linger  on  his  native  shore. 


ANDREW   PARK. 


289 


A   EEMEMBERED  SPOT. 

There  is  a  spot  in  flowery  beauty  lying, 

Clasp'd  in  the  silver  arms  of  a  small  stream, 

Flowing  from   hill-tops,   where,   when  day  was 
dying, 
I've  seen  the  distant  cities  like  a  dream; 

That  spot  was  unfrequented,  I  did  deem. 
Save  by  myself,  the  wild  bird,  and  the  bee, 
Far  off;  the  ring-dove,  from  her  forest  tree. 

Told  the  wide  reign  of  solitude.     Here  came, 
Sweet  Shakspere,  first,  thy  visions  to  my  mind — 

Around  me  were  thy  woods — Miranda's  isle. 

And  circling  waters  were  my  own  the  while; 


And  Juliet's  woes  would  voice  the  moonlight 
wind. 
Bidding  me  to  my  home.     That  lonely  spot. 
By  me  can  never — never  bo  forgot! 


A   THOUGHT. 

Though  far  away. 
Though  ruthless  Time  have  scatter'd  memory's 
dream ; 

Some  scenes  can  ne'er  decay, 
But  rest  where  all  is  change,  like  islands  on  a 
stream. 


ANDEEW    PAEK 


Born  18C7  —  Died  1863. 


Andrew  Park  was  a  native  of  the  town  of 
Renfrew,  where  he  was  born,  March  7,  1807. 
lie  was  taught  first  at  the  parish  school,  and 
then  finished  his  education  at  the  University 
of  Glasgow.  In  his  fifteenth  year  he  was  em- 
ploj'ed  in  a  commission  warehouse  in  Paisley, 
and  wliile  a  resident  of  that  town  he  published 
a  poem  in  sonnets  entitled  "  The  Vision  of 
Mankind."  AVhen  about  twenty  he  removed 
to  Glasgow,  and  became  a  salesman  in  a  hat 
manufactory.  After  a  time  he  began  business 
on  his  own  account,  wliich  not  proving  very 
successful  he  disposed  of  his  stock  and  Ment  to 
London.  Previous  to  leaving  Scotland  he 
issued  in  1831  another  volume  of  poems  en- 
titled the  '•Bridegroom  and  the  Bride,"  which 
was  welcomed  as  a  higher  effort  than  his  former 
production.  His  prospects  in  the  metropolis 
not  turning  out  so  bright  as  he  expected,  he 
retui'ned  to  Glasgow  in  1841,  and  purchased 
the  stock  of  Dugald  Moore  the  poet,  then  re- 
cently dead,  and  became  a  bookseller.  That 
new  business  being  also  unsuccessful,  he  soon 
abandoned  it,  and  devoted  his  time  to  literary 
pursuits.  In  1843  he  published  "Silent  Love," 
his  most  successful  literary  work,  as  the  pro- 
duction of  a  James  Wilson,  a  druggist  in 
Paisley.  A  beautiful  edition  of  this  poem  in 
small  quarto  was  published  in  1345,  with  illus- 

Vol.  II.— T 


trations  by  ]\Ir.  (now  Sir)  J.  Xoel  Paton.  In 
1856  he  visited  Egypt  and  other  eastern  coun- 
tries, and  the  following  year  published  a  narra- 
tive of  his  travels  entitled  Eijupt  and  the  East. 
Park's  poems  were  originally  published  in 
twelve  volumes,  and  the  whole  of  his  poetical 
works  were  again  issued  in  1854  by  Bogue  of 
London  in  one  large  volume.  In  one  of  his 
poems,  entitled  "Veritas,"  he  gives  a  nar- 
rative of  the  principal  events  of  his  life  up 
to  the  period  of  its  publication  in  1849. 
His  songs  were  either  humorous,  sentimen- 
tal, or  patriotic :  they  possess  both  lyrical 
beauty  and  power,  and  have  taken  their  posi- 
tion amongst  the  poetry  of  Scotland.  Several 
of  them  have  been  set  to  music,  and  have 
enjoyed  an  unusual  degTee  of  popularity.  Jlr. 
Park  died  at  Glasgow,  Dec.  27,  1863.  Before 
his  death  he  expressed  a  wish  to  be  interred  in 
the  Paisley  Cemetery,  where  his  friend  James 
Fillans  the  sculptor  had  been  buried.  The 
poet's  funeral  took  place  on  2d  January,  1864, 
and  his  bier  was  followed  to  the  grave  by  two 
hundred  mourners.  His  friends  and  admirers 
erected  to  his  memory  a  handsome  granite  pe- 
destal eight  feet  high,  surmounted  by  a  colossal 
bronze  bust  of  the  poet,  which  was  inaugurated 
on  7th  March,  1867,  and  handed  over  to  the 
corporation  of  Paisley  for  preservation. 


290 


ANDEEW  PARK. 


SILEXT   LOVE. 

(extract.  ) 

No  man  e'er  loved  like  me!     When  but  a  boy, 

Love  was  my  solace  and  my  only  joy; 

Its  mystic  influence  fired  my  tender  soul, 

And  held  me  captive  in  its  soft  control ! 

By  night,  it  ruled  in  bright  ethereal  dreams, 

By  day,  in  latent,  ever-varying  themes; 

In  solitude,  or  'mid  the  city's  throng. 

Or  in  the  festal  halls  of  mirth  and  song; 

Through  loss  or  gain,  through  quietude  or  strife, 

This  was  the  charm,  the  heart-pulse  of  my  life. 

While  age  has  not  subdued  the  flame  divine, 

A  votary  still  I  worship  at  the  shrine ! 

When  cares  enthrall,  or  when  the  soul  is  free, 

'Tis  all  the  same.     No  man  e'er  loved  like  me! 

Oh !  she  was  young  who  won  my  yielding  heart; 
Nor  power  of  poesy,  nor  painter's  art, 
Could  half  the  beauties  of  her  mind  portray. 
E'en  when  inspired,  and  how  can  this  my  lay  ? 
Two  eyes  that  spoke  what  language  ne'er  can  do, 
Soft  as  twin-violets  moist  with  early  dew ! 
And  on  her  cheek  the  lily  and  the  rose 
Blent  beauteously  in  halcyon  repose; 
While  vermil  lips,  apart,  reveal'd  within 
Two  rows  of  pearls,  and  on  her  dimpled  chin 
The  Graces  smiled;  a  bosom  heaved  below, 
Warm  as  the  sun,  but  pure  as  forest  snow; 
Her  copious  ringlets  hung  in  silken  trains 
O'er  alabaster,  streak'd  with  purpling  veins; 
Her  pencill'd  eyebrows,  arching  fair  and  high 
O'er  lids  so  pure  they  scarcely  scrcen'd  the  eye! 
A  form  symmetral,  moving  forth  in  grace 
Like  heaven-made  Eve,  the  mother  of  our  race; 
And  on  her  brow  benevolence  and  truth 
Were  chastely  throned  in  meek,  perennial  youth; 
While  every  thought  that  had  creation  there 
But  made  her  face  still  more  divinely  fair; 
And  every  fancy  of  her  soul  express'd 
On  that  fail"  margin  what  inspired  her  breast. 
Pure  as  the  sunbeams  gild  the  placid  deep, 
When  zephyrs  close  their  wings  in  listless  sleep. 

This  maiden  won  my  heart;  oh!  is  it  vain 
To  say,  perhaps  hers  was  return'd  again  ? 
To  say,  she  read  the  language  of  my  ej^es, 
And  knew  my  thoughts,  unmingled  with  disguise  ? 
Is  it  too  much  to  say,  that  eyes  reveal 
^Vhat  words  in  vain  but  struggle  to  conceal  ? 
That  silent  love  is  not  far  more  sincere 
Than  vaunting  vows — those  harbingers  of  fear! 
Deep-rooted  veneration  breathes  no  sound; — 
Back,  mortal,  back,  ye  stand  on  holy  ground! 
Hid  in  the  heart's  recess,  like  precious  ore. 
It  lies  in  brilliant  beauty  at  the  core! 
Or,  as  the  moon,  sweet  empress  of  the  night! 
Reflecting,  gives,  in  modest,  mellowy  light. 
The  sun's  refracting  rays — her  destined  part — 
So  genuine  feeling  steals  from  heart  to  heart! 


Laugh  not,  j^e  sordid  sons,  ye  beings  cold, 
Who  measure  all  your  greatness  by  your  gold, — 
Whose  marble  bosoms  never  once  could  feel 
What  friendship,  love,  and  sympathy  reveal; 
Learn  but  one  truth,  'twill  not  reduce  your  stores, 
Love  higher  than  your  gilded  riches  soars, 
Your  demi-god  a  meaner  thing  must  be 
Than  Cupid  proves.    No  man  e'er  loved  like  me! 

Think  not  a  glance  too  transient  to  desti-oy 
The  calmness  of  the  mind  with  mingled  joy; 
Judge  for  yourselves,  but  make  no  strictures  here. 
Set  no  mean  limits  to  its  hope  and  fear. 
Many  could  tell,  if  they  but  had  the  art, 
The  stirring  power  with  which  it  throbs  the  heart, 
Thrills  every  nerve,  pursues  through  every  vein 
Its  path  electric  till  it  fires  the  brain ; 
And  trembling  there  like  needle  to  the  pole, 
Strange  blushes  rise  in  crimson  from  the  soul; 
The  heaving  breast,  in  resjjiration  free, 
Convulsive  feels  with  innate  ecstasy. 


SAXDYFORD  HA'. 

Ye '11  a'  get  a  bidding  to  Sandyford  Ha', 
Ye'll  a'  get  a  bidding  to  Sandyford  Ha'; 
When  summer  returns  wi'  her  blossoms  sae 

braw, 
Ye'll  a'  get  a  bidding  to  Sandyford  Ha'. 

This  dwelling,  though  humble,  is  airy  and  clean, 
Wi'  a  hale  hearty  wifie  baith  honest  and  Hen, 
An'  a  big  room  below  for  the  gentry  that  ca', — 
Ye'll  a'  get  a  bidding  to  Sandyford  Ha'. 
A  wooden  stair  leads  to  the  attics  aboon, 
Whar  ane  can  look  out  to  his  fi'iends  in  the  moon, 
Or  rhyme  till  saft  sleep  on  his  eyelids  shall  fa':  — 
Ye'll  a'  get  a  bidding  to  Sandyford  Ha', 

An'  when  a  lang  day  o'  dark  care  we  hae  closed. 
An'  our  heart  wi'  the  bitter  ingredient  is  dozed, 
We'll  puff  our  Havana,  on  hope  we  will  ca', 
An'  our  chief  guest  be  pleasure  at  Sandyford  Ha'. 
Ye'll  no  need  to  ask  me  to  sing  you  a  sang. 
For  the  wee  thochtless  birdies  lilt  a'  the  day  lang; 
The  Untie,  the  laverock,  the  blackbird  an  a', 
Ilk  day  hae  a  concert  at  Sandyford  Ha'. 

There's  palace-like   mansions  at  which  ye  may 

stare. 
Where  Lu.xury  rolls  in  her  saft  easy-chair, — 
At  least  puir  folks  think  sae, — their  knowledge 

is  sma', 
There's  far  mair  contentment  at  Sandyford  Ha'. 
There's  something  romantic  about  an  auld  house, 
Where  the  cock  ilka  morning  keeps  crawing  fu' 

crouse, 
An'  the  kye  in  the  byre  are  baith  sleekit  an'  braw. 
An'  such  is  the  case  at  blythe  Sandyford  Ha'. 


ANDREW  PARK. 


291 


In  the  garden  we'll  sit  'neath  the  big  beechen  tree, 
As  the  sun  dijis  his  bright-buruish'd  face  in  the 

sea, 
Till  night  her  gray  mantle  around  us  shall  draw, 
Then  we'll  a'  be  fu'  cantie  in  Sandyford  Ha'. 
At  morning  when  music  is  loud  in  the  sky, 
An'  dew,  like  bright  pearls,  on  roses'  lips  lie, 
We'll  saunter  in  joy  when  the  lang  shadows  fa', 
'Mang  the  sweet-scented  gi'oves  around  Sandy- 
ford  Ha'. 


HUKRA  FOR   THE  HIGHLAND.?! 

Hurra  for  the   Highlands !   the   stern   Scottish 
Highlands! 
The  home  of  the  clansman,  the  brave  and  the 
free; 
Where  the  clouds  love  to  rest,  on  the  mountain's 
rough  breast. 
Ere  they  journey  afar  o'er  the  islandless  sea. 

'Tis  there  where  the  cataract  sings  to  the  breeze. 

As  it  dashes  in  foam  like  a  spirit  of  light; 
And  'tis  there  the  bold  fisheiTaan  bounds  o'er  the 
seas. 
In  his  fleet,  tiny  bark,  through  the  perilous 
night. 

'Tis  the  land  of  deep  shadow,  of  sunshine  and 
shower. 

Where  the  hurricane  revels  in  madness  on  high ; 
For  there  it  has  might  that  can  war  with  its  power. 

In  the  wild  dizzy  cliffs  that  are  cleaving  the  sky, 

I  have  trod  meriy  England,  and  dwelt  on  its 

charms; 
I  have  wander'd  through  Erin,  that  gem  of  the 

sea; 
But  the  Highlands  alone  the  true  Scottish  heart 

waiTQS, 

Her  heather  is  blooming,  her  eagles  are  free. 


THE  AULD  FOLKS. 

The  auld  folks  sit  by  the  fire, 

AVhen  the  winter  nichts  are  chill; 
The  auld  wife  she  plies  her  wire, 

The  auld  man  he  quaffs  his  yill. 
An'  meikle  an'  lang  they  speak 

0'  their  youthfu'  days  gane  by, 
AVhen  the  rose  it  was  on  the  cheek, 

And  the  pearl  was  on  the  eye! 

They  talk  o'  their  bairnies'  bairns, 
They  talk  o'  the  brave  an'  free. 


They  talk  o'  their  mountain-cairns, 
And  they  talk  of  the  rolling  sea. — 

And  meikle  an'  lang  they  speak 
0'  their  youthfu'  days  gane  by, 

AVhen  the  rose  it  was  on  the  cheek. 
An'  the  pearl  was  on  the  eye! 

They  talk  o'  their  friends  lang  gane, 

And  the  tear-draps  blin'  their  e'e; 
They  talk  o'  the  cauld  kirk-stane 

AVhare  sune  they  baith  maun  be. 
Yet  each  has  had  their  half 

0'  the  joys  o'  this  fitful  sphere, 
So  whiles  the  auld  folk  laugh, 

And  whiles  they  drap  a  tear! 


FLOAVERS  OF  SUMMER. 

Flowers  of  summer,  sweetly  springing, 

Deck  the  dewy  lap  of  earth ; 
Birds  of  love  are  fondly  singing 

In  their  gay  and  jocund  mirth: 
Streams  are  pouring  from  their  fountains. 

Echoing  through  each  rugged  dell; 
Heather  bells  adorn  the  mountains, 

Bid  the  city,  love!  farewell. 

See  the  boughs  are  rich  in  blossom, 

Through  each  sunlit,  silent  grove; 
Cast  all  sorrow  from  thy  bosom — 

Freedom  is  the  soul  of  love! 
Let  us  o'er  the  valleys  wander, 

Not  a  frown  within  us  dwell, 
And  in  joy  see  Nature's  grandeur — 

Bid  the  city,  love !  farewell. 

Morning's  sun  shall  then  invite  us 

By  the  ever-sparkling  streams; 
Evening's  fall  again  delight  us 

AA'ith  its  crimson-coloured  beams. 
Flowers  of  summer  sweetly  springing. 

Deck  the  dewy  lap  of  earth ; 
Birds  of  love  are  loudly  singing, 

la  their  gay  and  jocund  mirth. 


THE  BANKS  OF   CLYDE. 

How  sweet  to  rove  at  summer's  eve 

By  Clyde's  meandering  stream, 
AVhen  Sol  in  joy  is  seen  to  leave 

The  earth  with  crimson  beam. 
AAlien  island-clouds  that  wander'd  far 

Above  his  seacouch  lie. 
And  here  and  there  some  gem-like  star 

Re-opes  its  sparkling  eye. 


292 


JAMES   MACDONALD. 


I  see  tlic  insects  gatlier  liome, 

That  lov'd  tlie  evening  ray; 
And  minstrel  birds  tiiat  wanton  roam, 

And  sing  their  vesper  lay: 
All  hurry  to  their  leafy  beds 

Among  tlie  rustling  trees, 
Till  morn  with  new-born  beauty  sheds 

Her  splendour  o'er  the  seas. 

Majestic  seem  the  barks  that  glide, 

As  night  creeps  o'er  tlie  sky, 
Along  the  sweet  and  tranquil  Clyde, 

And  charm  the  gazer's  eye, 
AVhile  spreading  trees  with  plumage  gay 

Smile  vernal  o'er  the  scene. 
And  all  is  balmy  as  the  Jlay — 

All  lovely  and  serene. 


THERE  IS  A  BOXNIE  FLOWEIl. 

There  is  a  bonnie  blushing  flower. 
But  ah!  I  darena  breathe  the  name! 


I  fain  Avould  steal  it  frac  its  bower, 

Thougii  a'  should  think  me  sair  to  blame. 

It  smiles  sae  sweet  amang  the  rest, 

Ijike  brightest  star  where  ithcrs  shine; 

Fain  would  I  place  it  in  my  breast, 
And  make  this  bonnie  blossom  mine. 

At  morn,  at  sunny  noon,  whene'er 

I  see  tliis  fair,  this  favourite  flower, 
I\ly  heart  beats  high,  with  wish  sincere, 

To  wile  it  frae  its  bonnie  bower! — 
But  oh!  I  fear  to  own  its  charms. 

Or  tear  it  frae  its  parent  stem, 
For  should  it  wither  in  my  arms, 

AVhat  would  revive  my  bonnie  gem! 

Awa' — ye  coward  thoughts,  awa' — 

That  flower  can  never  fade  with  me. 
That  frae  the  wint'ry  winds  that  blaw 

Hound  each  neglected  bud  is  free! 
No;  it  shall  only  bloom  more  fair, 

When  cherish'd  and  ador'd  by  me, 
And  a'  my  joy,  and  a'  my  care, 

This  bonnie  blushing  flower  shall  be! 


JAMES    MACDONALD. 


Born  1807  — Diijd  1S18. 


James  ]\r  acdoxald,  A.  M. ,  the  anthor  of  many 
Sabbath-school  hymns  and  several  still  popular 
Scottish  songs,  was  born  at  Culcreuch,  in  the 
parish  of  Fintry,  Stirlingshire,  September  18, 
1807.  lie  was  educated  at  the  University  of 
Glasgow,  where  he  graduated,  and  also  passed 
through  the  theological  classes  with  the  view  of 
becoming  a  minister  in  tlie  Established  Church. 
He  began  life  as  a  tcaclier  in  the  parish  of 
Drymen  at  the  age  of  seventeen,  and  subse- 
quently (1833)  during  his  tiieological  course  he 
taught  in  a  boarding-school  in  the  manse  of 
Kincardine  Blair -Drummond.  On  the  ter- 
mination of  this  engagement  he  went  to  Glas- 
gow, where  he  was  for  a  time  occupied  as  a 
private  tutor.  Having  relinquished  the  inten- 
tion of  entering  the  ministry,  he  joined  the 
printing  establishment  of  the  Messrs.  Blackieof 
that  city  as  a  correcter  of  the  press.  In  this 
calling  he  had  no  superior  in  Scotland,  and 
as  a  proof-reader  of  Greek  no  equal.     While 


thus  occupied  he  became  an  earnest  and  devoted 
Sunday-school  teacher,  and  composed  many 
sweet  hymns  for  the  use  of  his  pupils.  IVIac- 
donald's  mind  being  still  bent  upon  teaching, 
he  accepted  an  invitation  about  the  year  1845 
to  take  charge  of  a  school  in  Blairgowrie,  where 
he  laboured  for  a  time  with  much  acceptance. 
He  removed  to  another  school  in  Dundee,  and 
finally  to  the  village  of  Catrine  in  Ayrshire, 
where  he  died  May  27,  1848,  after  a  lingering 
illness. 

]\Iacdonald's  poems  and  lyrics  appeared  in 
various  collections,  such  as  the  Book  of  Scot- 
tish Song,  and  in  various  papers  and  periodi- 
cals, but  they  have  not  been  published  in  a 
collected  form.  His  only  separate  publications 
are  two  booklets  of  "Hymns  for  the  Use  of 
Sunday-schools,"  in  which  he  was  always  deeply 
interested.  His  poems  display  considerable 
poetic  merit  and  a  spirit  of  genuine  piety.  In 
a  letter  to  the  Editor,  dated  September  24, 


JAMES  MACDONALD. 


293 


1875,  Dr.  Macdonald,  of  the  Free  Church, 
Xorth  Leith,  Avrites,  '•'Macdonald  was  an  ex- 
cellent, warm-hearted,  and  most  useful  man, 
and  I  loved  him  warmly.  I  am  unable  to 
g'.vc  any  precise  particulars  of  his  life  while  at 


Blairgowrie.  He  was  an  admirable  and  en- 
thusiastic teacher,  and  was  greatly  esteemed 
by  young  and  old.  I  will  only  add  that  in 
all  Christian  work  I  ever  found  him  a  very 
hearty  and  loving  helper." 


THE    WILDERNESS    WELL. 

A   DIDACTIC   rOEM. 
(extract.) 

"  Ho  ye  that  thirst  approach  the  spring 
Where  living  waters  flow. 
Free  to  that  sacred  fountain  all 
■Without  a  price  may  go."— Pa)-.  Is.  Iv.  1. 

So  sang  the  son  of  Amoz,  as  he  saw, 

In  vision  bright,  the  coming  Saviour's  day, 
When  David's  tlirone  and  sceptre  would  give  law 

To  men  in  nations,  loving  to  obey. 
With  glowing  breast  and  eye  of  fer\'id  ray 

The  prophet  gazed  along  the  course  of  time. 
And  poured  in  golden  drops  the  melting  lay 

Of  heaven's  grace  revealed  to  every  clime, 
\,Mi en  David's  Son  should  leave  his  realms  on  high, 
And  come  to  earth  for  wretched  man  to  die. 
AVithin  the  veil  of  heaven's  sacred  fane, 

The  holy  man  in  -vision  sweet  was  led, 
And  taught  the  numbers  of  the  seraph  strain— 

The  joyful  words  that  sinless  beings  said 
Of  God  the  Son,  whose  feet  were  yet  to  tread 

The  dust  of  earth,  and  fallen  man  restore. 
When  Judah's  crown  and  sceptre's  might  had  fled, 

And  law  begirt  the  tribes  of  God  no  more, 
A  lowly  thrill  rushed  through  the  prophet's  breast, 
He  cried  "Unclean,"  and  quailed  at  Heaven's 

behest. 
While  basking  in  the  i-ays  of  wondrous  light, 

A  scene  of  gladness  filled  his  ravished  eye, 
Messiah's  reign  and  kingdom  blessed  his  sight. 

In  all  the  grandeur  of  the  eternal  sky. 
He  saw  the  angels  of  the  Lord  on  high 

Descend  in  gorgeous  light  on  Bethlehem's  plain, 
And  raise  the  hallelujah  sj-mphony 

Of  man  restored  to  Heaven's  love  again, 
Redemption's  glories  in  a  boundless  cloud 
Of  peerless,  priceless  gems  around  him  crowd. 
He  saw  the  night  of  darkness  flee  away. 

He  saw  the  Sun  of  Righteousness  arise 
To  cheer  the  earth  with  beams  of  healing  ray. 

And  make  the  desert  wear  the  garden's  dyes. 
His  lit  eye  saw  the  Fountain  of  the  skies 

Run  far  and  wide  o'er  many  a  dreary  plain, 
Creating  where  it  flowed  a  paradise 

Of  flowery  grandeur,  feeding  on  the  rain. 
And  dew,  and  light,  and  smile  of  Heaven  above. 
And  slumb'ring  in  the  arms  of  holy  love. 
He  saw,  and  in  his  joy  of  heai-t  he  sung 


And  cried  aloud  on  all  the  tribes  of  earth. 
Of  every  nation,  kindred,  hue,  and  tongue, 

To  hail  with  joy  their  great  Redeemer's  birth, 
And  sing  in  hymns  of  loud-resounding  mirth 

The  jubilee  of  Heaven's  Lord  and  King, 
Whose  loving  sceptre  scatters  every  dearth 

That   hunger,   thirst,    and   \n-etchedness  c:.n 
bring. 
He  saw  the  Shiloh  come— the  prophet  ran. 
And  bade  men  kiss  the  lowly  Son  of  man. 
Messiah  came  to  earth,— the  Vine  Branch  came,— 

The  Fountain  flowed,— the  Balm  of  Gilead  grew. 
The  King,  the  mighty  Counsellor  by  name, 

Glid  down  on  Judah's  mountains  like  the  dew. 
Proud  Salem  saw  her  King;  but,  ah!  how  few 

Revered  the  name  of  Mary's  righteous  Son! 
She  saw  his  wonders,  heard  his  doctrines  true. 

And  paid  him  wth  the  cross  for  what  he'd  done. 
But  on  his  cross  Cluist  won  his  golden  crown; 
'Twas  from  his  side  the  fount  of  Ufe  ran  down, 
That  shall  through  ages  pour  its  balmy  stream. 

And  shed  the  blessing  of  its  gentle  cure 
On  all  who  will  to  see  its  joyous  gleam, 

And  wash  their  bodies  in  its  waters  pure. 
The  broken-hearted,  sick,  and  lowly  poor. 

The  wand'ring  sinner,  weeping  'neath  his  load. 
And  they  who  dread  the  pangs  the  damned  endure, 

Alone  are  found  to  seek  the  hill  of  God. 
Go,  ask  at  them,  for  they  alone  can  tell 
What  Zion  is,  whence  flows  their-  Desert  Well. 


THE   THl^EE  AGES. 

CHILDHOOD. 

'Tis  sweet  to  look  on  a  new-blown  flower; 
To  watch  the  tints  of  the  summer  sky; 
To  lurk  in  the  depths  of  a  sylvan  bower. 
Lulled  by  the  lone  stream's  lullaby. 

'Tis  sweet  to  view,  at  the  opening  day, 
The  pearls  that  gem  the  green-clad  earth; 
And  hear  the  burst  of  the  song-birds'  lay — 
The  morning  hymn  of  their  love  and  mirth. 

'Tis  sweet  to  stand,  at  the  dusky  hour, 
By  the  pel»bly  rim  of  a  glassy  lake, 
While  myriad  stars,  in  a  silent  shower, 
Drop  calmly  down  as  a  silv'ry  flake. 


294 


JAMES   MACDONALD. 


But  Avhere's  the  sight,  on  the  earth  or  sky, 
By  the  garden  bower,  or  woodland  wild, 
Where  aught  so  sweet  as  the  heavenward  eye, 
And  fervent  look,  of  a  praying  child? 

The  cherub  form  seems  not  of  this  h;nd, 
Xo  tenant  of  earthly  mould  or  clay, 
But  a  stranger — come  from  the  seraph  band 
On  Zion's  hill,  in  the  realms  of  day, 

A  dream  of  light, — a  vision  of  might, — 
A  starbeam  cased  in  a  mortal  urn, — 
A  soul  of  bliss  from  spheres  of  delight, — 
An  incense  breath  from  the  lamps  that  burn 

Around  the  throne  of  the  Unseen  Power 
That  ruleth  beyond  the  depths  of  night, — 
A  sainted  seer  of  the  heavenly  dower. 
That  waits  the  good  in  the  land  of  light; 

Come  here  to  tell  to  the  earthly  mind 
Of  the  hopes  that  spring  where  fears  begin. 
And  rend  in  twain  the  fetters  that  bind 
Poor  man  a  slave  to  the  ways  of  sin. 

Then  smile  not  thou  at  its  lowly  prayer. 
Though  short  its  cry  for  mercy  appear; 
An  angel  band  is  hovering  there, 
And  Jie  that  bled  still  deigneth  to  hear. 

Pound  childhood's  day  sliines  many  a  ray. 
Of  beauteous  gleam  and  of  nameless  dye; 
But  the  hour  the  young  heart  strives  to  pray 
Brings  brightest  joy  to  a  parent's  eye. 

YOUTH. 

0  fairest  season  in  the  life  of  man ! 

Sweet  noontide  of  his  short  and  chequered 

day! 
Who  would  not  wish  to  live  again  that  span 
Of  radiant  hopes  and  feelings,  ever  gay, 
Which  round  the  heart,  like  sunbeams  in  the 

stream. 
In  many  a  glad  and  glittering  halo  ran! — 
Such  as  of  old  young  poets  used  to  dream 
Begirt  the  brow  of  her  that  led  the  van 
Of  merry  maids,  who  danced  on  vine-clad 

hills 
To  the  soft  tinkling  music  of  old  Grecian  rills. 

That  morn!  the  voung  mind  breaks  its  golden 

cell. 
And  finds  its  wings  expand  o'er  trackless  air; 
Oh  what  a  gush  of  towering  fancies  swell 
In  billowy  madness,  and  a  power  that  ne'er 
Would  seem  to  bend  beneath  misfortune's 

gale! 


No  new-fledged  bird  that  roams  the  summer 

dell 
Is  half  so  fond  of  earth's  rich  flowery  vale — 
So  vainly  dreams  in  ceaseless  joy  to  dwell 
Amid  its  sunny  haunts  and  smiling  flowers, 
Bathed  in  the  blessed  dew  of  heaven's  balmy 

showers. 

The  song  of  birds— the  lulling  hum  of  bees— 
The  bleat  of  lambs— the  evening  waterfall — 
The   shepherd's  pipe — the   dulcet   summer 

breeze — 
The  milkmaid's  merry  lay — commingled,  all 
In  soft  harmonious  cadence  charm  the  ear, 
And  make  earth  seem  but  one  vast  music- 
hall- 
One  choir  of  joy — this  life  a  long  career 
Of  sweets  whereon  the  heart  should  never 
pall: 

0  happy  time,  0  days  of  careless  glee — 

Of  golden  morning  dreams — from  pain  and 
sorrow  free! 

But  ah !  what  snares  athwart  its  pathway  lie, 
AVhat  fraud  is  used  to  lure  it  from  the  way 

1  ts  fond  heart  seeks  beyond  yon  spangled  sky, 
And  chain  it  under  sin's  corrosive  sway! 

0  youth,  beware,  for  myriad  unseen  foes 
By  night,  by  day,  their  ruthless  trick'ries  try 
Thy  soul  to  rifle  of  its  dower  on  high. 
And  rob  thy  young  heart  of  its  soft  repose — 
Its  bed  of  peace — its  hopes  of  high  renown — 
Then  leave  thee  to  the  world's  sneer  and  deso- 
lating frown. 

But  happy  he!  who,  like  that  maiden  fair, 
AVhom  painter's  art  has  reared  before  our 

eyes. 
With  willing  heart  receives  a  mother's  care 
To  lead  him  wisdom's  way,  and  gain  that 

prize 
So  dearly  won — so  fraught  Avith  love  and 

grace 
For  all   to  seek,  Avhich  all   may  win   and 

share: 
0  who  would  not  this  cold    Morld's  wiles 

efface. 
And,  with  a  will  deep-fixed,  for  ever  dare 
To  baffle  all  the  snares  that  sin  has  wove. 
And  lose  earth's  fleeting  joy  for  deathless  bliss 

above  ? 

OLD   AGE. 

A  lonely  hamlet,  with  its  house  of  prayer, 
To  which  a  matron's  guided  on  her  wa}'. 

By  one  that  shows  a  daughter's  tender  care, 
And,  by  their  side,  a  child  that  seems  to 
pray, 


JAMES   MACDONALD. 


2S5 


Is  all  the  scene — hut,  wliile  we  fondly  gaze, 
AVhat  thoughts  of  Life  and  Death  these  objects 
raise. 

"We  leave  weak  childhood's  morn  of  smiles  and 
tears. 

And  youth's  full  tide  of  gaiety  and  glee, 
To  commune  with  the  hoary  man  of  years, 

AVho  longs  from  out  this  vale  of  tears  to  be, 
And  find  that  rest  he  here  has  sought  iu  vain, 
Beyond  the  reach  of  vanity  and  pain. 

Pilgrim  of  life !  what  though  thy  locks  be  gray, 
Tiiine  eye  be  dim,  thy  cheek  be  wan  and  pale; 

Tho'  gone  the  strength  of  youth's  exulting  day, 
And  e'en  the  mind  itself  begin  to  fail; 

Xe'er  let  the  tear  of  grief  bedim  thine  eye. 

Thy  desert's  crossed — thy  Jordan's  rolling  niglil 

Though  friends  have  dropped  like  brown  leaves 
from  the  tree, 
And  hopes  be  dead  that  once  bloomed  fresh 
and  fair; 
Tiioiigh  all  alone  on  earth  thou  secm'st  to  be, 

Xo  one  so  poor  as  with  thy  grief  to  share; 
Lift  up  thine  eyes  in  faith  to  Him  that  bled — 
The  cloud  is  past — thy  solitude  has  fled. 

A  few  moi-e  steps — thy  weary  feet  at  last, 
AVitli  joy,  shall  tread  that  gorgeous  sun'^y 
shore. 
Where,  nestled  safe,  the  withering  simoom  blast 
Of  pangs  and  cares  shall  beat  on  thee  no 
more — 
No  more  along  our  earth  a  wanderer  driven, 
Thy  panting  breast  has  found  a  home  in  heaven. 


HYMX. 

(from  the  wilderness  well.) 

Oh  God  above, 
Thou  art  our  love. 
And  hope  of  life  always; 
Thy  name  is  all  our  praise; 
Thine  arm  is  our  salvation  sure; 
Thy  loving-kindness  shall  endure 
Through  never-ending  days. 
When  fades  the  light  and  glory  of  the  sun, 
Thy  truth  a  pure  and  blessed  stream  shall  ran 
In  climes  where  first  its  blessed  flow  heguu. 
Like  dew  by  heaven's  light 

Again  it  shall  ascend, 
And  with  eternal  might 
It  shall  in  radiance  bright 
And  glory  never  end. 


Jehovah,  Lord, 
Be  thou  adored. 
Almighty  Three-in-One, 
Thy  love  hath  wonders  done. 
Jordan's  stream  and  Tabor  hill, 
Sychar's  well  and  Kedron's  rill, 
Revealed  thy  great  and  gorgeous  plan 
Of  love  and  wondrous  grace  to  man; 
There  rose  thy  Sun  of  righteousness  and  love; 
There,  robed  with  all  the  might  of  Heaven  above, 
Thine  image  stood,  the  fulness  of  thy  grace, 
Thy  Godhead  radiant  in  his  living  face; 
Thy  messenger — our  sacrifice; 
Thine  only  Son — our  only  prize, 
Who  came  to  seek  and  save 

The  sons  of  misery, 
And  by  his  dying  gave 
Them  hope  beyond  the  gravo 
Of  gldry  in  the  sky. 
Immanuel, 
Around  thee  dwell 
The  majesty  and  might 
Of  Heaven's  glories  bright : 
Seraphs  tune  their  golden  lyres. 
Angel  hosts  before  thee  bend. 
Endless  love  each  breast  inspu-es; 
Unto  thee  they  kneel  and  send 
All  the  glowing  soul's  desires. 
Their  first,  and  last,  and  only  Friend. 
With  lowly  heart  we  here  would  lend 
Our  feeble  voice,  and  join  the  lay — 
The  hymn  of  everlasting  day. 
But  ah!  what  can  we  say  or  sing 
To  Heaven's  Lord — to  Heaven's  King? 
Oh  what  can  dust  and  ashes  bring 
To  Him  whose  sceptre  rules  the  earth  and  sky, 
To  Him  who  sits  on  glory's  throne  on  high, 
'Jlid  grandeurs  which  no  mortal  hand  or  eye 
Can  think  or  see  in  frailty's  dress, 
Till  o'er  this  weary  wilderness, 
With  sorrow's  heavy  load, 
Our  wand 'ring  feet  have  trode? 
But,  glory  to  thy  name, 
Thou  art,  O  Lord,  the  same 
As  when  on  earth  thou  gav'st  thy  willing  aid 
To  him  who  in  distress  a  prayer  made 
Upon  destruction's  brink, 
And  looked  at  thee  and  said, 
Help  me,  Jesus,  or  I  sink. 
Thou  great  I  Am, 
Thou  mercy's  Lamb, 
Thou  Lamp  of  light, 
Thou  Branch  of  might. 
Thou  Fount  of  cleansing  wave, 
Thou  Balm  to  cure, 
Thou  Rock  to  hide, 

Thou  Friend  of  i^oor, 
To  guard  and  guide, 
Thou'rt  ever  nigh  to  save. 
Tliou  hear'st  the  moan  and  lowly  cry 
Of  sorrow's  bed,  where  poor  men  lie 


296 


JAMES   MACDONALD. 


On  pillows  wet  with  bitter  tears, 
Crushed  by  an  avalanche  of  fears, 
And  swathed  in  clouds  of  awful  gloom, 
Portending-  nought  but  horror's  doom; 
Thou  lift'st  the  lattice  of  the  sky, 
And  pour'st  upon  the  weary  eye 
A  flood  of  hope  on  angel  wing 
That  makes  the  vexed  mail  to  sing. 
The  child  of  grief  and  woe  by  thee  is  seen. 
As  every  prop  on  which  he  loved  to  lean 
By  angry  tides  is  loosed  and  swept  away, 
O'erwhelmed  by  waves, or  made  the  tempest's  play. 
He  looks  without,  on  life's  tumultuous  sea. 
He  looks  within,  where  comfort  used  to  be. 
Nor  there,  nor  here,  one  vestige  can  he  find 
Of  all  that  once  was  sacred  to  his  mind. 
He  feeds  on  sorrow's  bread,  and  fills  with  tears 
The  cup  that  cheered  the  noon-day  of  his  years. 
0  God!  man's  days  are  but  a  dream  at  best. 
Till  thou  in  mercy  com'st  to  cheer  his  breast, 
And  turn  his  heart  from  trusting  on  a  reed 
So  sure  to  break,  and  breaking  sure  to  bleed. 
Then  all  is  changed,  his  harp  is  tuned  to  sing, 
Of  thee  the  Lord,  his  Prophet,  Priest,  and  King. 
Oppression's  groan 
The  heavy  load. 
The  blist'ring  goad. 
The  blood-hound's  greedy  yell. 
The  vulture's  hoarded  cell. 

By  thee  is  known. 
The  captive's  clanking  chain, 
Pale  famine's  cry  and  pain, 

Dost  thou  not  hear ! 
And  sorrow's  blist'ring  tear. 
And  hunger's  trembUng  fear, 
The  tyrant's  choking  fangs. 
His  victim's  silent  pangs. 
The  weary  bloodshot  eye. 
The  heavy  throbbing  sigh, 
Man's  bale  and  misery. 
Dost  thou  not  see  ? 
0  gracious  God  of  love,  who  feed'st  the  leaves 

That  dangle  on  each  shrub,  and  bush,  and  tree, 
Thine  eye,  thine  ear,  no  vail  of  fraud  deceives. 

No  lying  tissue  throws  its  net  o'er  thee. 
The  dwelling  place  of  justice  is  thy  throne — 

Great  God  in  man !  thy  love  will  yet  apjiear. 
Thy  day  will  come — thy  wisdom  shall  be  shown, 
Dread  retribution's  judgment  hour  is  near. 
O  Father  great, 
Uj)on  thee  wait 
All  living  things  on  earth: 

The  forest  bends  to  thee, 
The  ocean  owns  its  birth. 

Thine,  mighty  God,  to  bo. 
The  dew  smiles  by  thy  power. 

The  grass  feeds  from  thy  hand. 
Thy  Godhead  owns  the  flower. 
The  wind  knows  thy  command. 
The  stream  by  thee  is  taught  to  know  its  way. 
The  bird  inquires  at  thee  what  song  to  sing. 


Thy  voice  the  sun,  and  moon,  and  stars  obey. 
All  heaven,  earth,  and  hell  proclaim  thee  King. 
Thy  way  is  light. 
Thine  arm  is  might. 
To  sink  or  save 
A  worm  or  world 
From  desolation's  grave. 
Thy  truth  unfurled 
On  Sinai's  hill, 
Thy  holy  will 
On  Bethlehem's  plain, 
Send  joy  and  peace  to  every  strand, 

And  fall  on  bosoms  pierced  with  pain. 
As  dew-drops  on  a  parched  land. 
Or  silver  rain; 
And  they  who  taste  delight  to  dwell. 
As  we  do,  round  thy  Desert  Well. 


THE   THISTLE. 

Loo'st  thou  the  thistle  that  blooms  on  the  moun- 
tain , 
And  decks  the  fair  bosom  o'  Scotland's  green 
howes? 
Loo'st  thou  the  floweret  o'  Liberty's  fountain. 
The  emblem  o'  friendship  that   guards  as  it 
grows  ? 

The  wee  lamb  may  sleep  'neath  its  shade  wi'  its 
mither. 

The  maukin  may  find  'neath  its  branches  a  lair, 
And  birds  o'  ilk  feather  may  there  flock  thegither. 

But  wae  to  the  wretch  wha  our  thistle  wad  tear! 

Loo'st  thou  the  thistle  ?  the  broad  leaves  it  weareth 

Are  gemm'd  o'er  wi'  pearls  o'  morning's  sweet 
dew — 
Lo!  on  ilk  dew-drop  a  dear  name  it  beareth — 

The  name  of  a'  freeman  o'  leal  heart  and  tiue. 
Kenn'st  thou  the  story  o'  proud  fame  and  glory 

That's  tauld  by  ilk  spike  o'  its  bristled  array  ( 
Nae  wonder  our  thistle  wi'  grandeur  is  hoary, 

It's  auld  as  creation — it's  new  as  the  day. 

Loo'st  thou  the  thistle  ? — the  rose  canna  i^eer  it, 

Nae  shamrock  can  smile  wi'  sae  gaudy  an  air. 
The  lily  maun  hide  a'  its  beauty  when  near  it, 

The  star- flag  is  bonnie — the  thistle  is  mair. 
True  to  the  thistle,  I'll  ne'er  lo'e  anither, 

Whatever  my  station,  wherever  I  be; 
Its  love  in  my  bosom  no  blighting  can  wither, 

Auld  Scotland's  ain  darling  I'll  lo'e  till  I  dee. 

Hei-e's  to  ilk  pillar  that  bides  by  the  thistle! 

Lang  may  his  roof -tree  be  kept  frae  decay — 
Lang  may  the  voice  o'  happiness  whistle 

In  glee  round  his  dwallin'  by  nicht  and  by  day. 
Here's  to  the  banners  that  wave  o'er  the  ocean. 

The  rose  of  old  England,  the  brave  and  the  free; 
The  shamrock  that  raises  green  Erin's  devotion; 

The  thistle  of  Scotland — hurrah  for  the  three  !^ 


JAMES   MACDONALD. 
0   LEEZE   ME   ON    THE   GLEX.i 


297 


0  leeze  me  on  the  glea   that  summer  maks 

her  Eden  ha', 
And  bigs  her  fairy  bower  in  the  deptlis  o'  the 

greenwood  shaw; 
The  glen  where  tlie  winds  pUij'  their  saftest, 

sweetest  summer  tune, 
Amang  the  heatlier  bells  and  the  green  waving 

woods  o'  June. 
'Tis  the  glen  of  my  boyhood,  the  cradle  o'  my 

happy  days, 
Still  fondly  my  heart  longs  to  roam  o'er  its 

broomy  braes, 
And   listen  to  the  sang  o'  the  lintie   on  its 

whinny  bed. 
And  wipe  awa'  the  tear,  for  love  and  warm 

friendship  tied. 

Though  torn  frae  thy  lap  where  I  first  drank 
the  balmy  air, 

Thy  picture  hangs  untouched  'mid  the  canker 
o'  writhing  care: 

Thy  gray  rugged  cliffs  and  thy  lowne  lily- 
dappled  dells. 

Thy  pale  primrose  banks,  thy  pure  gurgling 
mountain  wells. 

Thy  haughs  spread  wi'  daisies,  thy  honey- 
scented  meadow-land, 

Thy  green  velvet  holmes  and  thy  auld  hoary 
^^oods  so  grand. 

Aft  drift  through  my  dreams,  all  wrapt  in 
their  azure  hue. 

Like  scenes  o'  the  happy  is'es  sparkling  wi' 
hinny  dew. 

0  can  I  e'er  forget  the  glory  o'  thy  dawning 

morn. 
When  the  pearly  tears  o'  night  fa'  in  beads  frae 

the  aged  thorn; 
And  the  milky  mists  creep  back  to  their  bed 

in  the  mossy  muirs. 
And  heaven's  bliss  comes  down  wi'  the  draps 

o'  the  crystal  showers; 
When  joy's  trumpet  sounds  through  the  val- 
leys o'  the  ringing  woods, 
And  echo  singeth  back  wi'   the  voice  o'  the 

water-floods — 
While  frae  bank  and  frae  brae  a  clear  gush  o' 

music  flies. 
With  the  incenseof  earth, away  to  the  ruby  skies. 

'  The  beautiful  mountain  stream  of  the  Endiick  rises 
among  the  hilJs  south-west  of  Stirling,  and  passing  in 
a  rapid  course  by  the  villages  of  Fintry,  Balfron,  Kil- 
learn,  and  Drynien,  falls  into  Lochlomond  a  few  miles 
west  from  Buchanan  House,  the  seat  of  the  Duke  of 
Montrose. — Ed. 


Can  the  warld  brag  o'  aught  like  the  pride  o' 

thy  gouden  noon. 
When  the  revelry  of  morn  is  lulled  to  a  solemn 

croon. 
And  the  flocks  cease  to  bleat  on  the  brow  o'  the 

benty  knowe, 
Vrhile  the  linns  o'  the  Endrick  shine  bright  in 

a  silver  lowe; 
As  the  bride  on  her  bridal  day  walks  forth  in 

her  gay  attire, 
Tier  heart  fu'  o'  joy  and   her  een  glancing 

maiden  fire; 
So  the  valley  calmly  basks  in  the  beauty  o'  its 

flowery  dress. 
While  the  winds  hover  o'er,  gently  fanning  its 

loveliness. 

But  dearer  far  to  me  the  mirk  o'  thy  gloamin' 

hour, 
When  the  curlew's  eerie  cry  echoes  far  frae  its 

fenny  bower; 
And  the  throstle's  e'ening  hymn,  wi'  the  sough 

o'  the  water  fa', 
Xow  rises  and  now  sinks,  now  like  death  calmly 

glides  awa' — 
When  the  flowers  shut  their  cen  and  the  winds 

in  the  woods  are  still. 
And  the  wee  lammies  sleep  in  the  howe  o'  the 

dewy  hill; 
Then  the  weary  soul  o'  man,  like  the  bird  to 

its  cozy  nest. 
Floats  on  fancy's  wings  'mang  the  clouds  o' 

the  purple  west. 

Thus  morning,  noon,  and  eve,  sweet  vab  o' 

my  youthfu'  days, 
I  roam  still  in  thought  through  my  haunts  on 

thy  bracken  braes; 
And  as  Endrick  waxes  deep  when  the  bounds 

near  her  resting  goal, 
So  deepens  aye  the  flow  o'  thy  love  in  my  weary 

soul. 
Farewtll,    then,    my  glen,    the    land    o'    my 

brightest  dreams, 
Jly  heart,  like  the  stricken  dear,  pants  for  thy 

silver  streams; 
At  this  late  hour  o'  life  I  would  fainly  come 

back  again, 
And  sleep  on  the  braes  o'  my  ain  native  happy 

glen. 


THE   PRIDE  0'  THE  GLEX. 

Oh,  bonnie's  the  lily  that  blooms  in  the  valley. 
And  fair  is  the  cherry  that  grows  on  the  tree; 


293 


JAMES   BALLANTINE. 


The  primro33  smiles  sweet  as  it  welcomes  the 
simmer, 
And  modest's  the  wee  gowan's  love-talking  e'e; 
Mail-  dear  to  my  heart  is  that  lowne  cozy  dingle, 
Wliar  late  i'  the  gloamin',  by  the  lanely  "Ha' 
den," 
I  met  wi'  the  fairest  e'er  bounded  in  beauty, 
By  the  banks  o'  the  End)  ick,  the  pride  u'  tlio 
glen. 

She's  pure  as  the  spring  cloud  that  smiles  in  the 
welkin, 
An'  blithe  as  the  lambkin  that  sports  on  the 
lea; 
Her  heart  is  a  fount  rinnin'  ower  wi'  affection, 
And  a  warld  o'  feeling  is  the  love  o'  her  e'e. 
The  prince  may  be  jiroud  o'  his  vast  hoarded 
treasures. 
The  heir  o'  his  grandeiu-  and  hie  pedigree; 
They  kenna  the  hapi^iness  dwalt  in  my  bosom. 
When  alane  wi'  the  angel  o'  luve  and  o'  thee. 

I've  seen  the  day  dawn  in  a  shower-drappin'  goud. 
The  grass  spread  wi'  dew,  like  a  wide  siller  sea; 

The  clouds  shinin'  bricht  in  a  deep  amber  licht, 
Aod  the  earth  blusliin'  back  to  tlie  glad  lift  on 
hie. 


I've  dream'd  o'  a  palace  wi'  gem-spangled  ha's, 
And  proud  wa's  a'  glitterin'  in  rich  diamond 
sheen, 

Wi'  towers  shinin'  fair,  through  the  rose-tinted  air. 
And  domes  o'  rare  pearls  and  rubies  atween. 

I've  sat  in  a  garden,  'mid  earth's  gayest  flowers, 

A'  gaudily  shawin'  their  beauteous  dyes, 
And  breathin'  in  calm  the  air's  fragrant  balm. 
Like  angels  asleep  on  the  plains  o'  the  skies; 
Yet  the  garden,  and  jjalace,  and  day's  rosy  dawn- 
ing. 
Though  in  bless'd  morning  dreams  they  should 
aft  come  again, 
Can  ne'er  be  sae  sweet  as  the  boniiie  young  lassie. 
That  bloom'd  by  the  Endrick,  the  pride  o'  the 
glen. 

The  exile,  in  sleep,  haunts  the  lands  o'  his  fathers, 

The  captive's  ae  dream  is  his  hour  to  be  free; 
The  weary  heart  langs  for  the  morning  rays  comin', 

The  oppress'd  for  his  Sabbath  o'  sweet  libei'ty. 
But  my  life's  only  hope,  my  heart's  only  prayer. 

Is  the  day  that  I'll  ca'  the  young  lassie  my  ain; 
Though  a'  should  forsake  me,  wi'  her  I'll  be  happy, 

On  the  banks  o'  the  Endrick,  the  pride  o'  the 
glen. 


JAMES    BALLANTINE. 


James  B.vllaxtixe,  one  of  the  sweetest  of 
living  Scottisli  singers,  was  born  in  the  West 
Tort  of  Edinburgh,  June  11,  180S.  He  has 
chronicled  in  verse  his  recollections  of  the 
famous  locality  of  his  birth  in  a  highly  char- 
acteristic effusion  entitled  "  The  Auld  West 
Port/'  in  which  he  says — 

"O  the  days  are  sair  c'nangecl  wi'  the  auld  West  Port, 
Whar  aiice  a  wee  looii  I  gat  schuliii'  an'  sport ; 
Now  farweai-iiig  through,  thoiigli  few fouterscai'e  for't, 
Yet  dear  to  my  soul  is  the  aukl  West  Port. 

"  Ilka  auld  water-wife  wi'  her  stoups  at  the  well, 
Ilka  laigh  half  shop-door  wi'  its  wee  tinkling  bell, 
Ilka  howff  where  wee  callant.s  were  wont  to  resort, 
Are  a'  stannin'  yet  in  thi  auld  West  Port." 

The  father  of  the  poet  was  a  brewer  by  trade, 
and  while  he  lived  his  family  were  comfortably 
maintained,  but  on  his  death  he  left  a  widow, 
three  daughters,  and  James,  then  only  seven 
years  of  age,  but  indifferently  provided  for. 
The  young  lad  did  not,  as  may  be  supposed, 


receive  a  very  liberal  school  education,  and  at 
the  age  of  ten  he  was  obliged  to  e.xert  himself 
for  his  own  support  and  the  assistance  of  liis 
mother  and  sisters.  He  was  apprenticed  to  a 
house-painter,  and  soon  acquired  a  thorough 
knowledge  of  his  trade.  At  a  subsequent  period 
he  for  a  short  time  attended  the  University 
of  Edinburgh  to  study  anatomy  M'itli  a  view 
to  professional  advancement.  He  afterwards 
turned  his  attention  to  the  art  of  glass-paint- 
ing, in  which  profession  he  met  with  the  most 
gratifying  success.  He  became  the  head  of 
the  eminent  firm  to  which  was  intrusted  the 
execution  of  the  stained-glass  windows  for  the 
Houses  of  Parliament,  his  designs  being  con- 
sidered the  best  by  the  royal  commissioners. 

From  an  early  age  Ballantine  has  been  a 
writer  of  verses.  His  first  appearance  in  print 
to  any  extent  was  in  the  pages  of  WJdntlehlnkk, 
a  publication  which  did  much  to  encourage 
struggling  talent.     In  lSi3  the  Gaberlunzie  s 


JAMES  BALLANTINE. 


299 


Wallet  appeared,  containing  some  admirable 
lyrics,  and  it  soon  attracted  a  very  large  share 
of  public  attention.  This  was  followed  soon 
after  by  the  Miller  of  Deanhnwjh,  a  prose 
story  with  many  pieces  of  good  poetry  inter- 
spersed. In  1856  an  edition  of  his  poems 
Avas  published  in  Edinburgh:  and  in  1865  a 
volume  appeared  from  his  pen  entitled  One 
Hundred  Songs,  which  met  with  a  warm  wel- 
come. His  latest  publication — containing  a 
love-tale  in  the  Spenserian  stanza  called  '■  Lilias 
Lee,"  and  ''Malcolm  Canmore,"  a  historical 
drama — was  issued  in  1872.  ThisA'olurae  also 
contains  a  number  of  short  poems.  A  few  years 
ago  he  issued  a  work  on  stained  glass,  which 
has  been  translated  and  published  in  Germany. 
Of  ilr.  Ballantine  a  critic  remarks: — "He, 
like  many  men  of  similar  stamp,  has  the  high 
merit  of  being  self-educated — that  is,  he  owes 
his  education  and  position  not  to  any  accident 
of  birth  or  fortune,  but  to  his  own  talents  and 
exertions.  .  .  .  He  has  not  devoted  himself 
to  literature  or  poetry  as  a  profession;  nor  has 
he  ever,  through  imprudent  love  of  the  iluses, 
neglected  his  proper  avocations.  And  perhaps 
his  productions  may  be  indebted  for  much  of 
their  freshness  and  truthfulness  of  portraiture 
to  this  seemingly  unfavourable  circumstance. 


He  has  not  been  restricted  to  the  narrow  field 
of  his  own  bosom,  nor  to  the  little  circle  of  a 
few  congenial  friends,  for  his  observation  of 
human  nature  and  character.  He  has  not,  as 
many  poets,  and  preachers,  and  moralists  have 
done,  looked  upon  the  world  of  human  beings 
afar  off,  as  if  from  an  eminence  and  through 
a  telescope ;  but  he  has  descended  into  the 
fields,  and  traversed  the  streets  and  lanes  of 
society;  he  has  gone  forth  freely  among  his 
fellowmen ;  he  has  associated  with  them,  rich 
and  poor,  learned  and  ignorant,  good  and  bad; 
and  consequently  his  poetry  is  not  the  dreamy 
effusion  of  brooding  and  disordered  fancy,  but 
a  faithful  transcript  of  the  impressions  pro- 
duced upon  an  honest  heart  and  a  discerning 
mind  by  mutual  contact  with  the  realities  of 
life.  .  .  .  His  exquisite  taste  for  the  beautiful 
in  natural  scenerj-  and  in  language,  his  keen 
eye  to  observe,  and  his  warm  heart  to  com- 
miserate the  sorrows  of  mankind,  render  him 
a  'sweet  singer'  after  IS'ature's  own  heart;  while 
his  thorough  mastery  of  the  fine  language  of 
old  Scotland,  in  all  its  wealth  and  pith  of 
expressive  terms  and  familiar  idioms,  gives 
him  the  power  to  wield  at  will  the  sympathies 
and  feelings  of  a  large  portion  of  his  fellow- 
couutrvmen." 


HAEVEST-HOME. 


Hark !  'tis  the  voice  of  harvest-home 
That  rings  atliwart  the  welkin  dome, 
And  fields  and  forests,  hills  and  skies, 
Are  clothed  in  bright  autumnal  d3-es: 
The  generous  eartli  her  treasures  yields, 
And  golden  sheaves  bestrew  the  fields. 
And  sweeping  fleet  the  rigs  along, 
The  bands  of  sturdy  reapers  throng, 
Gath'ring  in  heaps  earth's  bounteous  load, 
Hymning  in  heart,  "All  praise  to  God!" 

Hail,  happy  field  I  hail,  joyous  sight! 
Where  manhood  strong,  and  beauty  bright, 
Invest  with  life  the  laughing  plain, 
Each  striving  foremost  place  to  gain ; 
From  gi'oup  to  group  the  farmer  flies 
With  cheerful  tones  and  eager  eyes. 
He  knows  that  friendly  joke  or  hint 
Works  wonders  when  it's  kindly  meant, 
And  sometimes  ere  the  day  be  past 
They  lead  the  first  who  lagged  the  last. 


Come  now,  your  sickles  nimbly  ply. 
Trust  not  that  richly  mottled  sky. 
For  lazy  vapours,  gray  and  cold, 
Are  creei^ing  o'er  the  distant  wold ; 
Then  haste,  press  on,  no  time  for  talk, 
Come  bind  and  fork,  come  lead  and  stack. 
That  mellow  moon  yields  ample  light, 
Come,  have  your  haiwest-home  to-night. 
Nor  leave  ungathercd  on  the  plain 
One  single  sheaf  of  golden  grain. 

The  harvest-moon,  the  harvest-moon. 

Praise  God  for  that  most  grateful  boon; 

From  dewy  eve  till  gray-eyed  morn 

She  scatters  gold  o'er  ripening  corn, 

And  flickering  through  the  cheijuered  leaves, 

She  studs  witli  gems  the  bristly  sheaves. 

And  cheers  the  weary  reapers  on 

Until  their  timely  labour's  done; 

Then  praise  Him,  morning,  eve,  and  noon, 

Who  gives  to  Eai'th  her  harvest-moon. 


300 


JAMES   BALLANTINE. 


But  see  the  harvest  maiden  Qneen, 
Borne  hghtly  laughing-  o'er  the  green, 
With  blushing  cheek  and  sparkling  eye 
She  waves  her  treasured  prize  on  high; 
Admiring  rustics  strive  in  vain 
Approving  smile  or  glance  to  gain, 
For  her  dear  Sandy's  coming  soon 
Far  o'er  the  moor,  'neath  that  bright  moon, 
With  her  through  yellow  fields  to  stray, 
And  fix  their  happy  bridal-day. 

The  fields  are  swept,  the  barns  are  filled, 

In  long  straight  rows,  huge  stacks  are  piled, 

In  graceful  forms  they  rise  en  high 

Beneath  the  farmer's  keen  gray  eye, 

Who  with  artistic  skill  and  care 

Must  have  them  built  to  taper  fair. 

Old  grandame's  fowls  are  clucking  heard 

Rejoicing  in  the  rich  barn-yard, 

And  happy  groups  of  peasants  come 

To  welcome  jocund  harvest-home. 

The  board  is  heaped  with  ample  cheer. 

And  all  are  linked  in  friendship  dear, 

And  on  one  level  all  are  raised. 

And  all  are  pleased,  and  all  are  praised; 

Till  roused  by  pipes  and  fiddles  sweet 

The  happy  groups  start  to  their  feet, 

And  dance,  and  skip,  and  cleek,  and  reel. 

And  bob,  and  bound,  and  whirl,  and  wheel, 

Till  floors  and  windows  shake  and  clatter. 

And  distance  whispers,  "  What's  the  matter?" 

Hail,  rural  mirth  and  rustic  glee! 

Hail,  honest  pure  simplicity! 

With  lively  dance,  and  joyous  song. 

Your  jocund  merriment  i:)rolong; 

And  while  your  bosoms  grateful  glow 

To  Him  whose  bounties  round  you  flow. 

And  while  your  thoughts  are  raised  to  Heaven, 

Be't  yours  to  give  as  He  has  given, 

Whose  sun  and  moon  illume  yon  dome, 

Who  gives  yon  gen'rous  harvest-home. 


THE   SXAWY   KIRKYARD. 

A'  Nature  lay  dead,  save  the  cauld  whistUn'  blast 
That  chilled  the  bleak  earth  to  the  core  as  it 

passed, 
And  heaved  in  high  ridges  the  thick  chokin'  drift 
That   cam'   in   wreathed   swirls  frae   the   white 

marled  lift. 
And  winter's  wild  war,  wearied  baith  heart  and 

e'e. 
As  we  warsled  richt  sair  ower  the  drear  muirland 
lea. 
And  our  feet  skyted  back  on  the  road  freezing 

hard, 
As  we  wended  our  way  to  the  Snawy  Kirkyard. 


0 !  snelly  the  hail  smote  the  skeleton  trees 
That  shivering  shrunk  in  the  grasp  o'  the  breeze, 
Nor  birdie,  nor  beast,  could  the  watery  e'e  scan, 
A'  were  cowerin'  in  corners,  save  grief -laden  man ; 

Tho'  the  heart  may  be  broken,  the  best  maun 
be  spared 

To  mak  up  a  wreath  in  the  Snawy  Kirkyard. 

The  wee  Muirland  Ilirk,  whar  the  jrare  Word  o' 

God 
Mak's  warm  the  cauld  heart,  and  mak's  light  the 

lang  road. 
The  slee  hill-side  yill-house,  whaur  lasses  meet 

lads, 
Whaur  herds  leave  their  collies,  and  lairds  tie 

their  j'auds. 
Kirk-bell  and  house  riggin',  the  white  drift  has 

squared. 
But  there's  ae  yawning  grave  in  the  Snawy 

Kirkyard. 

Thi-ough  a'  the  hale  parish,  nae  Elder  was  known 
That  was  likit  by  a'  like  my  grandfather  John, 
And  drear  was  I  that  day  when  we  bore  him  awa', 
Wi'  his  gowd  stores  o'  thought,  and  his  haffits  o' 
snaw; 
I   was  then  a  wee  callant,   rose-cheek'd   and 

gowd-hair'd, 
When  I  laid  his  auld  pow  in  the  Snawy  Kirk- 
yard. 

And  aye  when  I  think  on  thae  times  lang  gane  by, 
Saft  thoughts  soothe  my  soul,  and  sweet  tears 

dim  my  eye. 
And  I  see  the  auld  man,  as  he  clapp'd  my  wee 

head. 
While  a  sigh  heaved  his  breast,  for  my  faither 

lang  dead. 
He  nursed  me,  he  schooled  me, — how  can  I 

regard 
But  wi'  warm-gushing  heart-tears,  a   Snawy 

Ku-kyard. 

In  soothing  sad  sorrow,  in  calming-  mad  mirth. 
His  breath,  like  the  south  wind,  strewed  balm 

on  the  earth, 
And  weary  souls  laden  wi'  grief  aft  were  driven 
To  seek  comfort  frae  him,  wha  aye  led  them  to 

Heaven. 
0!  sweet  were  the  seeds  sown,  and  rich  was  the 

braird 
That   sprang   frae   that   stock  in  the   Snawy 

Kirkyard. 

Now  age  wi'  his  hoar-frost  has  crispit  my  pow. 
And  my  locks,  ance  sae  gowden,  are  silvery  now, 
And  tho'  I  hae  neither  high  station  nor  power, 
I  hae  health  for  my  portion,  and  truth  for  my 

dower. 
And  my  hand  hath  been  open,  my  heart  hath 

been  free. 


JAMES   BALLANTINE. 


301 


To  dry  up  the  tear-draps  frae  sorrow's  dull  e'e, 
And  moiiy  puir  bodies  my  awmrie  hae  shared, 
'Twas  my  counsel  frae  him  in  the  Suawy  Kirk- 
yard. 


FALLING    LEAVES. 

Pale  symbols  of  our  mortal  end, 

Ye  meet  me  on  my  way, 
■\Vhere  thrushes  coo,  and  streamlets  wend, 

As  if  it  still  were  ]\Liy. 

Your  merry  dance  with  wind  and  light. 

Your  bridal  green  is  gone; 
Ye  come  like  farewells  to  the  sight — 

Ye  fall  as  from  a  throne. 

Crisp  leaves  of  brown,  and  red,  and  yellow, 

Ye  can  but  fade  away; 
Ye  ne'er  will  rise  to  meet  your  fellow 

Upon  the  fresh  green  spray. 

But  friends  in  Clirist  though  fallen  now, 
And  in  the  churchyard  sleeping, 

Will  blossom  yet  on  Life's  spring  bough, 
And  glory  end  tlieir  weeping. 

Adown  the  stream  I  see  you  going. 
Here  spattered  with  the  foam. 

And  there,  on  waters  scarcely  flowing, 
Ye  rest  as  if  at  home. 

A  dream  comes  over  me  in  calm 

Of  trees  that  never  fade. 
Of  leaves  that  shed  a  healing  balm. 

Of  skies  that  never  shade. 

Our  days  are  dropping  like  the  leaves — 

Our  tree  will  soon  be  bare! 
For  shorter  are  our  summer  eves, 

And  colder  is  the  air. 

But  yet  the  orchard  fruit  grows  mellow; 

As  down  the  leaves  are  winging — 
Crisp  leaves  of  brown,  and  red,  and  yellow, 

I  hear  the  reapers  singing! 

"What,  then,  of  all  our  leaves  bereft, 
"When  reaping  angels  come. 
If  autumn's  golden  fruit  be  left — 
Their  joyous  harvest-home! 


The  auld  trees  shake  their  leafy  pows, 
Young  glossy  locks  dance  round  tlieir  brows, 
And  leaf  and  blade,  and  weed  and  flower, 
A'  joyous  drink  the  feeding  shower. 

The  misty  clud  creeps  ower  the  hill, 
And  mak's  each  rut  a  gurglin'  rill. 
And  tips  wi'  gowd  each  auld  whin  cowe. 
And  gaurs  the  heath  wi'  purple  glow, 
And  sterile  rocks,  gray,  bleak,  and  dour, 
Grow  verdant  wi'  the  feeding  shower. 

The  ewes  and  lambs  a'  bleat  and  brouse. 
The  kye  and  couts  a'  dream  and  drouse, 
'Mang  grass  wha's  deep  rich  velvet  green 
Is  glist  a'  owre  wi'  silver  sheen. 
And  birdies  churm  in  ilka  bower, 
A  welcome  to  the  feeding  shower. 

The  soil,  a'  gizen'd  sair  before, 

Is  filled  wi'  moisture  to  the  core; 

Ducks  daidlin'  in  the  dubs  are  seen. 

The  cawin'  corbies  crowd  the  green. 

Their  beaks  are  sharp  when  rain-cluds  lower— 

They  batten  in  the  feeding  shower. 

Furth  frae  their  stalks  the  ears  o'  grain 
Peep  sleely,  lapping  up  the  rain. 
Ilk  gowan  opes  its  crimson  mou'. 
And  nods,  and  winks,  till  droukit  fou, 
And  butter-cups  are  whomled  ower. 
Brim-laden  wi'  the  feeding  shower. 

The  drowsy  sun,  as  dozed  wi'  sleep, 
Doun  through  the  lift  begins  to  peep. 
And,  slantin'  wide  in  glist'nin'  streams. 
The  light  on  bright  new  verdure  gleams, 
And  Nature,  grateful,  owns  His  power 
AVha  sends  the  genial  feeding  shower. 


THE   FEEDING   SHOWEP. 

The  feeding  shower  comes  brattlin'  doun. 
The  south  wind  sughs  wi'  kindly  soun'. 


LAY  UP  TREASURES  IN  HEAVEN. 

WHiy  treasures  hoard  that  rust  and  rot, 

Or  gold  that  thieves  may  steal  ? 
Why  are  those  priceless  gems  forgot 

That  bear  God's  holy  seal  ? 
Strive  ye  to  gain  the  Christian's  share. 

And  store  in  heaven  your  prize; 
For  if  your  dearest  treasure's  there. 

There  will  your  wishes  rise. 

On  food  and  raiment  wherefore  spend 

Your  Ufe  in  carewoi-n  thought, 
Wliile  food  for  an  immortal  mind 

Kemains  by  you  unsought  ? 
Your  Father  feeds  the  fowls  of  air, 

Who  neither  reap  nor  sow; 


302 


JAMES   BALLANTINE. 


The  lilies  spin  not,  yet  how  fair 
The  gentle  lilies  grow ! 

And  if  God  feed  the  sparrow  small, 

And  clothe  the  fading  flower, 
Will  He  not  clothe  and  feed  you  all, 

Poor  children  of  an  hour? 
For  jjresent  wants  then  take  no  thought. 

But  fix  your  hearts  above; 
And  He,  whose  blood  your  souls  hath  bought, 

Shall  give  you  h'ght  and  love. 


WIFIE,  COME  HAME. 

Wifie,  come  hame, 
My  couthie  wee  dame! 
O  but  ye're  far  awa, 
Wifie,  come  hame! 
Come  wi'  the  young  bloom  o'  morn  on  thy  broo, 

Come  wi'  the  lown  star  o'  love  in  thine  e'e, 
Come  wi'  the  red  cherries  ripe  on  thy  mou', 
A'  glist  wi'  balm,  like  the  dew  on  the  lea. 
Come  wi'  the  gowd  tassels  fringin'  thy  hair, 

Come  wi'  thy  rose-cheeks  a'  dimpled  wi'  glee, 
Come  wi'  thy  wee  step,  and  wifie-like  air, 
0  quickly  come,  and  shed  blessings  on  me! 

Wifie,  come  hame. 
My  couthie  wee  dame! 
0  my  heart  wearies  sa,ir, 
Wifie,  come  hame! 
Come  wi'  our  love  pledge,  our  dear  little  dawtie, 
Clasping  my  neck  round,   an'  clamb'rin'  my 
knee; 
Come  let  me  nestle  and  press  the  wee  pettie. 

Gazing  on  ilka  sweet  feature  o'  thee: 
0  but  the  house  is  a  cauld  hame  without  ye, 

Lanely  and  eerie's  the  life  that  I  dree; 
0  come  awa',  an'  I'll  dance  round  about  ye, 
Ye'll  ne'er  again  win  frae  my  arms  till  I  dee. 


NAEBODY'S   BAIRN. 

She  Avas  Naebody's  Bairn,  she  was  Naebody's 

Bairn, 
She  had  mickle  to  thole,  she  had  mickle  to 

learn, 
Afore  a  kind  word  or  kind  look  she  could  earn. 
For  naebody  cared  about  Naebody's  Bairn. 

Tho'  faither  or  mither  ne'er  owned  her  ava, 
Tho'  reared  by  tlic  fremmit  for  fee  unco  sma', 
She  grew  in  the  shade  like  a  young  lady-fern; 
For  Nature  was  bounteous  to  Naebody's  Bairn. 


Tho'  toited  by  some,  and  tho'  lightlied  by  mair, 
She  never  compleened,  tho'  her  young  heart 

was  sair; 
And  warm  virgin    tears  that   might   melted 

eauid  airn 
Whiles  glist  in  the  blue  e'e  o'  Naebody's  Bairn. 

Though  nane  cheered  Iier  childhood,  an'  nane 

hailed  her  birth, 
Heavensent  her  an  angel  to  gladden  theeartli; 
And  when  the  earth  doomed  lier  in  laigli  nook 

to  dern. 
Heaven   couidna  but  tak  again  "Naebody's 

Bairn." 

She  cam'smiling  sweetly  as  young  mornin'  daw. 
Like  loun  simmer  gloamin'  she  faded  awa, 
And  lo!  how  serenely  tiiat  lone  e'enin'  starn 
Shines  on  the  green  sward  that  haps  Naebody's 
Bairn! 


A  STIEYE  HEART  AND  A  STURDY 
STEP. 

Ne'er  troAV   the   day   will    lour    throughout, 

altiiough  the  dawn  be  dark; 
Ne'er  dream   ye're  doomed   to  drag  througli 

life,  though  hard  your  early  wark; 
The  morning  gray  and  misty  aften  brings  a 

golden  day — 
Astieve  heart  and  a  sturdy  step  will  climb  the 

steepest  brae. 

A  wee  bit  jutting  boulder  whiles  will  help  ye 

ower  the  wa'. 
So  ne'er  despise  the  willing  gift,  although  it 

may  be  sma' ; 
The  birdie,  e'er  he  flees,  is  proud  to  hap  alang 

the  spray — 
A  stieve  heart  and  a  sturdy  step  will  climb  tlie 

steepest  brae. 

The  road  to  happiness  is  aft  wi'  sorrows  thickly 

strewn ; 
The  waur  to  win  the  mair  we  prize  ilk  comfort 

that  we  own; 
And   peace   and   freedom  aft   are   gained   by 

bluidy  battle  fray — 
A  stieve  heart  and  a  sturdy  step  will  climb  the 

steepest  brae. 

Then  if  the  prize  ye  seek  be  high,  and  if  your 

aim  be  pure. 
Press  onward  ever  hopeful,  still  be  patient  to 

endure; 


EVAN   MACCOLL. 


303 


For  lie  wlia  seeks  to  enter  heaven  miLst  wat'.-h, 

and  work,  and  pray — 
A  stieve  heart  and  a  sturdy  step  \\'A\  climb  the 

steepest  brae. 


ILKA  BLADE  0'  GRASS  KEPS  ITS  A IX 
DIJAP  0"  DEW. 

Confide  ye  aye  in  rrovidenee,  for  Providence  is 
kind, 

An'  bear  ye  a'  life's  changes  wi  a  calm  an'  tran- 
quil mind, 

Though  press'd  an'  hemm'd  on  every  side,  hae 
faith  an'  ye'll  win  through, 

For  ilka  blade  o'  grass  keps  its  ain  drap  o'  dew. 

Gm  reft  frae  friends,  or  cross'd  in  love,  as  whiles, 
nae  doubt,  ye've  been, 


Grief  lies  deep  hidden  in  j'our  heart,   or  tears 

tlow  frae  your  een. 
Believe  it  for  the  best,  and  trow  there's  good  in 

store  for  J'on, 
For  ilka  blade  o'  grass  keps  its  ain  drap  o'  dew. 

In  lang  lang  days  o'  simmer,  when  the  clear  and 

cludless  sky 
Refuses  ae  wee  drap  o'  rain  to  Nature  parch'd 

and  dry, 
The  genial  night  \vi'  balmy  breath  gaurs  verdure 

spring  anew. 
An'  ilka  blade  o'  grass  keps  its  ain  drap  o'  dew. 

Sae  lest  'mid  fortune's  sunshine  we  should  feci 

ower  i^roud  an'  hie. 
An'  in  our  pride  forget  to  wipe  the  tear  frae 

poortith's  e'e. 
Some  wee  dark  cluds  o'  sorrow  come,  we  ken  na, 

whence  or  hoo, 
But  ilka  blade  o'  grass  keps  its  ain  dra^)  o'  dcv,-. 


EYAN    MACCOLL. 


EvAX  MacColl,  better  known  to  his  Gaelic 
countrymen  as  "Clarsair  nam  Beann,"  or 
"The  Mountain  Harper,"  was  born  at  Ken- 
more,  Lochfyneside,  Argyleshire,  September 
21,  180S.  Here,  a  farmer  on  a  small  scale 
and  a  fisherman  at  the  same  time,  his  father 
Dugald  ]\IacColl  reared  a  family  of  six  sons 
and  two  daughters;  and  though  in  compara- 
tively humble  circumstances  he  contrived  to 
afford  his  second  son  Evan  a  good  education. 
Like  many  others  of  the  minstrel  race,  Evan 
seems  to  have  inherited  the  poetic  faculty,  and 
that  peculiar  temperament  incident  to  it,  from 
his  mother,  who  was  a  Cameron.  He  com- 
posed his  first  song  in  praise  of  a  neighbouring 
Chloe,  and  by  his  literary  effort  gained  great 
eclat  among  his  friends.  His  father's  circum- 
stances rendered  it  necessary  for  the  young 
poet  to  engage  in  the  business  of  farming  and 
fishing,  and  he  was  thus  employed  for  several 
years — years  during  which  many  of  his  best 
Gaelic  lyrics  were  composed.  In  the  spring 
of  1837  he  became  a  contributor  to  the  Gaelic 
Magazine,  then  published  in  Glasgow,  and 
before  the  close  of  the  year  he  issued  a  volume 
under  the  title  of  "Clarnach  nam  Beann;  or 


Poems  and  Songs  in  Gaelic."  IMacColl's  next 
publication  was  "  71ie  Mountain  Minstrel;  or 
Poems  and  Songs  in  English,"  a  Avork  which 
has  passed  through  four  editions.  Philip 
James  Bailey,  tiie  author  of  Festus,  speaking 
of  this  volume,  said — "There  is  a  freshness, 
a  keenness,  a  heartiness  in  many  of  these  pro- 
ductions of  the  'Mountain  Minstrel'  which 
seem  to  breathe  naturally  of  the  hungry  air, 
the  dark,  bleak,  rugged  bluffs  among  which 
they  were  composed,  alternating  occasionally 
with  a  clear,  bewitching,  and  spiritual  quiet, 
as  of  the  gloaming  deepening  over  the  glens 
and  woods.  Several  of  the  melodies  towards 
the  close  of  this  volume  are  full  of  simple  and 
tender  feeling,  and  not  unworthy  to  take  their 
place  by  the  side  of  those  of  Lowland  minstrels 
of  universal  fame." 

In  1831  MacCoU's  father  and  the  rest  of  the 
family  emigrated  to  Canada,  but  the  young 
bard  could  not  be  persuaded  to  leave  the  land 
of  his  birth,  where  he  remained,  and  in  1839 
was  appointed  to  a  clerkship  in  the  customs  at 
Liverpool,  Avhen  he  removed  to  that  city.  In 
1850,  in  consequence  of  impaired  iiealth,  he 
obtained  leave  of  absence  for  the  purpose  of 


304 


EVAN   MACCOLL. 


visiting  his  kinsmen  in  Canada.  Soon  after 
crossing  tlie  Atlantic  he  obtained  a  situation 
in  the  custom-house  at  Kingston,  Canada, 
uhere  he  still  continues  to  reside.  In  186i 
his  townsmen  presented  the  "Bard  of  Loeh- 
fyne"  -with  his  portrait  as  a  mark  of  their 
esteem  and  admiration. 

The  late  Dr.  Norman  Macleod,  himself  a 
poet,  said  —  "Evan  MacColTs  poetry  is  the 
product  of  a  mind  impressed  with  the  beauty 


and  the  grandeur  of  tlie  lovely  scenes  in  which 
his  infancy  has  been  nursed.  We  have  no 
hesitation  in  saying  that  this  work  is  that  of 
a  man  possessed  of  much  poetic  genius.  Wild 
indeed,  and  sometimes  rough,  are  his  rhymes 
and  epithets;  yet  there  are  thoughts  so  new 
and  so  striking — images  and  comparisons  so 
beautiful  and  original — feelings  so  warm  and 
fresh,  that  stamp  this  Highland  peasant  as 
no  ordinary  man." 


GLORY  TO   THE  BGAYE.i 

Mark  ye  how  the  Czar  threatens  Europe's  peace, 

Marshalling  his  millions  for  the  fray! 
Britons!  up  and  on  at  the  despot  base, 
Dashing  in  between  him  and  his  prey. 

Up!  'tis  honour's  cause; 

Up!  and  ere  you  pause 
Let  the  empire  sought  be  his  grave. 

Now's  the  fated  time! 

Crush  his  course  of  crime! 
Glory,  glory,  glory  to  the  brave! 

On  the  Euxine  wave — on  the  Baltic  tide 

Soon  shall  our  proud  banners  be  imf urled ; 
Britain  and  the  Gaul,  heart  and  hand  allied, 
Well  may  dare  to  battle  half  a  world. 

On  then  stern  as  fate! 

Strike,  ere  all  too  late! 
Europe  you  from  Cossack  iide  would  save : 

Onward  in  your  might — 

God  defend  the  right! 
Glory,  glory,  glory  to  the  brave! 

Waken,  Poland!  wake  from  thy  dream  of  death; 

Think  of  all  thy  suff 'rings  unavenged: 
Hungary,  arise !  proving,  in  thy  wrath. 
Thy  old  hate  of  tyranny  unchanged: 

By  thy  sword  of  flame, 

Schamyl !  son  of  fame. 
Swear  that  now  or  never  thou  shalt  have 

Thy  Cireassia  free, — 

Her  best  hope  is  thee : 
Glory,  glory,  glory  to  the  brave! 

Glory  to  the  brave!     Soon  may  they  return 

Cro%vn'd  with  wreaths  of  never-dying  fame ! 
Soon  their  haughty  foe  shall  his  i-ashness  mourn, 
Cover'd  with  discomfiture  and  shame. 

Potent  though  he  be, 

Europe  shall  him  see 
Mercy  on  his  knee  lowly  crave. 

Such  be  quick  the  fall 

Of  earth's  despots  all : 
Glory,  glory,  glory  to  the  brave! 

1  Wiitten  on  declaration  of  war  against  Russia  in  1S54. 


A  VISIT   TO   STAFFA. 

Over  Mull's  mountains  gray  dawned  the  warm- 
blushing  day. 

As  to  Ulva  a  good-bye  throw  we; 
Before  a  fair  wind  from  the  shore  right  behind 

Our  swift  bark  spreads  her  canvas  snowy. 
On,  on  speed  we  now  where,  far  off,  on  our  bow 

Loomed  that  isle  of  which  fame  s23oke  so  loudly; 
On,  where  wash  the  wild  waves  Staffa's  columns 
and  caves. 

Fast  and  faster,  our  way  we  go  proudh-. 

On  the  Paps  we  scarce  thought — of  Eigg's  cliff 
took  slight  note; 
Nor,  although  its  blessed  shore  was  so  nigh  us. 
Could  Columba's  own  isle  for  a  moment  beguile 
Our  charmed  gaze  from  that  now  which  lay  by  us. 
Like  a  fragment  chance-hurled  from  some  fairer- 
framed  world, 
'Mid  the  waves  round  it  joyously  dancing. 
Stood  that  isle  which  aU  there  well  indeed  might 
declare, 
All  unmatched  save  in  Sinbad's  romancing. 

And  now  thy  weird  beach,  wondrous  Staffa,  we 
reach — 

Now  we  kneel  with  devotion  beseeming; 
Now  that  grotto  we  mark,  where,  'tween  daylight 
and  dark, 

Combs  the  mermaid  her  tresses  gold-gleaming; 
And  now  wend  we  our  way  where  above  us  in  play 

Wakes  the  seamew  a  clamorous  chorus. 
Till  a  joyful  "  hurroo  I"  sudden  stops  us,  and  lo! 

Fingal's  Cave  in  its  gloiy  before  us ! 

What  vain  fool  would  compare  with  that  fabric 
so  rare 
Palace,  church,  or  cathedral  splendour? 
Charms  that  far  more  amaze  the  rapt  pilgrim's 
fond  gaze 
It  has  there  in  its  own  gloomy  grandeur. 
No — there's    nothing    can  be,   of    man's  work, 
matched  with  thee, 
Thou  famed  fane  of  the  ocean  solemn! 
He  who  sees  not  God's  hand  in  thy  record  so  grand 
Never  will  in  the  holiest  volume. 


EVAN   MACCOLL. 


305 


0  the  joy  of  that  hour!  0  the  heart-stirring  p3w'r 

Of  the  music  so  wiklly  romantic, 
Which  the  hght  summer  gale  in  yon  pile  blended 
well 
"With  the  sough  of  the  moaning  Atlantic  ! 
Still,  in  fancy's  charmed  ear,  that  wild  anthem  I 
hear — 
Still,  the  echoes  that  answered  our  voices. 
As  we  hymned  our  delight  at  His  goodness  and 
might 
Who  could  fashion  such  things  to  rejoice  us. 

Witching  isle  of  the  west,  never  made  for  thy 
breast 
Was  the  slow-gliding  plough  nor  the  harrow; 
But  the  Ughtnings  that  fly,  and  the  storms  pass- 
ing by. 
On  thy  brow  have  left  many  a  furrow. 
What  to  thee  is  the  spring  of  which  bards  love 
to  sing? 
What  reck'st  thou  how  the  harvester  speedeth, 
When  the  life-teeming  sea  giveth  amply  and  free 
All  thy  feathered  inhabitant  needeth  .' 

Thine  is  not  the  red  rose  that  like  beauty's  cheek 
glows, 
Nor  the  cuckoo  with  spring  returning; 
Thine  is  not  the  glad  thrush  in  the  green  hazel 
bush 
Hailing  sweetly  the  Maytido  morning; 
But  thine  is  the  shell  where  the  pearl  loves  to 
dwell, 
The  wild  swan  and  the  fulmar  wary, 
And  the  spar-spangled  cave  which  the  murmur- 
ing wave 
Lightens  up  with  an  emerald  glory. 

Staffa,  well  love  I  thee,  yet  right  loath  would  I  be 

In  the  winter  to  voyage  by  thee. 
When  the  west  winds  rave,  and  a  ready  grave 

Finds  the  bark  that  would  dare  to  nigh  thee. 
And  from  Skerrievore  comes  the  ceaseless  roar 

Of  the  mountain  waves  over  it  bounding. 
While  thy  echoes  reply  to  the  sea-bird's  shrill  cry 

Heard  afar  'mid  that  music  confounding. 

Then  the  time  is  to  hear  with  a  credulous  ear. 

What  old  islesmen  believe  in  devoutly — 
That  though  haughty  enow  in  the  calm  lookest 
thou. 

On  thy  pillar-propped  throne  seated  stoutly; 
Yet  withal,  when  the  storm  in  its  fearfullest  form 

O'er  the  maddened  Atlantic  sweeps  past  thee. 
Thou  dost  quiver  and  quake  like  a  leaf  in  the 
brake. 

As  if  fearing  each  hour  would  thy  last  be! 

When  but  yet  a  boy,  the  most  cherished  joy 
Of  my  heart  was  the  hope  to  view  thee; 

Ne'er  did  Moslem  pine  for  far  Mecca's  shrine 
More  than  I  for  a  journey  to  thee. 

Vol.  II. -U 


The  long  fret  is  o'er — yet  for  evermore 
Shall  the  glamour  by  thee  cast  o'er  me 

Flourish  fresh  and  fair  in  my  memory,  where 
Thou  shalt  seem  as  if  still  before  me. 


MY   EOWAN-TREE.i 

Fair  shelter  of  my  native  cot — 
That  cot  so  very  dear  to  me, 

0  how  I  envy  thee  thy  lot. 
My  long-lost  rowan-tree! 

Thou  standest  on  thy  native  soil, 
Proud-looking  o'er  a  primrosed  lea; 

The  skies  of  Scotland  o'er  thee  smile, 
Thrice-happy  rowan-tree! 

Well  do  I. mind  that  morning  fair 
AVlien,  a  mere  boy,  I  planted  thee: — 

A  kingdom  now  were  less  my  care 
Than  then  my  rowan-tree. 

How  proudly  did  I  fence  thee  round! 

How  fondly  think  the  time  might  be 
I'd  sit  with  love  and  honour  crown'd 

Beneath  my  rowan-tree. 

My  children's  children  thee  would  climb, 
Inviting  grand-papa  to  see; 

1  yet  might  weave  some  deathless  rhyme 

Beneath  my  rowan-tree. 

'Twas  thus  I  dream'd,  that  happy  day, 
I'd  die  to  tiiink  my  fate  woukl  be 

So  soon  to  plod  life's  weary  way, 
Far  from  my  rowan-tree. 

1  Written  on  receiving  in  Canada  a  Imncli  of  rowan- 
Tjenies  taken  from  a  tree  jilauted  by  JlacCoU  when  a 
boy.  To  the  proper  understanding  of  certain  allusions 
in  the  concluding  verses  of  the  poem,  it  may  be  neces- 
sary to  inform  the  uninitiated  in  Celtic  superstitions 
that  the  rowan-tree  was  once  held  in  great  veneration 
in  many  parts  of  the  Highlands  of  Scotland— and  this 
on  account  of  its  supjiosed  possession  of  virtues  that  are 
now,  I  suspect,  very  rarely  called  into  action.  Amulets 
made  from  its  wood  were  woni  about  the  person  as  a 
protection  against  the  malice  of  goblins,  witches,  and 
warlocks.  And  woe  be  to  that  woman  who  at  Beltane 
time  would  forget  to  place  a  sjirig  of  rowan  over  the 
entrance  to  her  byre!  The  butter  which  ought  to  fiil 
her  crocks  during  the  following  summer  would  be  sure 
to  find  its  way  into  the  churn  of  some  more  canny  and 
unscrupulous  neighbour!  The  worst  of  all  bad  luck, 
however,  was  certain  to  befall  that  household  at  whose 
hearth  there  was  not  a  careful  avoidance  of  using  any 
portion  of  the  rowan  tree  as  fire  wood!  A  death  in  that 
family  within  the  next  twelvemonths  would  be  the 
inevitable  consequence!  No  wonder  the  rowan-tree 
grew  and  flouri^hed  under  such  a  ]  rotective  system. 


306 


EVAN   MACCOLL. 


Long  years  have  passed  since  last  I  eyed 
Tliy  growing  grace  and  symmetry; 

A  stranger  to  nie  sits  beside 
My  long-lost  rowan-tree! 

Yet  still  in  fancy  I  can  mark 
Thy  lily  bloom  and  fragrancy, 

And  birds  that  sing  from  dawn  to  dark, 
Pcrch'd  on  my  rowan-tree. 

Like  rubies  red  on  beauty's  breast, 
Thy  clustering  berries  yet  I  see 

Half-hiding  some  spring  warbler's  nest, 
Left  in  my  rowan-tree. 

Fair  as  the  maple  green  may  tower, 

I'd  gladly  give  a  century 
]5eside  it  for  one  happy  hour 

Beneath  my  rowan-tree. 

The  forest  many  trees  can  boast, 
JMore  fit  perhaps  for  keel  or  knee; 

But  none  for  grace,  in  heat  or  frost. 
Can  match  the  rowan-tree. 

How  beautiful  above  them  all 
Its  snow-white  summer  drapery! 

A  cloud  of  crimson  in  the  fall. 
Seems  Scotland's  rowan-tree. 

Well  knows  the  boy  at  Beltane  time. 
When  near  it  in  a  vocal  key, 

What  whistles  perfectly  sublime 
Supplies  the  rowan-tree. 

Well  knows  he  too  what  ills  that  wretch 
]\Iight  look  for,  who  would  carelessly 

Home  in  his  load  of  firewood  fetch 
Aught  of  the  rowan-tree. 

In  vain  would  midnight  hags  colleague 
To  witch  poor  crummie's  milk,  if  she 
Had  only  o'er  her  crib  a  twig- 
Cut  from  the  rowan-tree. 

Alas!  that  in  my  dreams  alone 

I  ever  now  can  hope  to  see 
My  boyhood's  home  and  thou  my  own, 

Jly  matchless  rowan-tree! 


A  MAY  MORNING  IX  GLENSHIRA.i 

Lo,  dawning  o'er  yon  mountain  gray 
The  rosy  birth-day  of  the  May  ! 
Glenshira  knoweth  well  'tis  Beltane's  blissful 
day. 

1  Glenshira  is  in  Argyleshire. 


The  Maam  has  donned  its  brightest  green, 
The  hawthorn  whitens  round  Kilblane, 
And  blends  the  broom  its  gold  with  Shira's 
azure  sheen. 

Hark  from  the  woods  that  thrilling  gush 
Of  song  from  linnet,  merle,  and  thrush! 
To  hear  herself  so  praised  the  morning  well 
may  blush. 

The  lark,  yon  crimson  clouds  among. 
Rains  down  a  very  flood  of  song; 
An  age,  that  song  to  list,  would  not  seem  lost 
or  long. 

Yon  cushat  by  Cuilvocan's  stream 
The  spirit  of  some  bard  you'd  deem — 
One  who  had  lived  and  died  in  love's  delicious 
dream. 

Thrice  welcome  minstrel!  now  at  hand, 
The  cuckoo  joins  the  tuneful  band: 
A  choir  like  this  might  grace  the  bowers  of 
fairy-land ! 

Now  is  the  hour  by  Duloch's  tide 
To  scent  the  birch  that  decks  its  side. 
And  watch  the  snow-white  swans  o'er  its  calm 
bosom  glide. 

Now  is  the  hour  a  poet  might 
Be  blameless  if,  in  this  delight, 
He  Druid-like  adored  the  sun  that  crowns  yon 
height: 

0  ^lay!  thou'rt  an  enchantress  rare — 
Thy  presence  maketh  all  things  fair; 
Thou  wavest  but  thy  wand,  and  joy  is  every- 
where. 

Thou  comest,  and  the  clouds  are  not — 
Rude  Boreas  has  his  wrath  forgot, 
The  gossamer  again  is  in  the  air  afloat. 


The  foaming  torrent  from  the  hill 
Thou  changest  to  a  gentle  rill — 
A  thread  of  liquid  pearl,  that  faintly  murmurs 
still. 

Thine  is  the  blossom-laden  tree, 
The  meads  that  white  with  lambkins  be. 
Thou  paintest  those  bright  skies  that  in  each 
lake  we  see. 

Cheer'd  by  the  smile,  the  herd-boy  gay 
Oft  sings  the  rock-repeated  lay. 
And  wonders  who  can  be  the  mocker  in  liis 
way. 


EVAN   MACCOLL. 


307 


Thou  givest  fragrance  to  the  breeze, 
A  gleaming  glory  to  the  seas; 
Xor  less  thy  grace  is  seen  in  yonder  emerald 
leas. 

Around  me  in  this  dewy  den 
AVild  flowers  imparadise  the  scene; 
Some  look  up  to  the  sun — his  worshippers,  I 
ween: 

Some  here  and  there,  with  bashful  grace, 
Invite  the  roving  bee's  embrace; 
Some,  as  with  filial  love,  do  earthward  turn 
their  face. 

Above — around  me — all  things  seem 
So  witching  that  I  almost  deem 
Myself  asleep,  and  these,  creations  of  a  dream! 

But  cease,  my  muse  ambitious!  frail 
Thy  skill  in  fitting  strains  to  hail 
The  morn  that  makes  a  heaven  of  Shira's  lovely 
vale. 


TO  THE  FALLING  SNOW. 

Bright-robed  pilgrim  from  the  North! 
Visitant  of  heavenly  birth, 
Welcome  on  thy  journey  forth — 
Come,  come,  snow! 

Light  as  fairy  footsteps  free, 
Fall,  oil  fiill!  I  love  to  see 
Earth  thus  beautified  by  thee. 
Come,  come,  snow! 

Silent  as  the  flow  of  thought. 
Gentle  as  a  sigh  love-fraught, 
AVelcome  as  a  boon  long  sought, 
Come,  come,  snow! 

Let  him  boast  of  landscapes  green, 
Who  no  Highland  vale  hath  seen, 
Decked  in  thy  resplendent  sheen! 
Come,  come,  snow! 

Streamlets  that  to  yonder  tide 
Gleam  like  silver  as  they  glide, 
Look  like  darkness  thee  beside: 
Come,  come,  snow! 

At  thy  touch,  behold,  to-day 
The  dark  holly  looks  as  gay 
As  the  hawthorn  does  in  May: 
Come,  come,  snow! 

1  Written  iu  Glen  Urquhart,  Scotland. 


1,0 !  beneath  tliy  gentle  tread. 
Fair  as  bride  to  altar  led, 
15ends  the  lady-birch  her  head: 
Come,  come,  snow! 

See  how  like  a  crystal  column. 
By  yon  lake  so  calmly  solemn, 
Towers  magnificent  the  elm! 
Come,  come,  snow! 

Fields  that  late  look'd  bare  and  brown. 
Fairer  now  than  solan-down, 
Well  maintain  thy  bright  renown: 
Come,  come,  snow! 

Evening  stealeth  on  apace — 
Soon  in  all  her  virgin  grace 
Earth  shall  sleep  in  thy  embrace! 
Come,  come,  snow! 

But  enough^I  fain  would  see 
How  the  stars  shall  smilingly 
Gaze  upon  the  earth  and  thee: 
Cease — cease  now. 


THE  CHILD  OF  PROMISE. 

She  died — as  die  the  roses 

On  the  ruddy  clouds  of  dawn. 

When  the  envious  sun  discloses 
His  flame,  and  morning's  gone. 

She  died — like  waves  of  sun-glow 
Fast  by  the  shadows  chased; 

She  died — like  heaven's  rainbow 
By  gushing  showers  effaced. 

She  died — like  flakes  appearing 
On  the  shore  beside  the  sea; 

They  grew  as  bright;  but,  nearing, 
The  ground-swell  broke  on  thee. 

She  died — as  dies  the  glory 
Of  music's  sweetest  swell; 

She  died— as  dies  the  story 
When  the  best  is  still  to  tell. 

She  died — as  dies  moon-beaming 
When  scowls  the  rayless  wave: 

She  died — like  sweetest  dreaming 
That  hastens  to  its  grave. 

She  died — and  died  she  early: 
Heaven  wearied  for  its  own. 

As  the  dipping  sun,  my  Mary, 
Thy  morning  ray  went  down! 


308 


HORATIUS   BONAR. 


EVENING  ADDRESS  TO  LOCH- 
LOMOND. 

Lake  of  beauty!  lake  of  splendour, 
Ail-surpassingl  Jjomoud  rare; 

Fondly  to  thee  would  1  render 
Praise  befitting-  scene  so  fair. 

Matchless  mirror  of  the  Highlands, 
Cold's  the  heart  that  feels  no  glow, 

Viewing  thee  with  all  thy  islands — 
Pleaveu  above  and  heaven  below! 

All  from  margin  unto  margin 

Sleep'st  thou  in  thy  glowing  grace, 

Calmly  fair,  as  might  a  virgin 

Dreaming  of  some  chaste  embraco. 

Lo,  where,  watching  thee  serenely, 
Takes  yon  Ben  his  kingly  stand! 

Hills  that  else  were  great  look  meanly 
In  Benlomond's  presence  grand. 

How  yon  group,  in  grand  confusion, 
Now  seem  piercing  heaven's  concave, 

Now  seem  in  as  grand  confusion, 
Overturned  in  Lomond's  wave! 

See  yon  eagle  skyward  soaring — 

Air's  proud  empress  lightning-eyed: 

Lo,  she  sweeps!     The  prey  alluring 
Was  her  image  in  the  tide. 

Here,  the  wary  heron  seemeth 
Watching  me  with  careful  look; 

There  a  salmon  sudden  glcameth. 
In  his  spring  to  catch — the  hook. 

Hapless  trout!  exultant  angler, 
Vaunt  not  too  much  of  thy  skill : 

Thou  hast  met  a  sturdy  wrangler, 
One  that  yet  may  thwart  thy  will. 

Coasting  Innis-chailleach  holy, 
]\Iark  yon  otter  wide  awake! 

Doubtless  there  the  knave  sups  duly 
On  the  best  of  all  the  lake. 


Where  the  insect-chasing  swallow 
Hither-thither  skims  thy  breast. 

And  yon  wild  duck — timid  fellow — 
Flaps  his  wings  in  awkward  haste. 

See  with  what  an  air  of  scorning 
Sails  yon  swan  in  beauty's  pride. 

Bright  as  sunbeam  of  the  morning. 
Fairer  far  than  Eastern  bride! 

Little  recks  the  yeoman  yonder 

AVhat  to  me  such  rapture  yields; — 

More  to  him  than  all  thy  splendour 
Are  his  own  gold-tinted  fields. 

'Tis  for  him  yon  maids  the  cor'ran 

Ply  among  the  yellow  corn, 
Cheered  on  by  the  chorused  dran 

Of  such  happy  labours  born. 

Hark,  now: — 'tis  some  youthful  shepherd 

Whistling  all  his  cares  away 
Near  yon  fold  where,  lately,  upward 

To  the  milking  went  his  may. 

Nature  now  is  hush'd  to  silence, — 
Ceased  the  sportsman's  jjastime  fell: 

111  becomes  his  licensed  violence 
Heath-clad  Fruin's  fairy  dell. 

Now  thy  face,  loved  lake,  is  beamless, — 
Dies  the  daylight  in  the  west: 

Never  mind,  my  beauty  blameless. 
Stars  will  soon  bedeck  thy  breast! 

Vanished  is  the  ray  that  crimson'd 

Yonder  sky-sustaining  pile. 
And  like  captive  newly  ransom'd, 

See  how  Vesper  now  doth  smile. 

'Tis  the  witching  hour  of  gloaming, — 

Just  the  very  time  to  hear 
Fairy  footsteps  lakeward  roaming, 

Fairy  minstrels  piping  near. 

From  his  lair  the  fox  is  stealing, 
Quits  the  owl  her  hermit  cell: 

Vision  fair  past  all  revealing, 
Dear  Lochlomond,  now  farewell! 


HOEATIUS    BONAE. 


IIoRATius  BoNAR,  D.D.,  favourably  known 
as  a  sacred  poet  and  prose-writer,  was  born  at 
Edinburgh,  December  19,  1803.     His  ancestors 


for  several  generations  were  ministers  of  the 
Church  of  Scotland.  He  was  educated  at  the 
high -school    and    at    the    universitv   of    his 


//    ;_ 


'f* 


^%M 


^,r  ^  "bv  EIlio^_  IL  ":  r 


HOEATIUS   BONAE. 


309 


native  city.  For  several  ycay's  lie  acted  as  a 
missionary  at  Leitli,  after  wiiicli  lie  was  or- 
dained to  the  ministry  at  Kelso  in  November, 
1837.  He  remained  here  for  upwards  of  tliirty 
years,  when  he  returned  to  his  native  city,  and 
became  minister  of  tlie  Ciialmers  Memorial 
Free  Church.  Dr.  Bonar  was  for  some  time 
editor  of  the  Presbyter  km  Review,  afterwards 
of  the  Quarterly  Journal  of  Propliecy,  and  is 
the  author  of  above  twenty  volumes  of  a  reli- 
gious character,  including  "  Tlie  Land  of  Pro- 
mise," "The  Desert  of  Sinai,"  "Prophetical 
Landmarks,"  "  Earth's  Morning,  or  Thoughts 
on  Genesis,"  "God's  Way  of  Peace,"  and  "God's 
\Vay  of  Holiness;"  tiie  last  two  having  attained 
an  extraordinary  circulation.  To  tliese  must 
be  added  his  deservedly  popular  poetical  works, 
consisting  of  "Lyra  Consolationis,"  and  several 
series  of  his  beautiful  "Hymns  of  Faith  and 
Hope,"which  have  been  republislied  and  very 
extensively  circulated  in  the  Lhiited  States. 
Some  of  tlie  pieces  in  his  latest  volume  belong 
to  the  highest  order  of  religious  poetry. 

A  recent  visitor  to  Dr.  Bonar's  cliurch  in 
Edinburgh  furnishes  us  witii  the  following 
portraiture  of  the  gifted  poet-preacher: — "  The 
striking  feature  of  his  face  is  tlie  large,  soft. 


dark  eye,  the  power  of  wliicli  one  feels  across 
tlie  cliurch.  There  are  no  bold,  rugged  lines 
in  his  face;  but  benevolence,  peace,  and  sweet- 
ness pervade  it.  The  first  thought  was,  '  He 
is  just  like  his  hymns — not  great,  but  tender, 
sweet,  and  tranquil.'  And  everything  he  did 
and  said  carried  out  this  impression.  His 
prayer  was  as  simple  as  a  child's.  His  voice 
was  low,  quiet,  and  impressive.  His  address, 
for  it  could  scarcely  be  called  a  sermon,  was 
founded  on  the  words,  'The  Spirit  and  the 
Bride  say.  Come,'  'the  last  invitation  in  the 
Bible.'  It  was  marked  by  the  absence  of  all 
attempt  at  originality,  which  is  to  an  American 
so  striking  a  feature  of  most  foreign  preaching. 
It  was  simply  an  invitation — warm,  loving, 
urgent.  His  power  over  the  audience  was 
complete.  Even  the  children  looked  steadily 
in  his  face;  once  he  paused  in  his  discourse 
and  addressed  himself  especially  to  the  Sunday- 
school  children,  who  sat  by  themselves  on  one 
side  of  the  pulpit.  I  was  sure  the  little  ones 
never  heard  the  Good  Shepherd's  call  more 
tenderly  given.  "With  one  of  the  most  winning 
faces  I  ever  .saw  he  closed;  '  AVhosoever' — that 
includes  you;  'AVhosoever  lollV — does  that 
include  you?'" 


A    LITTLE    WHILE. 


Beyond  the  smiling  and  the  weeping 

I  shall  be  soon; 
Beyond  the  waking  and  the  sleeping, 
Beyond  the  sowing  and  the  reaping, 
I  shall  be  soon. 
Love,  rest,  and  home! 
Sweet  hope! 
Lord,  tarry  not,  but  come. 

Beyond  the  blooming  and  the  fading 

I  shall  be  soon; 
Beyond  the  shining  and  the  shading. 
Beyond  the  hoping  and  the  dreading, 
I  shall  be  soon. 
Love,  rest,  and  home! 
Sweet  hope! 
Lord,  tarry  not,  but  come. 

Beyond  the  rising  and  the  setting 

I  shall  be  soon ; 
Beyond  the  calming  and  the  fretting. 
Beyond  remembering  and  forgetting. 


I  shall  be  soon. 
Love,  rest,  and  home! 
Sweet  hope! 
Lord,  tarry  not,  but  come. 

Beyond  the  gathering  and  the  strewing 

I  shall  be  soon; 
Beyond  the  ebbing  and  the  flowing. 
Beyond  the  coming  and  the  going, 
I  shall  be  soon. 
Love,  rest,  and  home! 
Sweet  hope! 
Lord,  tarry  not,  but  come. 

Beyond  the  parting  and  the  meeting 

I  shall  be  soon; 
Beyond  the  farewell  and  the  greeting, 
Beyond  this  pulse's  fever-beating, 
I  shall  be  soon. 
Love,  rest,  and  home! 
Sweet  hope! 
Lord,  tarry  not,  but  come. 


310 


HOEATIUS  BONAE. 


Beyond  the  frost-chain  and  the  fever 

I  shall  be  soon; 
Beyond  the  rock-waste  and  the  river. 
Beyond  the  ever  and  tiie  never, 
I  shall  be  soon. 
Love,  rest,  and  home! 
Sweet  hope! 
Lord,  tarry  not,  but  come. 


NEWLY  FALLEN  ASLEEP. 

Past  all  pain  for  ever. 

Done  with  sickness  now; 
Let  me  close  thine  eyes,  mother. 

Let  me  smooth  thy  brow. 
Eest  and  health  and  gladness, — 

These  thy  portions  now; 
Let  me  press  thy  hand,  mother, 

Let  me  kiss  thy  brow. 

Eyes  that  shall  never  weep. 

Life's  tears  all  shed, 

Its  farewells  said, — 
These  shall  be  thine! 

All  well  with  thee; 
0,  would  that  they  were  mine ! 

A  brow  without  a  shade, 
Each  wrinkle  smoothed. 
Each  throbbing  soothed, — 

That  shall  be  thine. 
All  well  with  thee! 

0,  would  tiiat  it  were  mine! 

A  tongue  that  stammers  not 
In  tuneful  praise. 
Through  endless  days, — 

That  shall  be  thine. 
All  well  with  thee! 

0,  would  that  it  were  mine! 

A  voice  that  trembles  not; 
AH  quivering  past. 
Death's  sigh  the  last, — 
That  shall  be  thine.« 
All  well  with  thee! 

0,  would  that  it  were  mine! 

Limbs  that  shall  never  tire. 

Nor  ask  to  rest, 

In  service  blest, — 
These  shall  he  thine. 

All  well  with  thee! 
0,  would  that  they  were  mine! 

A  frame  that  cannot  ache, 
Earth'.s  labours  done. 


Life's  battle's  won, — 
That  sliall  be  thine. 
All  well  with  thee! 
0,  would  that  it  were  mine! 

A  heart  that  flutters  not, 

No  timid  throb, 

No  quick-breathed  sob, — 
That  shall  be  thine. 

All  well  with  thee! 
0,  would  that  it  were  mine! 

A  will  that  swervetli  not 

At  frown  or  smile. 

At  threat  or  wile, — 
That  shall  be  thine. 

All  well  with  thee! 
0,  would  that  it  were  mine! 

A  soul  still  upward  bent 
On  higher  flight. 
With  wing  of  light, — • 
That  shall  be  thine. 
All  Avell  with  thee! 

0,  Avould  that  it  were  mine! 

Hours  without  fret  or  care, 
The  race  well  run, 
The  prize  well  Avon,- — 
These  shall  be  thine. 
All  well  with  thee! 

0,  would  that  they  were  mine! 

Days  without  toil  or  grief, 
Time's  burdens  borne, 
AVith  strength  well  worn, — 

These  shall  be  thine. 
All  well  with  thee! 

0,  would  that  they  were  mine! 

Picst  Avithout  broken  dreams. 

Or  wakeful  fears. 

Or  hidden  tears, — 
That  shall  be  thine. 

All  well  with  thee! 
0,  Avould  that  it  were  mine! 

Life  that  shall  fear  no  death, 

God's  life  above. 

Of  light  and  love, — 
That  shall  be  thine. 

All  well  with  thee! 
0,  would  that  it  Avere  mine! 

Morn  that  shall  light  the  tomb. 
And  call  from  dust 
The  slumbering  just,— 

That  shall  be  thine. 
All  well  with  thee! 

0,  Avould  that  it  Avere  mine! 


HORATIUS   BONAR. 


311 


HEAA'EX. 

That  clime  is  not  like  this  dull  chmo  of  ours, 

All,  all  is  brightness  there; 
A  sweeter  influence  breathes  around  its  flowers, 

And  a  far  milder  air. 
No  calm  below  is  like  that  calm  above. 
No  region  here  is  like  that  realm  of  love; 
Earth's  softest  spring  ne'er  shed  so  soft  a  light, 
Earth's  brightest  summer  never  shone  so  bright. 

That  sky  is  not  like  this  sad  sky  of  ours, 

Tinged  with  earth's  change  and  care; 
No  shadow  dims  it,  and  no  rain-cloud  lowers— 

No  broken  sunsliine  there! 
One  everlasting  stretch  of  azure  pours 
Its  stainless  splendour  o'er  those  sinless  shores; 
For  there  Jehovah  shines  with  heavenly  ray. 
There  Jesus  reigns,  dispensing  endless  day. 

These  dwellers  there  are  not  like  those  of  earth 

No  mortal  stain  they  bear; 
And  yet  they  seem  of  kindred  blood  and  birth— 

Whence  and  how  came  they  there? 
Earth  was  their  native  soil;  from  sin  and  shame. 
Through  tribulation  they  to  glory  came; 
Bond  slaves  delivered  from  sin's  crushing  load. 
Brands  plucked  from  buming  by  the  hand  of  God. 

TBhese  robes  of  theirs  are  not  like  those  below: 

No  angel's  half  so  bright! 
Whence  came  that  beauty,  whence  that  hving 

Whence  came  that  radiant  white  ? 
Washed  in  the  blood  of  the  atoning  Lamb, 
Fair  as  the  light  these  robes  of  theirs  became, 
And  now,  alltears  wpcd  off  from  every  eye, 
They  wander  where  the  freshest  pastures  lie. 
Through  all  the  nightless  day  of  that  unfading 
sky. 


The  voice  of  the  weepers  wails  over  the  sleepers— 
The  martyrs  of  Scotland  that  now  are  away. 

The    hue    of    her    waters    is    crimson'd    with 
slaughters, 
And  the  blood  of  the  martyrs  has  redden'd  the 
clay; 
And  dark  desolation  broods  over  the  nation, 
For  the  faithful  are  perished,  the  good  arc 
away. 

On    the    mountains    of    heather   they  slumber 
together; 
On  the  wastes  of  the  moorland  their  bodies 
decay: 
How  sound  is  their  sleeping,  how  safe  is  their 
keeping. 
Though  far  from  their  kindred  they  moulder 

away ! 

Their  blessing  shall  hover,  their  children  to  cover, 
Like  the  cloud  of  the  desert,  by  night  and  by 

day;  ,    .  . 

Oh,  never  to  perish,  their  names  let  us  chensh, 
The  martyrs  of  Scotland  that  now  are  away! 


LUCY. 


THE   MAETYRS    OF   SCOTLAND. 

There  was  gladness  in  Zion,  her  standard  was 

flyings 
Free  o'er  her  battlements  glorious  and  gay; 
All  fair  as  the  morning  shone  forth  her  adorning. 
And  fearful  to  foes  was  her  godly  array. 

There  is  mourning  in  Zion,  her  standard  is  lying 
Defiled  in  the  dust,  to  the  spoiler  a  prey; 

And  now  there  is  wailing,  and  sorrow  prevailing, 
For  the  best  of  her  children  are  weeded  away. 

The  good  have  beentaken,theirplace  isforsaken— 
The  man  and  the  maiden,  the  green  and  the 
gray; 


AUGUST  20,  ISoS. 

All  niglit  we  watched  the  ebbing  life, 

As  if  its  flight  to  stay; 
Till,  as  the  dawn  was  coming  up, 

Our  last  hope  passed  away. 

She  was  the  music  of  our  home, 

A  day  that  knew  no  night. 
The  fragrance  of  our  garden-bower, 

A  thing  all  smiles  and  light. 

Above  the  couch  we  bent  and  prayed, 

In  the  half-lighted  room  ; 
As  the  bright  hues  of  infant  life 

Sank  slowly  into  gloom. 

Each  flutter  of  the  pulse  we  marked, 

Each  quiver  of  the  eye; 
To  the  dear  lips  our  ear  we  laid, 

To  catch  the  last  low  sigh. 

We  stroked  the  little  sinking  cheeks, 

The  forehead  pale  and  fair; 
We  kissed  the  small,  round,  ruby  mouth, 

For  Lucy  still  was  there. 

We  fondly  smoothed  the  scatter'd  curls 

Of  her  rich  golden  hair; 
We  held  the  gentle  palm  in  ours, 

For  Lucv  still  was  there. 


312 


HORATIUS   BONAR. 


At  last  the  fluttering  pulse  stood  still; 

The  death-frost,  tiiroiigh  her  chiy 
Stole  slowh',  and,  as  morn  came  up, 

Our  sweet  flower  pass'd  away. 

The  form  remained;  but  there  was  now 

No  soul  our  love  to  share; 
No  warm  responding  lip  to  kiss; 

For  Lucy  was  not  there. 

Farewell,  with  weeping  hearts,  we  said. 

Child  of  our  love  and  care! 
And  then  we  ceased  to  kiss  those  lips, 

For  Lucy  was  not  there. 

But  years  are  moving  quickly  past, 

And  time  Avill  soon  be  o'er; 
Deatii  shall  be  swallow'd  up  of  life 

On  the  immortal  shore. 

Then  shall  we  clasp  that  hand  once  more, 
And  smooth  that  golden  hair; 

Then  shall  we  kiss  those  lips  again, 
'When  Lucy  shall  be  there. 


NO   MORE   SEA. 

Summer  ocean,  idly  washing 

This  gray  rock  on  which  I  lean; 
Summer  ocean,  broadly  flashing 

With  thy  hues  of  gold  and  green; 
Gently  swelling,  wildly  dashing 
O'er  yon  island-studded  scene; 
Summer  ocean,  how  I'll  miss  thee, 

]\Iiss  the  thunder  of  thy  roar, 
iliss  the  music  of  thy  ripple, 

Miss  thy  sorrow-soothing  shore. 
Summer  ocean,  how  I'll  miss  thee. 

When  "  the  sea  shall  be  no  more." 
Summer  ocean,  how  I'll  miss  thee, 

As  along  thy  strand  I  range; 
Or,  as  here  I  sit  and  watch  thee 
In  thy  moods  of  endless  change. 

Mirthful  moods  of  morning  gladness, 
Musing  moods  of  sunset  sadness; 
AViien  the  dying  winds  caress  thee. 
And  the  sinking  sunbeams  kiss  thee, 
And  the  crimson  cloudlets  press  thee, 
And  all  nature  seems  to  bless  thee ! 
Summer  ocean,  how  I'll  miss  thee. 

Miss  the  wonders  of  thy  shore, 
Miss  the  magic  of  thy  grandeur, 
When  "the  sea  shall  be  no  morel" 

And  yet  sometimes  in  my  musings. 
When  I  tiiink  of  what  shall  be. 


In  the  day  of  earth's  new  glory, 

Still  I  seem  to  roam  by  thee. 
As  if  all  had  not  departed. 

But  the  glory  lingered  still; 
As  if  that  which  made  thee  lovely 

Had  remained  unchangeable. 
Only  that  which  marred  thy  beauty, 

Only  that  had  passed  away; 
Sullen  wilds  of  ocean-moorland, 

Bloated  features  of  decay. 
Only  that  dark  waste  of  waters 

Line  ne'er  fathomed,  eye  ne'er  scanned; 
Only  that  shall  shrink  and  vanish. 

Yielding  back  the  imprisoned  land. 
A'ielding  back  earth's  fertile  hollows. 

Long  submerged  and  hidden  plains; 
Giving  up  a  thousand  valleys 

Of  the  ancient  world's  domains. 
Leaving  still  bright  azure  I'anges, 

AVinding  round  this  rocky  tower; 
Leaving  still  yon  gem-bright  island, 

Sparkling  like  an  ocean  flower. 
Leaving  still  some  placid  sketches. 

Where  the  sunbeams  bathe  at  noon; 
Leaving  still  some  lake-like  reaches, 

Mirrors  for  the  silver  moon. 
Only  all  of  gloom  and  horror. 

Idle  wastes  of  endless  brine, 
Haunts  of  darkness,  storm,  and  danger; 

These  siiall  be  no  longer  thine. 
Backward  ebbing,  wave  and  ripple, 

W^ondrous  scenes  shall  then  disclose; 
And,  like  earth's,  the  wastes  of  ocean 

Then  shall  blossom  as  the  rose. 


ALL   WELL. 

No  seas  again  shall  sever, 

No  desert  intervene; 
No  deep,  sad-flowing  river 

Shall  roll  its  tide  between. 

No  bleak  cliffs,  upward  towering. 
Shall  bound  our  eager  sight; 

No  tempest,  darkly  lowering, 
Shall  wrap  us  in  its  night. 

Love,  and  unsevered  union 
Of  soul  with  those  we  love, 

Nearness  and  glad  communion. 
Shall  be  our  joy  above. 

No  dread  of  wasting  sickness. 
No  thought  of  ache  or  pain. 

No  fretting  hours  of  weakness, 
Shall  mar  our  peace  again. 


ALEXANDEE  HUME. 


313 


Ko  death  oui-  homes  o'ershading, 
Shall  e'er  our  harps  unstring; 

For  all  is  life  unfading 
In  presence  of  our  King. 


THE   MEETING-PLACE. 

Where  the  faded  flower  shall  freshen — 

Freshen  never  more  to  fade; 
Where  the  shaded  sky  shall  brighten — 

Brighten  never  more  to  shade  ; 
Where  the  sun-blaze  never  scorches; 

Where  the  star-beams  cease  to  chill; 
Where  no  tempest  stirs  the  echoes 

Of  the  wood,  or  wave,  or  hill: 
Where  the  morn  sliall  wake  in  gladness, 

And  the  noon  the  joy  prolong; 
Where  the  daylight  dies  in  fragrance, 

'Jlid  the  burst  of  holy  song: 

Brother,  we  shall  meet  and  rest 
'Mid  the  holy  and  the  blest! 

Where  no  shadow  shall  bewilder, 

Where  life's  vain  parade  is  o'er; 
Where  the  sleep  of  sin  is  broken. 

And  the  dreamer  dreams  no  more; 
Where  no  bond  is  ever  sundered; 

Partings,  claspings,  sob,  and  moan, 
]klidnight  waking,  twilight  weeping, 

Heavy  noontide — all  are  done: 
Where  the  child  has  found  its  mother, 

Where  the  mother  finds  the  child; 


Where  dear  families  arc  gathered 
That  were  scattered  on  tlie  wild: 
Brother,  we  shall  meet  and  rest 
'Mid  the  holy  and  the  blest: 

Where  the  hidden  wound  is  healed, 

AVhcre  the  blighted  life  re-blooms; 
Where  the  smitten  heart  the  freshness 

Of  its  buoyant  youth  resumes; 
Where  the  love  that  here  we  lavish 

On  the  withering  leaves  of  time. 
Shall  have  fadeless  flowers  to  fix  on 

In  an  ever  spring-bright  clime: 
Where  we  find  the  joy  of  loving 

As  we  never  loved  before, 
Loving  on,  unchilled,  unhinder'd, 

Loving  once,  and  evermore : 

Brother,  we  shall  meet  and  rest 
'JMid  the  holy  and  the  blest! 

Where  a  blasted  world  shall  brighten 

Underneath  a  bluer  sphere. 
And  a  softer,  gentler  sunshine 

Shed  its  healing  splendour  here: 
Where  earth's  barren  vales  shall  blossom. 

Putting  on  their  robe  of  green. 
And  a  purer,  fairer  Eden 

Be  where  only  wastes  have  been: 
Where  a  king  in  kingly  glory. 

Such  as  earth  hath  never  known. 
Shall  assume  the  righteous  sceptre. 

Claim  and  wear  the  holy  crown : 
Brothei",  we  shall  meet  and  rest 
'Mid  the  holv  and  the  blest. 


ALEXANDER    HUME. 


Born  1S09  — Died  1851. 


Alexander  Hume,  the  son  of  Walter  Hume, 
a  respectable  merchant  of  Kelso,  was  born  there 
in  February,  1809.  He  received  his  education 
in  his  native  town,  his  first  teacher  being  Mr. 
Ballantyne,  well  known  for  his  ability.  The 
family  afterwards  removed  from  Kelso  to  Lon- 
don. When  about  thirteen  or  fourteen  years 
of  age  Alexander  suddenly  disappeared,  and 
joined  a  company  of  strolling  players.  He  sang 
the  melodies  of  his  native  land  with  wonderful 
skill, — was  equally  successful  with  the  popular 
English  comic  songs  of  that  day, — could  take 


a  part  in  tragedy,  comedy,  or  farce,— and,  if 
need  be,  could  dance  a  reel  or  hornpipe.  He 
soon  therefore  became  a  great  favourite  with 
the  manager,  but  disgusted  with  his  associates 
he  left  them,  and  returned  to  London.  By  the 
kindness  of  a  relative  he  was  put  in  a  way  of 
earning  his  own  livelihood,  and  in  1827  he 
obtained  a  good  situation  with  a  firm  in  ilark 
Lane.  In  the  same  year  he  became  a  lover, 
which  first  influenced  him  to  attempt  the  art 
of  rhyming,  but  although  tolerably  successful 
in  his  eflTorts  at  verse-making,  he  failed  to  win 


314 


ALEXANDEE   HUME. 


the  object  of  his  admiration.  Hume  dedi- 
cated his  first  volume  of  songs  to  his  friend 
Allan  Cunningham.  In  the  preface  to  this  vol- 
ume he  saj's:  "  I  composed  them  by  no  rules 
excepting  those  which  my  own  observation  and 
feelings  formed;  I  knew  no  other.  As,  I  thought 
and  felt,  so  I  have  written.  Of  all  poetical 
compositions,  songs,  especially  those  of  the 
affections,  should  be  natural,  warm  gushings 
of  feeling — brief,  simple,  and  condensed.  As 
soon  as  they  have  left  the  singer's  lips  they 
should  be  fast  around  the  hearer's  heart."  In 
1837  the  poet  was  married,  and  in  1840  he 
visited  the  United  States  for  the  benefit  of  his 


health.  Five  years  later  he  published  a  com- 
plete edition  of  his  Poems  ami  Songs,  many 
of  which  enjoy  an  unusual  degree  of  popularity. 
In  1847  he  made  a  second  voyage  across  the 
Atlantic  for  the  benefit  of  his  health,  which 
had  become  impaired  by  over-application  to 
business.  He  returned  with  health  somewhat 
improved;  but  it  again  gradually  declined,  and 
he  died  at  Korthampton  in  Jlay,  1851,  leaving 
a  widow  and  six  children.  During  the  latter 
years  of  his  life  Mr.  Hume  entirely  abandoned 
literary  pursuits,  devoting  all  his  time  to  his 
business,  in  which  he  met  with  very  great 
success. 


MEXIE   HAY. 

A  wee  bird  sits  upon  a  spray. 
And  aye  it  sings  o'  Slenie  Hay, 
The  burden  o'  its  cheery  lay 
Is  "Come  away,  dear  Menie  Hay! 
Sweet  art  thou,  0  Menie  Hay! 
Fair,  I  trow,  0  Menie  Hay! 
There's  not  a  bonnie  flower  in  May 
Shows  a  bloom  \vi'  Menie  Hay." 

A  light  in  yonder  window's  seen. 
And  wi'  it  seen  is  Menie  Hay; 
Wha  gazes  on  the  dewy  green, 
Where  sits  the  bird  upon  the  spray? 
"  Sweet  art  thou,  0  Menie  Hay! 
Fair,  I  trou',  0  Menie  Hay! 
At  sic  a  time,  in  sic  a  \vay, 
What  seek  ye  there,  0  Menie  Hay?" 

'•'  What  seek  ye  there,  my  daughter  dear? 

AVhat  seek  ye  there,  0  :\Ienie  Hay?" 
"Dear  motiicr,  but  the  stars  sae  clear 

Around  the  bonnie  Milky  Way." 
"Sweet  art  thou,  0  Menie  Hay! 

Slee,  I  trow,  0  Menie  Hay! 

Ye  something  sec  ye  daurna  say, 

Pawkie,  winsome  Menie  Hayl" 


The  window's  shut,  the  light  is 
And  wi'  it  gane  is  Menie  Hay; 
But  wha  is  seen  upon  the  green. 
Kissing  sweetly  Menie  Hay? 
'Sweet  art  thou,  0  Menie  Hay! 
Sice,  I  trow,  0  Meme  Hay! 
For  ane  sae  young  ye  ken  the  way. 
And  far  from  blate,  0  Menie  Ilav! 


auc, 


"Gae  scour  the  country,  hill  and  dale; 
Oh!  wae's  me,  where  is  ilenie  Hay? 
Search  ilka  nook,  in  town  or  vale. 
For  my  daughter,  Menie  Hay." 

"  Sweet  art  thou,  0  Menie  Hay! 
Slee,  I  trow,  0  Jlenie  Hay! 
I  wish  you  joy,  young  Johnny  Tax, 
0'  your  bride,  sweet  Menie  Hav." 


MY  BESSIE. 

My  Bessie,  oh!  but  look  upon  these  bonnie 

budding  flowers. 
Oh!  do  they  no  remember  ye  o' mony  happy 

hours. 
When  on  this  green  and  gentle  hill  we  aftcn 

met  to  play, 
An'  ye  were  like  the  morning  sun,  an'  life  a 

nightless  day] 

The  gowans  blossom'd  bonnilic,  I'd  pu'  them 

from  the  stem, 
.\n'  rin  in  noisy  blithesomeness  to  thee,  my 

Bess,  Avi'  them. 
To  place  them  in  thy  lily  breast,  for  ae  sweet 

smile  on  me; 
I  saw  nae  mair  the  goAvans  then,  then  saw  I 

only  thee. 

Like  two  fair  roses  on  a  tree,  we  flourish'd  an' 

we  grew. 
An'  as  we  grew,  sweet  love  grcv,-  too,  an'  strong 

'tween  me  and  you; 
How  aft  ye'd  twine  your  gentle  arms  in  love 

about  my  neck. 
An'   breathe   young  vows  that  after  years  o' 

sorrow  has  na  brak! 


ALEXANDER  HUME. 


315 


We'd  raise  our  lisping  voices  in  auld  Coila's 

melting  lays, 
An'  sing  that  tearfu'  tale  about  Doon's  bonnie 

banks  and  braes; 
But  thought  na  we  o'  banks  and  braes,  except 

those  at  our  feet, 
Like  von  wee  birds  we  sang  our  sang,  \et 

ken'd  na  that  'twas  sweet. 

Oh!  is  na  this  a  joyous  day,  a'  nature's  breath- 
ing forth 

In  gladness  an'  in  loveliness  ower  a'  the  wide, 
wide  earth? 

The  linties  they  are  lilting  love  on  ilka  bush 
an'  tree, 

Oh!  may  such  joy  be  ever  felt,  my  Bess,  by 
thee  and  me! 


SAXDY  ALLAN. 

Wha  is  he  I  hear  sae  crouse, 

There  ahint  the  hallan? 
Whase  skirling  rings  through  a'  the  house, 

Ilk  corner  o'  the  dwallin'. 
0!  it  is  ane,  a  weel  kent  chiel, 

As  mirth  e'er  set  a  bawlin', 
Or  filled  a  neuk  in  drouthy  bicl, — 

It's  canty  Sandy  Allan. 

lie  has  a  gaucy  kind  gudewife. 

This  blithesome  Sandy  Allan, 
Who  lo'es  him  mickle  mair  than  life, 

An'  glories  in  her  callan. 
As  sense  an'  sound  are  ane  in  song, 

Sae's  Jean  an'  Sandy  Allan; 
Twa  hearts,  yet  but  ae  pulse  an'  tongue, 

Ha'e  Luckie  an'  her  callan. 

To  gi'e  to  a',  it's  aye  his  rule, 

Their  proper  name  an'  callin', 
A  knave's  a  knave,  a  fule's  a  fule, 

Wi'  honest  Sandy  Allan. 
For  ilka  vice  he  has  a  dart. 

An'  heavy  is  its  fallin'; 
But  aye  for  worth  a  kindred  lieart 

Has  ever  Sandy  Allan. 

To  kings  his  knee  he  winna  bring, 

Sae  proud  is  Sandy  Allan, 
The  man  wha  richtly  feels  is  king, 

Ower  rank,  wi'  Sandy  Allan. 
Auld  Nature,  just  to  show  the  warl' 

Ae  truly  honest  callan, 
E'en  strippit  till't,  and  made  a  carle, 

An'  ca'd  him  Sandv  Allan. 


I'VE  'WAXDER'D  OX  THE  SUNNY 
HILL. 

I've  wander'd  on  the  sunny  hill,  I've  wander'd 

in  the  vale. 
When  sweet  wee  birds  in  fondness  meet  to 

breathe  their  am'rous  tale; 
But  hills  or  vales,  or  sweet  wee  birds,  nae 

pleasures  gae  to  me — - 
The  light  that  beani'd  its  ray  on  me  was  love's 

sweet  glance  from  thee. 

The  rising  sun,  in  golden  beams,  dispels  the 
night's  dark  gloom — 

The  morning  dew  to  rose's  hue  imparts  a  fresh- 
ening bloom: 

But  sunbeams  ne'er  so  brightly  play'd  in  dance 
o'er  yon  glad  sea, 

Nor  roses  laved  in  dew  sae  sweet  as  love's  sweet 
glance  from  thee. 

1  love  thee  as  the  pilgrims  love  the  water  in 

the  sand. 
When  scorching  rays  or  blue  simoom  sweep 

o'er  their  withering  hand; 
The  captive's  heart  nae  gladlier  beats  when  set 

from  prison  free, 
Than  I  when  bound  wi'  beauty's  chain  in  love's 

sweet  glance  from  thee. 

I  loved  thee,  bonnie  Bessie,  as  the  earth  adores 

the  sun, 
I  ask'd  nae  lands,  I  crav'd  nae  gear,  I  prized 

but  thee  alone; 
Ye  smiled  in  look,  but  no  in  heart — your  heart 

was  no  for  me; 
Ye  planted  hope  that  never  blooni'd  in  love's 

sweet  glance  from  thee. 


OH!  YEARS   HAE   COME. 

Oh!  years  hae  come,  an'  years  hae  gane. 
Sin'  first  I  sought  the  warld  alane. 
Sin'  first  I  mused  wi'  heart  sae  fain 

On  the  hills  o'  Caledonia. 
But  oh!  behold  the  present  gloom, 
My  early  friends  are  in  the  tomb. 
And  nourish  now  the  heather  bloom 

On  the  hills  o'  Caledonia. 

My  father's  name,  my  father's  lot, 
Is  now  a  tale  that's  heeded  not. 
Or  sang  unsung,  if  no  forgot. 
On  the  hills  o'  Caledonia. 


316 


JOHN   S.   BLAC'lvIE. 


0'  our  great  ha'  there's  left  nae  stane — 
A'  swept  away,  like  snaw  lang  gane; 
Weeds  flourish  o'er  the  auld  domain 
On  the  hills  o'  Caledonia. 

The  Ti'ot's  banks  are  bare  and  high, 
The  stream  rins  sma'  and  mournfu'  by, 
Like  some  sad  heart  maist  grutten  di'y, 

On  the  hills  o'  Caledonia. 
The  wee  birds  sing  no  frae  the  tree, 
The  wild-flowers  bloom  no  on  the  lea. 


As  if  the  kind  things  pitied  me 
On  the  hills  o'  Caledonia. 

But  friends  can  live,  though  cold  they  Ke, 
An'  mock  the  mourner's  tear  an'  sigh; 
AVhen  we  forget  them,  then  they  die 

On  the  hills  o'  Caledonia. 
An'  howsoever  changed  the  scene, 
While  memory  an'  my  feeling's  green, 
Still  green  to  my  auld  heart  an'  een 

Are  the  hills  o'  Caledonia. 


JOHN    S.    BLACKIE. 


JoHX  Stuart  Blackie  was  born  at  Glasgow, 
July  28,  1809.  His  father,  who  was  a  banker, 
removed  to  Aberdeen  when  John  Avas  very 
young,  and  here  he  began  his  education  at  a 
private  school,  then  under  the  rectorship  of 
Mr.  ]\Ierson.  In  his  twelfth  year  he  i)ecame  a 
student  of  Jlarischal  College,  where  he  re- 
mained for  four  years,  and  then  attended  the 
University  of  Edinburgh.  In  1829  he  went  to 
the  Continent,  and  continued  his  studies  at 
Giittingen  and  Berlin.  From  Germany  he  pro- 
ceeded to  Italy,  where  he  devoted  himself  to  the 
study  of  theltalian  languageand  literature,  and 
to  the  science  of  arch£eology.  On  his  return  to 
Scotland  he  studied  law,  and  was  called  to  the 
bar  in  1834;  but  not  finding  the  profession 
congenial,  he  occupied  his  time  chiefly  in  writ- 
ing for  the  reviews.  It  was  at  this  time  that 
he  published  a  very  successful  translation  of 
Goethe's  "Faust,"  which  at  once  established 
his  reputation  as  an  accomplished  German 
scholar.  In  1841  he  was  appointed  professor 
of  Humanity  in  Marischal  College,  a  position 
which  he  held  for  eleven  years.  In  1850 
he  pul)lished  a  translation  of  the  dramas  of 
iEschylus,  which  he  dedicated  to  the  Chevalier 
Bunsen  and  Edward  Gerhard,  "the  friends 
of  his  youth  and  the  directors  of  his  early 
studies." 

In  1852  Blackie  was  elected  to  the  chair  of 


1  The  learned  professor,  in  his  enthusiasm  for  that 
ancient  tongue,  declares  broad  Scotch  "  Doric  "  the  only 
correct  pronuticiation.  '-The  English,"  lie  remarks, 
'don't  know  how  to  pronounce  Greek.     When  Glad- 


Greek  in  the  Edinburgh  Universitj-,  and  in 
1853  he  travelled  in  Greece,  residing  in  Athens 
for  several  months  until  he  had  acquired 
a  fluent  use  of  the  living  Greek  language.^ 
In  the  matter  of  accent  he  became  a  convert 
to  the  modern  Greek  pronunciation,  with 
certain  modifications,  and  has  since  then  per- 
sistently denounced  the  English  method  of 
pronouncing  Greek  with  Latin  accentuation 
as  a  barbarous  figment,  ntterly  destitute  of 
any  foundation  either  in  science  or  in  philo- 
logical tradition.  In  1857  he  published  Lays 
and  Leyends  of  Ancient  Greece,  ivith  other 
Poems.  In  1860  he  issued  Lyrical  Poems — 
many  of  them  in  Latin;  and  six  years  later 
his  Homer  and  the  Iliad,  in  four  octavo  vols., 
including  a  translation  of  the  Iliad  in  ballad 
measure.  For  his  highest  honours  as  a  poet  and 
a  scholar  Professor  Blackie  is  indebted  to  his 
admirable  rendering  of  the  illustrious  Greek 
poet.  Several  of  his  lectures  and  discourses 
have  been  issued  separately,  of  which  the  most 
famous  is  the  discourse  on  Democracy,  in  which 
he  defended  the  principles  of  the  British  con- 
stitution in  opposition  to  those  who  held  up 
America  as  the  model  of  political  excellence. 
The  j-ear  following  Miisa  BurscJticosa,  a 
volume  of  songs  for  students  and  univer- 
sity men,  appeared;  and  in  1870  he  put  forth 

stone  went  to  Greece  a  few  years  ago,  not  a  word  could 
the  Greeks  understand  wlien  he  spoke  to  them;  there- 
fore he  was  obliged  to  address  them  at  Corfu  in  Italian. 
I  went  to  Greece  and  they  understood  every  word  1 
said." — Ed. 


JOHN   S.   BLACKIE. 


317 


a  volume  of  War  Songs  of  the  Germam, 
with  lii.storical  sketches,  in  which  he  advo- 
cated the  cause  of  Germany  against  France 
with  great  energy  and  decision.  This  work  was 
followed  in  1872  by  Lays  of  the  HUjltlands  and 
Inlands,  and  by  a  prose  volume  entitled  Self- 
cidture,  which  appeared  in  1874  and  was  repub- 
lished in  the  United  States.  Professor  Blackie 
lias  also  appeared  as  a  lecturer  in  the  Eoyal 
Institution,  London,  where  he  successfully 
combated  the  views  of  John  Stuart  Mill  in 
moral  philosophy,  of  Mr.  Grote  in  his  estimate 
of  the  Greek  Sophists,  and  of  Max  Midler  in 
his  allegorical  interpretation  of  ancient  myths. 
His  views  on  moral  philosophy  were  afterwards 
embodied  in  a  separate  work.  The  Four  Phases 
of  Morals  (second  edition,  1874,  reprinted  in 
America);  while  his  philological  papers  gen- 
erally appeared  under  the  title  of  Hone  Hel- 
lenkai  (London,  1874).  His  philosophy  of 
Taste  appeared  in  the  work  On  Beauty  (1858), 
in  which  he  combated  the  famous  Association 
theory  of  Alison  and  JeflVey.  Jlore  recently 
he  has  advocated  with  characteristic  energy 
and  ardour  the  establishment  of  a  Celtic  pro- 
fessorship in  the  University  of  Edinburgh. 
Another  volume  of  poems,  entitled  Songs  of 


Beligion  and  Life  appeared  in  1876,  and  con- 
tains many  fine  effusions,  amongst  others  the 
poem  "Beautiful  World."  He  is  now  (May, 
1876)  engaged  on  a  work  to  be  entitled  7'he 
Language  and  Literature  of  the  Highlands. 

A  writer  in  St.  James's  Magazine  says: — 
"  Professor  Blackie  has  been  known  so  long  for 
his  excellent  translations  and  his  scholarly 
abilities,  that  it  will  be  unnecessary  to  say 
much  here.  If  additional  proof  were  needed 
that  there  is  more  in  the  teaching  of  the 
classics  than  mere  'gerund-grinding,'  we  have 
it  in  this  most  amiable  of  Scotch  professors. 
It  would  be  a  treat  of  no  ordinary  kind  to  hear 
him  dilate  upon  Aristophanes.  There  are 
points,  too,  in  Homer,  which  no  one  has  seized 
upon  so  sharply  and  effectively  as  he.  We 
should  like  to  hear  him  talk  oflTliand  about 
Thersites.  Yet  the  wonder  is  that  Professor 
Blackie  should  have  spent  so  much  of  his  time 
in  translations — not  in  the  class,  but  in  his 
study  as  literary  work — considering  his  un- 
deniable claims  as  a  writer  of  original  poetry. 
There  is  no  member  of  a  Scotch  senatus  so  well 
and  favourably  known  as  Professor  Blackie, 
chiefly  because  he  has  so  little  of  the  orthodox 
school-man  about  him." 


THE    DEATH    OF    COLUMBA. 


Saxon  stranger,  thou  didst  wisely, 

Sunder'd  for  a  little  space 
From  that  motley  stream  of  people 

Drifting  by  this  holy  place; 
With  the  furnace  and  the  funnel 

Through  the  long  sea's  glancing  arm, 
Let  them  hurry  back  to  Oban, 

Where  the  tourist  loves  to  swarm. 
Here,  upon  this  hump  of  granite. 

Sit  with  me  a  quiet  while. 
And  I'll  tell  thee  how  Columba 

Died  upon  this  old  gray  isle. 


'Twas  in  May,  "a  breezy  morning. 

When  the  sky  was  fresh  and  bright, 
And  tlie  broad  blue  ocean  shimmer'd 

AVith  a  thousand  gems  of  light. 
On  the  green  and  grassy  JIaehar, 

Where  the  fields  are  spredden  wide, 
And  the  crags  in  quaint  confusion 

Jut  into  the  AVestern  tide; 


Here  his  troop  of  godly  people. 

In  stout  labour's  garb  array'd, 
Blithe  their  fruitful  task  were  plying 

AVith  the  hoe  and  with  the  spade. 
"  I  will  go  and  bless  my  people," 

Quoth  the  father,  "  ere  I  die. 
But  the  strength  is  slow  to  follow 

AVhere  the  wish  is  swift  to  fly; 
I  am  old  and  feeble,  DJarmid, 

Yoke  the  oxen,  be  not  slow, 
I  will  go  and  bless  my  people. 

Ere  from  earth  my  spirit  go." 
On  his  ox-drawn  wain  he  mounted. 

Faithful  Diarmid  by  Ids  side; 
Soon  they  reached  the  grassy  ^lachar, 

Soft  and  smooth,  lona's  pride: 
"  I  am  come  to  bless  my  people. 

Faithful  fraters,  ere  I  die; 
I  had  wish'd  to  die  at  Easter, 

But  I  would  not  mar  your  joy, 
Xow  the  Master  plainly  calls  me, 

Gladly  I  obey  his  call ; 


318 


JOHN   S.   BLACKIE. 


I  am  ripe,  I  feel  the  sickle, 

Take  my  blessing  ere  I  fall." 
But  they  heard  his  words  with  weeping, 

And  their  tears  fell  on  the  dew, 
And  their  eyes  were  dimmed  with  sorrow. 

For  they  knew  his  words  were  true. 
Then  he  stood  up  on  the  waggon, 

And  his  prayerful  hands  he  hove. 
And  he  spake  and  bless'd  the  people 

AVith  tlie  blessing  of  his  love: 
"God  be  with  you,  faitliful  fraters, 

With  you  now,  and  evermore; 
Keep  you  from  the  touch  of  evil. 

On  your  souls  his  Spirit  pour; 
God  be  with  you,  fellow-workmen, 

And  from  loved  lona's  shore 
Keep  the  blighting  breath  of  demons. 

Keep  the  viper's  venom'd  storel" 
Thus  he  spake,  and  turn'd  the  oxen 

Townwards;  sad  they  went,  and  slow. 
And  the  people,  fixed  in  sorrow. 

Stood,  and  saw  the  father  go. 

n. 

List  me  further,  Saxon  stranger, 
Note  it  nicely,  by  the  causeway 

On  the  left  hand,  where  thou  came 
With  the  motley  tourist  people. 

Stands  a  cross  of  figured  fame. 
Even  now  thine  eye  may  see  it, 

Near  the  nunnery,  slim  and  gray; — 
From  the  wag^gon  tiiere  Columba 

Lighted  on  that  tearful  day. 
And  he  sat  beneath  the  shadow 

Of  that  cross,  upon  a  stone. 
Brooding  on  his  speedy  passage 

To  the  land  where  grief  is  none; 
When,  behold,  the  mare,  the  white  one 

That  was  wont  the  milk  to  bear 
From  the  dairy  to  the  cloister, 

Stood  before  him  meekly  there, 
Stood,  and  softly  came  up  to  him. 

And  with  move  of  gentlest  grat;e 
O'er  the  shoulder  of  Columba 

Tiirust  her  piteous-pleading  face, 
Look'd  upon  him  as  a  friend  looks 

On  a  friend  that  goes  away, 
Sunder'd  from  the  land  that  loves  him 

By  wide  seas  of  briny  spray. 
"Fie  upon  thee  for  thy  manners!" 

Diarmid  cried  Avitli  lifted  rod, 
"Wilt  thou  with  untimely  fondness 

Vex  the  prayerful  man  of  God  ]" 
"Not  80,  Diarmid,"  cried  Columba; 
"Dost  thou  see  the  spcechful  eync 
Of  the  fond  and  faithful  creature 

Sorrow'd  with  the  swelling  brine? 


God  hath  taught  the  mute  unreasoning 

What  thou  fail'st  to  understand, 
That  tliis  day  I  pass  for  ever 

From  lona's  shelly  strand. 
Have  my  blessing,  gentle  creature, 

God  doth  bless  both  man  and  beast; 
From  hard  yoke,  when  I  sliall  leave  tiiee. 

Be  thy  faithful  neck  released." 
Thus  he  spoke,  and  quickly  rising 

AVith  what  feeble  strength  remained, 
Leaning  on  stout  Diarmid's  shoulder, 

A  green  hillock's  top  he  gained. 
There,  or  here  where  we  are  sitting, 

AVhence  his  eye  might  measure  Avell 
Botli  the  cloister  and  the  chapel. 

And  his  pure  and  prayerful  cell. 
There  he  stood,  and  high  uplifting 

Hands  whence  flowed  a  healing  grace. 
Breathed  his  latest  voice  of  blessing 

To  protect  the  sacred  place, — 
Spake  such  words  as  prophets  utter 

When  the  veil  of  flesh  is  rent, 
And  the  present  fades  from  vision, 

On  the  germing  future  bent: 
"God  thee  bless,  thou  loved  lona. 

Though  thou  art  a  little  spot. 
Though  thy  rocks  are  gray  and  treeless. 

Thine  shall  be  a  boastful  lot; 
Thou  shalt  be  a  sign  for  nations; 

Nurtured  on  thy  sacred  breast. 
Thou  shalt  send  on  holy  mission 

Men  to  teach  both  East  and  West; 
Peers  and  potentates  shall  own  thee, 

ilonarchs  of  wide-sceptred  sway 
Dying  shall  beseech  the  honour 

To  be  tomb'd  beneath  thy  clay; 
God's  dear  saints  shall  love  to  name  thee. 

And  from  many  a  storied  land 
Men  of  clerkly  fame  shall  pilgrim 

To  lona's  little  strand." 

III. 

Thus  the  old  man  spake  his  blessing; 

Tlien,  where  most  he  loved  to  dwell, 
Tlirough  the  well-known  porch  he  enter'd 

To  his  pure  and  prayerful  cell; 
And  then  took  the  holy  psalter — 

'Twas  his  wont  when  he  would  pray — 
Bound  with  three  stout  clasps  of  silver, 

From  the  casquet  where  it  lay; 
There  he  read  with  fixed  devoutness. 

And,  with  craft  full  fair  and  fine, 
On  the  smooth  and  polished  vellum 

Copied  forth,  the  sacred  line. 
Till  he  came  to  wliere  the  kingly 

Singer  sings  in  faithful  mood, 
How  the  younglings  of  the  lion 

Oft  may  roam  in  vain  for  food. 


JOHN   S.   BLACKIE. 


319 


But  -who  fear  the  Lord  shall  never 
Live  and  luck  their  proper  good. 
Here  he  stopped,  and  said,  "  My  latest 

Now  is  written;  what  remains 
I  bequeath  to  faithful  Beathan 

To  complete  with  pious  pains." 
Then  he  rose,  and  in  the  chapel 
Conned  the  pious  vesper  song 
Inly  to  himself,  for  feeble 

Now  the  voice  that  once  was  strong; 
Hence  with  silent  step  returning 
To  his  pure  and  prayerful  cell, 
On  the  round  smooth  stone  he  laid  him 

AVhich  for  pallet  served  him  well. 
Here  some  while  he  lay ;  then  rising, 

To  a  trusty  brother  said : 
'Brother,  take  my  parting  message. 
Be  my  last  words  wisely  weighed. 
'Tis  an  age  of  brawl  and  battle; 

Men  who  seek  not  God  to  please. 
With  wild  sweep  of  lawless  passion 

Waste  the  land  and  scourge  the  seas. 
Not  like  them  be  ye;  be  loving, 

Peaceful,  patient,  truthful,  bold, 
But  in  service  of  your  Master 

Use  no  steel  and  seek  no  gold." 
Thus  he  spake;  but  now  there  sounded 

Through  the  night  the  holy  bell 
That  to  Lord's-day  matins  gather'd 

Every  monk  from  every  cell. 
Eager  at  the  sound,  Columba 

In  the  way  foresped  the  rest, 
And  before  the  altar  kneeling, 

Pray'd  with  hands  on  holy  breast. 
Diarmid  followed;  but  a  marvel 

Flow'd  upon  his  wondering  eyne, — 
All  the  windows  shone«with  glorious 

Light  of  angels  in  the  shrine. 
Diarmid  enter'd;  all  was  darkness. 
' ' Father! "     But  no  answer  came. 
"Father!  art  thou  here,  Columba?" 
Nothing  answer'd  to  the  name. 
Soon  the  troop  of  monks  came  hurrying. 

Each  man  with  a  wandering  light. 
For  great  fear  had  come  upon  them, 
And  a  sense  of  strange  affright. 
"Diarmid!  Diarmid!  is  the  father 

With  thee?     Art  thou  here  alone?" 
And  they  turn'd  their  lights  and  found  him 

On  the  pavement  lying  prone. 
And  with  gentle  hands  they  raised  him. 

And  he  mildly  looked  around, 
And  he  raised  his  arm  to  bless  them. 
But  it  dropped  upon  the  ground; 
And  his  breathless  body  rested 

On  the  arms  that  held  him  dear. 
And  his  dead  face  lookVl  upon  them 
AVith  a  light  serene  and  clear; 


And  they  said  that  holy  angels 
Surely  hover'd  round  his  head, 

For  alive  no  loveliest  ever 

Look'd  so  lovely  as  this  dead. 

Stranger,  thou  hast  heard  my  story, 

Thank  thee  for  thy  patient  ear; 
We  are  pleased  to  stir  the  sleeping 

Memory  of  old  greatness  here. 
I  have  used  no  gloss,  no  varnish, 

To  make  fair  things  fairer  look; 
As  the  record  stands  I  give  it. 

In  the  old  monks'  Latin  book. 
Keep  it  in  thy  heart,  and  love  it. 

Where  a  good  thing  loves  to  dwell; 
It  may  help  thee  in  thy  dying, 

If  thou  care  to  use  it  well. 


THE  LAY  OF   THE  BRAYE  CAMERON. 

At  Quatre  Bras,  when  the  fight  ran  high, 
Stout  Cameron  stood  with  wakeful  eye, 
Eager  to  leap,  as  a  mettlesome  hound. 
Into  the  fray  with  a  plunge  and  a  bound. 
But  AVellington,  lord  of  the  cool  command, 
Held  the  reins  with  a  steady  hand, 
Saying,    "Cameron,   wait,  you"ll    soon   have 

enough. 
Giving  the  Frenchmen  a  taste  of  your  stuff. 
When  the  Cameron  men  are  wanted." 

Now  hotter  and  hotter  the  battle  grew. 
With  tramp,  and  rattle,  and  wild  halloo. 
And  the  Frenchmen  poured,  like  a  fiery  flood, 
Right  on  the  ditch  where  Cameron  stood. 
Then  Wellington  flashed   from  his  steadfast 

stance 
On  his  captain  brave  a  lightning  glance. 
Saying,  "  Cameron,  now  have  at  them,  boy. 
Take  care  of  the  road  to  Charleroi, 

Where  the  Cameron  men  are  wanted." 

Brave  Cameron  shot  like  a  shaft  from  a  bow 

Into  the  midst  of  the  plunging  foe. 

And  with  him  the  lads  whom  he  loved,  like  a 

torrent 
Sweeping  the  rocks  in  its  foamy  current; 
And  he  fell  the  first  in  the  fervid  fray. 
Where  a  deathful  shot  had  shove  its  way, 
But  his  men  pushed  on  where  the  work  was 

rough, 
Giving  the  Frenchman  a  taste  of  their  stuff. 
Where  the  Cameron  men  were  wanted. 

Brave  Cameron  then,  from  the  battle's  roar, 
His  foster-brother  stoutly  bore, 


3-20 


JOHN   S.   BLACKIE. 


His  foster-brother  witli  service  true, 
Back  to  tiie  village  of  Waterloo. 
And  tliey  laid  him  oa  the  soft  green  sod, 
And  he  breathed  his  spirit  there  to  God, 
But  not  till  he  heard  the  loud  hurrah 
Of  victory  billowed  from  Quatre  Bras, 

Where  the  Cameron  men  ■were  wanted. 

By  the  road  to  Ghent  they  buried  him  then, 
This  noble  chief  of  tlie  Cameron  men, 
And  not  an  eye  was  tearless  seen 
Tiiat  day  beside  the  alley  green: 
Wellington  Avept,  the  iron  man; 
And  from  every  eye  in  the  Cameron  clan 
The  big  round  drop  in  bitterness  fell, 
As  with  the  pipes  he  loved  so  well 
His  funeral  wail  they  chanted. 

And  now  he  sleeps  (for  they  bore  liim  home, 
When  the  war  was  done,  across  the  foam) 
Beneath  the  shadow  of  Nevis  Ben, 
With  his  sires,  the  pride  of  the  Cameron  men. 
Three  thousand  Highlandmen  stood  round, 
As  they  laid  him  to  rest  in  his  native  ground; 
The  Cameron  brave,  whose  eye  never  quail'd, 
AVhose  heart  never  sank,  and  whose  hand  never 
failed, 
Where  a  Cameron  man  was  wanted. 


BENEDICITE. 

Angels  holy. 

High  and  lowly, 
Sing  the  praises  of  the  L^jrd! 
Earth  and  sky,  all  living  nature, 
Man,  the  stamp  of  thy  Creator, 
Praise  ye,  praise  ye  God  the  Lord! 

Sun  and  moon  bright. 

Night  and  moonlight. 
Starry  temples  azure-floor'd. 
Cloud  and  rain,  and  wild  winds'  madness, 
Sons  of  God  that  shout  for  gladness. 
Praise  ye,  praise  ye  God  the  Lord! 

Ocean  hoary. 

Tell  His  glory. 
Cliffs  where  tumbling  seas  have  roar'd! 
Pulse  of  waters,  blithely  beating, 
Wave  advancing,  wave  retreating, 
Praise  ye,  praise  yc  God  the  Lord! 

Pock  and  highland, 

Wood  and  island. 
Crag,  where  eagle's  pride  hath  soar'd, 
Mighty  mountains,  purple-breasted, 


Peaks  cloud -cleaving,  snowy-crested. 
Praise  ye,  praise  ye  God  the  Lord ! 

Rolling  river. 

Praise  Him  ever, 
From  the  mountain's  deep  vein  pour'd. 
Silver  fountain,  clearly  gushing, 
Troubled  torrent,  madly  rushing, 
Praise  ye,  praise  ye  God  the  Lord! 

Bond  and  free  man, 

Land  and  sea  man, 
Earth,  Avith  peoples  widely  stored, 
Wanderer  lone  o'er  prairies  ample. 
Full-voiced  choir,  in  costly  temple. 
Praise  ye,  praise  ye  God  the  Lord! 

Praise  Him  ever. 

Bounteous  Giver; 
Praise  Him  Father,  Friend,  and  Lord! 
Each  glad  soul,  its  free  course  winging, 
Each  glad  voice,  its  free  song  singing. 
Praise  the  great  and  mighty  Lord! 


THE  TWO   MEEK  MARGARETS. 

It  fell  on  a  day  in  the  blooming  month  of  May, 
When  the  trees  were  greenly  growing, 

That  a  captain  grim  went  down  to  the  brim 
0'  the  sea,  when  the  tide  was  flowing. 

Twa  maidens  he  led,  that  captain  grim, 
Wi'  his  red-coat  loons  behind  him, 

Twa  meek-faced  maids,  and  he  sware  that  he 
In  the  salt  sea-swell  should  bind  them. 

And  a'  the  burghers  o'  Wigton  town 
Came  down,  full  sad  and  cheerless, 

To  see  that  ruthless  captain  drown 
Those  maidens  meek  but  fearless. 

0  what  had  they  done,  these  maidens  meek, 

What  crime  all  crimes  excelling. 
That  they  should  be  staked  on  the  ribbed  sea- 
sand. 

And  drowned,  where  the  tide  was  swelling? 

0  waes  me,  wae!  but  the  truth  I  maun  say, 
Their  crime  was  the  crime  of  believing 

Not  man,  but  God,  when  the  last  false  Stuart 
His  Popish  plot  was  weaving. 

0  spare  them!  spare  them!  thou  captain  grim! 

No!  no! — to  a  stake  he  hath  bound  them, 
Where  the  floods  as  they  flow,  and  the  waves  as 
they  grow, 

Shall  soon  be  deepening  round  them. 


JOHN   S.   BLACKIE. 


321 


Tlie  one  had  threescore  years  and  thi-ee; 

Far  out  on  the  sand  they  bound  her, 
Where  the  first  dark  flow  of  the  waves  as  they  grow, 

Is  quickly  swu-Hng  round  her. 

The  other  was  a  maiden  fresh  and  fair; 

More  near  to  the  land  they  bound  her. 
That  she  might  see  by  slow  degree 

The  grim  waves  creeping  round  her. 

0  captain,  spare  that  maiden  gray, 
She's  deep  in  the  deepening  water! 

No!  no!— she's  lifted  her  hands  to  pray, 
And  the  chokuig  billow  caught  her! 

See,  see,  young  maid,  cried  the  captain  grim, 
The  wave  shall  soon  ride  o'er  thee! 

She's  swamped  in  the  brine  whose  sin  was  like 
thine; 
See  that  same  fate  before  thee! 

1  see  the  Christ  who  hung  on  a  tree 
When  his  life  for  sins  he  offered; 

In  one  of  his  members,  even  he 

With  that  meek  maid  hath  suffered. 

0  captain,  save  that  meek  young  maid; 
She's  a  loyal  fanner's  daughter! 

Well,  well!  let  her  swear  to  good  King  James, 
And  I'll  hale  her  out  from  the  water! 

1  will  not  swear  to  Popish  James, 

But  I  pray  for  the  head  of  the  nation. 
That  he  and  all,  both  great  and  small. 
May  know  God's  great  salvation ! 

She  spoke;  and  lifted  her  hands  to  pray, 

And  felt  the  greedy  water. 
Deep  and  more  deep  around  her  creep. 

Till  the  choking  billow  caught  her! 

0  Wigton,  Wigton!  I'm  wae  to  sing 

The  truth  o'  this  waesomo  story; 
But  God  -will  sinners  to  judgment  bring. 

And  his  saints  shall  reign  in  glory. 


THE  EMIGRANT   LASSIE.^ 

As  I  came  wandering  down  Glen  Spean, 
Where  the  braes  are  green  and  grassy, 

With  my  light  step  I  overtook 
A  weary-footed  lassie. 

She  had  one  bundle  on  her  back, 
Another  in  her  hand, 

1  The  following  lines  contain  the  simple  unadorned 
statement  of  a  fact  in  the  experience  of  a  friend,  who 
is  fond  of  wandering  in  the  Highland  glens. 

Vol.  II.— X 


And  slie  walked  as  one  who  was  full  loath 
To  travel  from  the  land. 

Quoth  I,  "  My  bonnie  lass!" — for  she 

Had  hair  of  flowing  gold. 
And  dark  brown  eyes,  and  dainty  limbs, 

Eight  pleasant  to  behold — 

"My  bonnie  lass,  what  aileth  thee 
On  this  bright, summer  day. 
To  travel  sad  and  shoeless  thus 
Upon  the  stony  way! 

"  I'm  fresh  and  strong,  and  stoutly  shod, 
And  thou  art  burdened  so; 
March  lightly  now,  and  let  me  bear 
The  bundles  as  we  go." 

"No,  no!"  she  said;  "that  may  not  be; 
What's  mine  is  mine  to  bear; 
Of  good  or  ill,  as  God  may  will, 
I  take  my  portioned  share." 

"But  you  have  two  and  I  have  none; 
One  burden  give  to  me; 
ni  take  that  bundle  from  thy  back. 
That  heavier  seems  to  be." 

"No.  no!"  she  said;  "this,  if  you  will, 
That  holds — no  hand  but  mine 
May  bear  its  weight  from  dear  Glen  Spean, 
'Cross  the  Atlantic  brine!" 

"Well,  well:  but  tell  me  what  may  be 
Within  that  precious  load 
Which  thou  dost  bear  with  such  fine  care 
Along  the  dusty  road  ? 

"Belike  it  is  some  present  rare 
From  friend  in  parting  hour; 
Perhaps,  as  prudent  maidens'  wont. 
Thou  tak"st  with  thee  thy  dower." 

She  drooped  her  head,  and  with  her  hand 
She  gave  a  mournful  wave : 
"Oh.  do  not  jest,  dear  sir! — it  is 
Turf  from  my  mother's  grave!" 

I  spoke  no  word:  we  sat  and  wept 

By  the  road-side  together; 
No  purer  dew  on  that  bright  day 

Was  dropt  upon  the  heather. 


OCTOBER. 

Once  the  year  was  gay  and  bright. 
Now  the  sky  is  gray  and  sober; 

But  not  the  less  thy  milder  light 
I  love,  thou  sere  and  brown  October. 


322 


JOHN   S.   BLACKIE. 


Then  across  each  ferny  down 

Marched  proud  flush  of  purple  heather; 
Now  in  robe  <  f  modest  brown, 

Heath  and  fern  he  down  together. 

AYeep  who  will  the  faded  year, 

I  have  weaned  mine  eyes  from  weeping; 
Drop  not  for  the  dead  a  tear. 

Love  her,  she  is  only  sleeping. 
And  when  storms  of  wild  unrest 

O'er  the  frosted  fields  come  sweeping, 
Weej)  not;  'neath  her  snowy  vest 

Nature  gathers  strength  fi'om  sleeping. 

Eest  and  labour,  pleasure,  pain, 

Hunger,  feeding,  thirsting,  drinking, 
Ebb  and  flow,  and  loss  and  gain, 

Love  and  hatred,  dreaming,  thinking.     - 
Each  for  each  exists,  and  all 

Binds  one  secret  mystic  tether; 
And  each  is  best  as  each  may  fall 

For  you  and  me,  and  all  together. 

Then  clothe  thee  or  in  florid  vest, 

Thou  changeful  year,  or  livery  sober, 
Thy  present  wear  shall  please  me  best, 

Or  rosy  June,  or  brown  October. 
And  when  loud  tempests  spur  their  race, 

I'll  know,  and  have  no  cause  for  weeping. 
They  brush  the  dust  from  off  thy  face, 

To  make  thee  wake  more  fair  from  sleeping 


A  SONG  OF   THE  COUNTRY. 

Away  from  the  roar  and  the  rattle. 

The  dust  and  the  din  of  the  town, 
Where  to  Uve  is  to  brawl  and  to  battle, 

Till  the  strong  treads  the  weak  man  down ! 
Away  to  the  bonnie  green  hills 

Where  the  sunshine  sleeps  on  the  brae, 
And  the  heart  of  the  greenwood  thrills 

To  the  hymn  of  the  bu'd  on  the  sjaray. 

Away  from  the  smoke  and  the  smother, 

The  veil  of  the  dun  and  the  brown, 
The  push  and  the  plash  and  the  pother. 

The  wear  and  the  waste  of  the  town ! 
Away  where  the  sky  shines  clear. 

And  the  light  breeze  wanders  at  will, 
Anfl  the  dark  pine-wood  nod  near 

To  the  light-plumed  birch  on  the  hill. 

Away  from  the  whirling  and  wheeling, 
And  steaming  above  and  below, 

Where  the  he^rt  has  no  leisure  for  feeling 
And  the  thought  has  no  quiet  to  grow. 

Away  where  the  clear  brook  purls. 
And  the  hyacinth  droops  in  the  shade, 


And  the  plume  of  the  fern  uncixrls 
Its  grace  in  the  depth  of  the  glade. 

Away  to  the  cottage  so  sweetly 

Embowered  'neath  the  fringe  of  the  wood, 
Where  the  wife  of  my  bosom  shall  meet  me 

With  thoughts  ever  kindly  and  good; 
More  dear  than  the  wealth  of  the  world. 

Fond  mother  with  bairnies  three. 
And  the  plump-armed  babe  that  has  curled 

Its  lips  sweetlj'  pouting  for  me. 

Then  away  from  the  roar  and  the  i-attle. 

The  dust  and  din  of  the  town. 
Where  to  live  is  to  brawl  and  to  battle. 

Till  the  strong  treads  the  weak  man  down. 
Away  where  the  green  twigs  nod 

In  the  fragrant  breath  of  the  May, 
And  the  sweet  growth  spreads  on  the  sod. 

And  the  blithe  birds  sing  on  the  spray. 


THE  HIGHLAND  MANSE. 

If  men  were  free  to  take,  and  wise  to  use 

The  fortunes  richly  strewn  by  kindly  chance. 
Then  kings  and  mighty  potentates  might  choose 

To  live  and  die  lords  of  a  Highland  manse. 
For  why?    Though  that  which  spurs  the  forward 
mind 
Be  wanting  here,  the  high-perched  glittering- 
prize, 
The  bliss  that  chiefly  suits  the  human  kind 

Within  this  bounded  compass  largely  lies — 
The  healthful  change  of  labour  and  of  ease, 

The  sober  inspiration  to  do  good. 
The  green  seclusion,  and  the  stirring  breeze, 
The  working  hand  leagued  with  the  thought- 
ful mood; 
These  things,  undreamt  by  feverish-striving  men, 
The  wise  pi'iest  knows  who  rules  a  Highland 
glen. 


BEAUTIFUL  WOP.LD! 

Beautiful  world ! 

Tliough  bigots  condemn  tliee, 
My  tongue  finds  no  words 

For  the  graces  that  gem  tliee! 
Beaming  with  sunny  light, 

Bountiful  ever, 
Streaming  with  gay  deliglit, 
Full  as  a  river! 

Briglit  woi-ld!  brave  world! 
Let  cavillers  blame  thee! 
I  bless  thee,  and  bend 

To  the  God  who  ilid  frame  thee! 


THOMAS   SMIBERT. 


323 


Beautiful  ^yorkl ! 

Bursting  around  mc. 
Manifold,  millioa-hued 

Wonders  confound  me! 
From  earth,  sea,  and  starry  sky, 

Meado\v  and  mountain, 
Eagerly  gushes 

Life's  magical  fountain. 

Brigiit  world!  brave  world! 

Though  witlings  may  blame  t'.iee, 
AVonderful  excellence 
Only  could  frame  thee! 

The  bird  in  the  greenwood 

His  sweet  hymn  is  trolling, 
The  fish  in  blue  ocean 

Is  spouting  and  rolling! 
Light  things  on  airy  wing 

Wild  dances  weaving. 
Clods  with  new  life  in  spring 
Swelling  and  heaving! 

Tiiou  quick-teeming  world, 

Though  scoffers  may  blame  thee, 
I  wonder,  and  worship 

The  God  who  could  frame  thee! 


Beautiful  world ! 

What  poesy  measures 
Thy  strong-flooding  passions. 

Thy  light-trooping  pleasures? 
Mustering,  marshalling, 
Striving  and  straining. 
Conquering,  triumphing, 
liuling  and  reigning! 

Thou  brigiit-armied  world! 

So  strong,  who  can  tame  tbec? 
Wonderful  power  of  God 
Only  could  frame  thee! 

Beautiful  world ! 

While  godlike  I  deem  thee, 
Xo  cold  M'it  shall  move  me 

With  bile  to  blaspheme  thee! 
I  have  lived  in  thy  light. 

And,  when  Fate  ends  my  story. 
May  I  leave  on  death's  cloud 
The  bright  trail  of  life's  glory ! 
AVondrous  old  world! 

No  ages  shall  shame  thee! 
Ever  bright  with  new  light 

From  the  God  who  did  frame  thee! 


THOMAS    SMIBEET 


BORX  ISIO  — Died  1854. 


Thomas  Smibert,  a  poet  and  most  prolific 
prose-writer,  was  born  Feb.  8,  1810,  at  Peebles, 
of  which  town  his  father  held  for  some  time  the 
honourable  office  of  provost.  Litended  for  the 
medical  profession,  he  was  at  first  apprenticed 
to  an  apothecary,  and  afterwards  studied  at  the 
L'^niversity  of  Edinburgh.  lie  was  licensed  as 
a  surgeon,  and  Began  practice  at  Innerleithen, 
near  Peebles,  but  lack  of  business  and  a  disap- 
pointment in  love  induced  him  to  abandon  the 
place  and  hi.s  profession,  and  betake  himself  to 
the  field  of  literature.  Eemoving  to  Edinburgh 
he  obtained  employment  with  the  Messrs. 
Chambers,  and  became  a  successful  writer  for 
their  Journal,  to  which  he  contributed  no  less 
than  five  hundred  essays,  one  hundred  tales, 
fifty  biographical  sketches,  and  numerous 
poems  within  a  period  of  five  years.  He  also 
wrote  extensively  for  the  Information  for  the 
People,  a  work  published  by  the  same  firm. 


In  1842  Smibert  was  appointed  sub-editor 
of  the  Scotsman  newspaper,  and  the  same  year 
a  historical  play  from  his  pen,  entitled  Condi's 
Wfe,  was  produced  at  the  Theatre  Eoyal, 
Edinburgh,  where  it  had  a  run  of  nine  nights. 
Although  by  the  bequest  of  a  wealthy  relative 
Smibert  became  independent  of  his  pen  as  a 
means  of  livelihood,  he  still  continued  to  write. 
Besides  contributing  to  Hogr/'s  Instructor,  he 
published  a  Avork  on  Greek  History,  collated  a 
liltyming  Dictionary,  and  prepared  a  magnifi- 
cently illustrated  volume  on  the  Clans  of  the 
Highlands  of  Scotland.  In  1851  he  collected 
and  published  his  poetical  compositions  in  a 
volume  entitled  "lo  Anche!  Poems  chiefly 
Lyrical."  Many  of  the  pieces  are  translations 
from  French  writers. 

Mr.  Smibert  died  at  Edinburgh  January  IG, 
1854,  in  his  forty-fourth  year.  Dr.  Ilogers 
says  of  him: — "With  pleasing  manners,  he 


324 


THOMAS   SMIBEET. 


■was  possessed  of  kindlj-  dispositions,  and  was 
much  cherished  for  his  intelligent  and  inter- 
esting conversation.  In  person  he  was  strongly 
built,  and  his  complexion  was  fair  and  ruddy. 
He  was  not  undesirous  of  reputation  both  as  a 
poet  and  prose-writer,  and   has  recorded  his 


regret  that  he  had  devoted  so  much  time  to 
evanescent  periodical  literature.  His  poetry 
is  replete  with  patriotic  sentiment,  and  hh 
strain  is  forcible  and  occasionally  brilliant. 
Plis  songs  indicate  a  fine  fancy  and  deep 
pathos." 


THE  WIDOW'S   LAMENT. 

Afore  the  Lammas  tide 

Had  dun'd  tlie  birken  tree, 
In  a'  our  water-side 

l^ae  wife  was  bless'd  like  me. 
A  kind  gudeman,  and  twa 

Sweet  bairns  were  'round  me  here, 
But  they're  a'  ta'en  awa 

Sin'  the  fa'  o'  the  year. 

Sair  trouble  cam'  our  gate, 

And  made  me,  when  it  cam', 
A  bird  without  a  mate, 

A  ewe  without  a  lamb. 
Our  hay  was  yet  to  maw, 

And  our  corn  was  to  shear, 
When  they  a'  dwined  awa' 

In  the  fa'  o"  the  year. 

I  downa  look  a-field. 

For  aye  I  trow  I  see 
The  form  that  was  a  bield 

To  my  wee  bairns  and  me; 
But  wind,  and  weet,  and  snaw, 

They  never  mair  can  fear. 
Sin'  they  a'  got  the  ca' 

In  the  fa'  o'  the  year. 

Aft  on  the  hill  at  e'ens 

I  see  him  'mang  the  ferns— 
TJie  lover  o'  my  teens. 

The  faither  o'  my  bairns; 
For  there  his  plaid  I  saw. 

As  gloamin  aye  drew  near, 
But  my  a's  now  awa' 

Sin'  the  fa'  o'  the  year. 

Our  bonnie  riggs  theirsel' 

Reca'  my  waes  to  mind; 
Our  puir  dumb  beasties  tell 

O'  a'  that  I  hae  tyned; 
For  wha  our  wheat  will  saw. 

And  wha  our  sheep  will  .sliear, 
Sin'  my  a'  gaed  awa' 

In  the  fa'  o'  the  year? 

My  hearth  is  growing  cauld, 
And  will  be  caulder  still. 


And  sair,  sair  in  the  fauld 
Will  be  the  winter's  cliill; 

For  peats  were  yet  to  ca'. 

Our  sheep  they  were  to  smear. 

When  my  a'  passed  awa' 
In  the  fa'  o'  the  year. 

I  ettle  whiles  to  spin, 

But  wee,  wee  patterin'  feet 
Come  rinnin'  out  and  in, 

And  then  I  just  maun  greet; 
I  ken  it's  fancy  a'. 

And  faster  rows  the  tear. 
That  my  a'  dwined  awa' 

In  the  fa'  o'  the  year. 

Be  kind,  0  Heaven  abune! 

To  ane  sae  wae  and  lane. 
And  tak'  her  hamewards  sune 

In  pity  o'  her  maen. 
Lang  ere  the  March  winds  blaw, 

Jlay  she,  far,  far  frae  here. 
Meet  them  a'  that's  awa' 

Sin'  the  fa'  o'  the  year! 


THE  HERO  OF  ST.  JOHN  D'ACRE. 

Once  more  on  the  broad-bosom'd   ocean  ap- 
pearing. 
The  banner  of   England   is  spread  to  the 
breeze. 
And  loud  is  the  cheering  that  hails  tlic  up- 
rearing 
Of  glory's  loved  emblem,  the  pride  of  tiie 
seas. 
Xo  tempest  shall  daunt  her. 
No  victor-foe  taunt  her. 
What  manhood  can  do  in  her  cause  shall  be 
done — 
Britannia's  best  seaman. 
The  boast  of  her  freemen. 
Will  conquer  or  die  by  his  colours  and  gun. 

On  Acre's  proud  turrets  an  ensign  is  flving, 
Which  stout  hearts  are  banded  till  death  to 
uphold; 


THOMAS   SMIBERT. 


325 


And   bold   is   their   crying,    and   fierce   tlieir 
defying, 
AViien  trencli'd  in  tlieir  ramparts,   uncon- 
quer'd  of  old. 
But  lo!  in  the  offing, 
To  punish  their  s^coffing, 
Brave  Napier  appears,  and  their  triumph  is 
done; 
No  danger  can  stay  him, 
No  foeman  dismay  him. 
He  conquers  or  dies  by  his  colours  and  gun. 

Now  low  in  the  dust  is  the  crescent  flag  hum- 
bled. 
Its  warriors  are  vanquish'd,  their  freedom  is 
gone; 
The   strong  walls   have   tumbled,  the   proud 
towers  are  crumbled, 
And  England's  flag  waves  over  ruin'd  St. 
John. 
But  Napier  now  tenders 
To  Acre's  defenders 
The  aid  of  a  friend  when  the  combat  is  won; 
For  mercy's  sweet  blossom 
Blooms  fresh  in  his  bosom, 
Who  conquers  or  dies  by  his  colours  and  gun. 

"All  hail  to  the  hero!"  his  country  is  calling, 
And  "hail  to  his  comrades!"   the  faithful 
and  brave; 
They   fear'd   not   for   falling,    they  knew  no 
appalling. 
But  fought  like  their  fathers,  the  lords  of 
the  wave. 
And  long  may  the  ocean, 
In  calm  and  commotion. 
Rejoicing  convey  them  where  fame  may  be  won, 
And  when  foes  would  wound  us, 
May  Napiers  be  round  us. 
To  conquer  or  die  by  their  colours  and  gun! 


MY   AIN   DEAR   LAND. 

0  bonnie  are  the  howes. 
And  sunny  are  the  knowes. 
That  feed  the  kye  and  yowes, 

AVhere  my  life's  morn  dawn'd; 
And  brightly  glance  the  rills, 
That  spring  amang  the  hills, 
And  ca'  the  mcrrie  mills, 

In  my  ain  dear  land. 

But  now  I  canna  see 
The  lammies  on  the  lea. 
Nor  hear  the  heather-bee 
On  this  far,  far  strand; 


I  see  nae  father's  ha', 
Nae  burnie's  waterfa', 
But  wander  far  awa' 
Frae  my  ain  ilear  land. 

Jly  heart  was  free  and  light, 
]\Iy  ingle  burning  bright, 
AVhen  ruin  cam'  by  night, 

Thro'  a  foe's  fell  brand: 
I  left  my  native  air, 
I  gaed — to  come  nae  mair !  — 
And  now  I  sorrow  sair 

For  my  ain  dear  land. 

But  blythcly  will  I  bide, 
AVhate'er  may  yet  betide, 
When  ane  is  by  my  side 

On  this  far,  far  strand; 
My  Jean  will  soon  be  here. 
This  waefu'  heart  to  cheer, 
And  dry  the  fa'ing  tear 

For  my  ain  dear  land. 


THE   VOICE   OF   WOE. 

"The  language  of  passion,  and  more  peculiarly  that  of 
grief,  is  ever  nearly  the  same." 

An  Indian  chief  went  forth  to  figiit, 

And  bravely  met  the  foe. 
His  eye  was  keen— his  step  was  light— 
His  arm  was  unsurpassed  in  might; 
But  on  him  fell  the  gloom  of  night— 

An  arrow  laid  him  low. 
His  widow  sang  with  simple  tongue. 

When  none  could  hear  or  see, 
Aij,  cheray  me! 

A  Jloorish  maiden  knelt  beside 

Her  dying  lover's  bed; 
She  bade  him  stay  to  bless  his  bride. 
She  called  him  oft  her  lord,  her  pride; 
But  mortals  must  tlieir  doom  abide — 

The  warrior's  spirit  fled. 
With  simple  tongue  the  sad  one  sung, 

When  none  could  hear  or  see. 


At/,  d 


I  me; 


An  English  matron  mourned  her  son, 

The  only  son  she  bore; 
Afar  from  her  his  course  was  run, 
He  perished  as  the  fight  was  done. 
He  perished  when  the  fight  was  won. 

Upon  a  foreign  shore. 
AYith  simple  tongue  the  mother  sung, 

AVhen  none  could  hear  or  see. 
Ah,  dear  me! 


326 


THOMAS  T.   STODDAET. 


A  gentle  Highland  maiden  saw 

A  brother's  body  borne 
From  where,  for  country,  king,  and  law, 
He  went  his  gallant  sword  to  draw; 
Lut  swept  within  destruction's  maw 

From  her  had  he  been  torn. 
She  sat  and  sung,  with  simple  tongue, 

When  none  could  hear  or  see. 
Oil,  hon-a-ree! 


An  infant  in  untimely  hour 

Died  in  a  Lowland  cot; 
The  parents  own'd  tlie  hand  of  power 
That  bids  the  storm  be  still  or  lour; 
They  grieved  because  the  cup  was  sour. 

And  yet  they  murmured  not. 
They  only  sung  with  simple  tongue, 

^Vhen  none  could  hear  or  see, 
Ah,  ivae's  me! 


THOMAS    T.    STODDAET. 


Thomas  Tod  Stoddart  was  born  in  Argyle 
Square,  Edinburgh,  February  14,  1810.  He 
is  the  son  of  a  distinguished  rear-admiral  of 
the  British  navy,  who  was  present  at  Lord 
Howe's  victory,  at  the  landing  in  Egypt,  at 
the  battles  of  the  Kile  and  Copenhagen  with 
i^elson,  and  in  many  other  encounters.  Young 
Stoddart  was  educated  at  a  Moravian  establish- 
ment near  JIanchester,  and  subsequently  passed 
through  a  course  of  philosophy  and  law  in  the 
University  of  Edinburgh.  At  the  age  of  six- 
teen he  received  a  prize  in  Professor  Wilson's 
class  for  a  poem  on  "Idolatry."  He  studied 
for  the  bar,  and  was  admitted  to  practise  in 
1S33;  but  finding  the  profession  uncongenial, 
he  abandoned  it.  A  few  years  later  he  married 
and  settled  at  Kelso,  where  he  has  since  re- 


sided. For  many  years  he  has  devoted  him- 
self to  the  pursuits  of  literature  and  the 
pleasures  of  good  old  Walton's  favourite  re- 
creation. He  was  an  early  and  frequent  con- 
tributor of  poetry  to  the  Bdinbvrgh  Literary 
Journal.  In  1831  he  published  "  The  Lunacy 
or  Death-wake;  a  Necromaunt  in  Five  Chi- 
meras;" in  1835,  "The  Art  of  Angling;"  in 
1837,  "Angling  Eeminiscences ;"  in  1839, 
"Songs  and  Poems;"  in  1846,  "Abel  Massin- 
ger,  or  the  Aeronaut,  a  Romance;"  in  1847, 
"The  Angler's  Companion,"  a  new  edition  of 
which  was  published  in  1852;  and  in  1866, 
"An  Angler's  Piambles  and  Angling  Songs." 
His  latest  poetical  work,  entitled  "Songs  of 
the  Seasons,  and  other  Poems,"  was  issued  in 
1873. 


LOCH    SKENE. 


Like  the  eye  of  a  sinless  child. 
That  mo.ss-brown  tarn  is  gazing  wild 
From  its  heath-fringe,  briglit  with  stars  of  dew, 
Up  to  the  voiceless  vault  of  blue. 

It  seemeth  of  a  violet  tinge, 

Shaded  under  its  flowery  fringe. 

For  the  dark  and  purple  of  moss  and  heather. 

Like  nigiit  and  sunset  blend  together. 

That  tarn,  it  lieth  on  the  hills. 
Fed  by  the  thousand  infant  rills. 
Which  are  ever  weeping  in  A-ery  sadness, 
Or  tliey  smile  through  their  tears  with  a  gleam 
of  gladness. 


You  may  hear  them  in  a  summer's  hour. 
Trickling,  like  a  rainbow  shower, 
From  yon  rock,  whose  rents  of  snow 
Lie  shadow'd  in  the  tarn  below. 
It  looketh  from  the  margin  l)are. 
Like  a  headstone  in  a  churchyard  fair; 
But  the  heavy  heron  loveth  well 
Its  height,  where  his  own  sentinel 
He  sits,  M'hen  heaven  is  almost  done 
With  the  slow  watch  of  the  sun. 
And  the  quiet  day  doth  fold 
His  wings  in  arches  of  burning  gold. 

There  is  a  lonesome,  aged  cairn, 
Pising  gray  through  the  grass-green  fern; 


THOMAS   T.   STODDAET. 


327 


It  tells  of  pale,  mysterious  bones, 
Unried  below  the  crumbling  stones: 
15ut  the  shadow  of  that  pile  of  slaughter 
liies  breasted  on  the  stirless  water, 
As  if  no  mortal  hand  had  blent 
Its  old,  unearthly  lineament. 

A  M-izard  tarn  is  gray  Loch  Skene! 
There  are  two  islands  sown  within: 
Both  are  like,  as  like  the  other 
As  brother  to  his  own  twin-brother; 
Only  a  birch  bends  o'er  the  one. 
Where  the  kindred  isle  hath  none, 
The  tresses  of  that  weeping  tree 
Hang  down  in  their  humility. 

'Tis  whisper'd  of  an  eyrie  there, 
Where  a  lonely  eagle  pair 
In  the  silver  moonlight  came. 
To  feed  their  young  by  the  holy  flame; 
And  at  morn  they  mounted  far  and  far, 
Towards  the  last  surviving  star. 
Only  the  forsaken  nest 
Sighs  to  the  sea-winds  from  the  west, 
As  if  they  told  in  their  wandering  by 
How  the  rightful  lord  of  its  sanctuary 
Mourneth  his  fallen  mate  alone 
On  a  foamy  Atlantic  stone. 

Never  hath  the  quiet  shore 
Echoed  the  fall  of  silver  oar, 
Nor  the  waters  of  that  tarn  recoil'd 
From  the  light  skiff  gliding  wild; 
But  the  spiritual  cloud  that  lifted 
The  quiet  moon,  and  dimly  drifted 
Away  in  tracery  of  snow. 
Threw  its  image  on  the  pool  below, 
Till  it  glided  to  the  shaded  shore. 
Like  a  bark  beneath  the  moveless  oar. 

Out  at  the  nethermost  brink  there  gushes 
A  playful  stream  from  its  ark  of  rushes, 
It  leaps  like  a  wild  fawn  from  the  mountains, 
Nursing  its  life  with  a  thousand  fountains, 
It  kisses  the  heath-flower's  trembling  bell. 
And  the  mosses  that  love  its  margin  well. 

Fairy  beings,  one  might  dream. 
Look  from  the  breast  of  that  silver  stream. 
Fearless,  holy,  and  blissful  things. 
Flashing  the  dew-foam  from  their  wings. 
As  they  glide  away,  away  for  ever, 
Borne  seaward  on  some  stately  river. 

That  silver  brook,  it  windeth  on 
Over  slabs  of  fretted  stone, 
Till  it  Cometh  to  the  forehead  vast 
Of  those  gorgon  rocks,  that  cast 


Their  features  many  a  fathom  under, 

And,  like  a  launch  through  surge  of  thunder, 

From  the  trembling  ledge  it  flings 

The  treasures  of  a  thousand  springs; 

As  if  to  end  their  blissful  play. 

And  throw  the  spell  of  its  life  away. 

Like  a  pillar  of  Parian  stone 
That  in  some  old  temple  shone, 
Or  a  slender  shaft  of  living  star, 
Gleams  that  foam-fall  from  afar; 
But  the  column  is  melted  down  below 
Into  a  gulf  of  seething  snow, 
And  the  stream  steals  away  from  its  whirl  of 

hoar. 
As  bright  and  as  lovely  as  before. 

There  are  rainbows  in  the  morning  sun, 
]\Iany  a  blushing  trembling  one. 
Arches  of  rarest  jewelry, 
Where  the  elfin  fairies  be, 
Through  the  glad  air  dancing  merrily. 

Such  is  the  brook,  so  pure,  so  glad, 
That  sparkled  high  and  bounded  mad, 
From  the  quiet  waters,  where 
It  took  the  form  of  a  thing  so  fair. 

Only  it  mocks  the  heart  within. 
To  wander  by  the  wild  Loch  Skene, 
At  cry  of  moorcock,  when  the  day 
Gathers  his  legions  of  light  away. 

For  the  sadness  of  a  fallen  throne 
r.eigns  when  the  golden  sun  hath  gone, 
And  the  tarn  and  the  hills  and   the  misted 

stream 
Are  shaded  away  to  a  mournful  dream. 


THE  ANGLER'S   TRYSTING-TREE. 

Sing,  sweet  thrushes,  forth  and  sing! 

]\Ieet  the  morn  upon  the  lea; 
Are  the  emeralds  of  the  spring 

On  the  angler's  trysting-tree? 

Tell,  sweet  thrushes,  tell  to  me! 

Are  there  buds  on  our  willow-tree? 

Buds  and  birds  on  our  trysting-tree  ? 

Sing,  sweet  thrushes,  forth  and  sing! 

Have  you  met  the  honey-bee, 
Circling  upon  rapid  wing, 

Round  the  angler's  trysting-tree? 

Up,  sweet  thrushes,  up  and  see! 

Are  there  bees  at  our  willow-tree? 

Birds  and  bees  at  the  trysting-tree  ? 


328 


THOMAS   T.   STODDAET. 


Sing,  sweet  thrushes,  forth  and  sing! 

Are  tlie  fountains  gushing  free? 
Is  the  south  wind  wandering 

Through  the  angler's  trysting-tree? 

Up,  sweet  thrushes,  tell  to  me  I 

Is  there  wind  up  our  willow-tree? 

Wind  or  calm  at  our  trysting-tree? 

Sing,  sweet  thrushes,  forth  and  sing! 
AVile  us  with  a  merry  glee; 

To  the  flowery  haunts  of  spring- 
To  the  angler's  trysting-tree. 
Tell,  sweet  thrushes,  tell  to  me! 
Are  there  flowers  'neath  our  willow-tree? 
Spring  and  flowers  at  the  trysting-tree? 


THE   BRITISH   OAK. 

The  oak  is  Britain's  pride! 

The  lordliest  of  trees. 
The  glory  of  her  forest-side, 

The  guardian  of  her  seas! 
Its  hundred  arms  are  brandish'd  wide 

To  brave  the  wintry  breeze. 

Our  hearts  shall  never  quail 

Below  the  servile  yoke. 
Long  as  our  seamen  trim  the  sail. 

And  wake  the  battle  smoke — 
Long  as  they  stem  the  stormy  gale 

On  planks  of  British  oaki 

Then  in  its  native  mead 

The  golden  acorn  lay. 
And  watch  witli  care  the  bursting  seed. 

And  guard  the  tender  spray; 
England  will  bless  us  for  the  deed 

In  some  far  future  day! 

Oh !  plant  the  acorn  tree 

Upon  each  Briton's  grave; 
So  shall  our  island  ever  be 

The  island  of  the  brave — 
The  mother-nurse  of  liberty. 

And  empress  o'er  the  wave! 


LET    ITHER   ANGLERS. 

Let  ither  anglers  choose  their  ain, 
An'  ither  waters  tak'  the  lead; 

0'  Ilieland  streams  we  covet  nane, 
But  gie  to  us  the  bonnie  Tweed! 

An'  gie  to  us  the  checrfu'  burn 
That  steals  into  its  vallev  fair — 


The  streamlets  that  at  ilka  turn 
Sae  saftly  meet  an'  mingle  there. 

The  lanesorae  Tala  and  the  Lyne, 

An'  Manor  wi'  its  mountain  rills, 
An'  Jltterick,  whose  waters  twine 

Wi'  Yarrow,  frae  the  forest  hills; 
An  Gala,  too,  an'  Teviot  bright, 

An'  mony  a  stream  o"  playfu'  speed ; 
Their  kindred  valleys  a'  unite 

Amang  the  braes  o'  bonnie  Tweed. 

There's  no  a  hole  abune  the  Crook, 

Nor  stane  nor  gentle  swirl  aneath. 
Nor  drumlie  rill,  nor  fairy  brook. 

That  daunders  through  the  flowery  heath, 
But  ye  may  fin'  a  subtle  trout, 

A'  gleamin'  owcr  wi'  starn  an'  bead. 
An'  mony  a  sawmon  sooms  aboot, 

Below  the  bields  o'  bonnie  Tweed. 

Frae  Holylee  to  Clovenford, 

A  chancier  bit  ye  canna  hae, 
So  gin  ye  tak'  an  angler's  word, 

Ye'd  through  the  whins  an'  ower  the  brae. 
An'  work  awa'  wi'  cunnin'  hand 

Yer  birzy  hackles  black  and  reid ; 
The  saft  sough  o'  a  slender  wand 

Is  raeetest  music  for  the  Tweed! 


MUSINGS   ON   THE   BANKS   OF   THE 
TEVIOT. 

With  thy  windings,  gentle  Teviot! 

Through  life's  summer  I  have  travelled — 
Shared  in  all  thj'  merry  gambols. 

All  thy  mazy  course  unravell'd. 

Every  pool  I  know  and  shallow. 
Every  circumstance  of  channel, 

Every  incident  historic 

Blent  Avith  old  or  modern  annal. 

Which,  within  thy  famous  valley, 

Dealt  a  merc,y  or  a  sorrow — 
Every  song  and  every  legend 

Which  has  passed  into  its  morrow. 

Who  has  loved  thee,  artless  river, 

Best  of  all  thy  single  wooers? 
Of  thy  wayward,  witching  waters. 

Who  most  ardent  of  pursuers] 

On  thy  banks,  a  constant  dreamer, 
Sitting  king  among  his  fancies, 

Casting  all  his  wealth  of  musing 
Into  thy  tried  course  of  chances. 


THOMAS  T.   STODDART. 


323 


Name  another  in  th}-  prattle 

Who  has  clone  his  service  bettei' — 

Tendering  or  accepting  tribute, 
Creditor  as  well  as  debtor? 

Out  of  thy  redundant  plenty, 

On  the  lap  of  living  mercies, 
I  have  woven  a  votive  offering — 

Shaped  a  wreath  of  simple  verses. 

Every  generous  wish  attend  thee ! 

And,  among  thy  generous  wishers. 
Takes  its  place  with  bard  and  scholar 

The  more  lowly  band  of  fishers. 

To  that  lowly  band  belonging. 
In  its  pleasures  the  partaker, 

More  I  feel  of  true  contentment 
Than  the  lord  of  many  an  acre. 

Still,  with  glowing  virtues,  Teviot! 

Graces,  joys,  and  forms  of  l>eauty, 
Fill  the  valley  of  thy  holding — 

EoU  in  dignity  of  duty! 

Forward  roll,  and  link  thy  fortunes 
With  fair  Tweed— thine  elder  sister! 

Lyne  and  Leithen,  Ettrick,  Leader, 
In  their  earlier  turns  have  kissed  hci-. 

Welcome,  more  than  all  the  others. 
Thou!  whose  fulness  of  perfection 

Finds  a  grateful  recognition 
In  this  symbol  of  affection! 

So  entwined,  Tweed  glides  exultant. 

As  a  joyful  burden  bearing 
All  thy  passionate  confidings — 

The  rich  lore  of  love  and  daring 

Wliieh  to  ballad  and  romances. 
Oft  uncouthly,  bard  committed, 

Guided  by  thy  chime  or  plaining. 
To  the  rhythm  which  best  befitted. 

In  the  arms  of  Tweed  enfolded. 
Followed  still  by  my  devotion, 

Thou  art  separate  to  the  vision, 
Wending  on  thy  way  to  ocean. 

Even  there,  I  see  the  spirit 

Of  whose  life  partook  the  willow. 

And  whose  love  laved  slope  and  meadow, 
Moving  o'er  the  restless  billow. 

In  the  salmon  which  ascends  thee — 
All  arrayed  in  gorgeous  scaling — 

A  proud  legate  I  distinguish 

From  the  court  of  Neptune  hailing; 


From  the  kingdom  of  the  Trident, 
Bearing  to  his  native  river 

Noble  gifts  of  self-devotion. 
Tribute  to  the  Tribute  Giver! 


FLOWER -LIFE. 

PART   riRST. 

Angels  are  sowers  everywhere! 

They  scatter  as  they  fly 
The  gifts  of  heaven.     In  flower-life 

Is  traced  their  passing  by. 

L'pon  the  beaten  thoroughfare, 

Under  the  hedge-row  sere, 
On  the  heavings  of  the  churchyard. 

In  places  dread  and  drear; 

Upon  the  far-famed  battle-field. 

Where  freedom  at  a  blow 
Abased  the  giant  Tyranny, 

Their  mission  is  to  sow. 

Also  'mid  pleasant  homesteads. 

And  meadows  of  delight, 
And  up  among  the  harbourings 

Of  God's  tempestuous  might; 

L^pon  the  mountain  forehead. 

Which  the  plougiishare  never  soarr'd. 

They  cast,  while  soaring  heavenward, 
Their  farewells  of  regard — 

The  nigh-exhausted  affluence 

Committed  to  their  charge. 
On  the  more  favour'd  valley  land, 

Sown  broadcast  and  at  large! 

In  yon  desert,  parch'd  and  howling, 
On  yon  rock,  so  bare  and  stern. 

If  you  have  eyes  and  soul  of  grace 
You  may  their  tracks  discern. 

No  spot  without  its  token — 
Its  letter  of  commend 

Left  by  celestial  Visitor- 
Sent  by  the  Unseen  Friend ! 

In  flower-life  is  scripture. 

Which  to  study  is  to  gain 
Glimpses  of  the  eternal  world. 

Where  saints  with  their  Saviour  reign. 

By  power  of  its  teachings 
'We  higher  climb  and  nigher 


330 


JOHN   BETHUNE. 


To  tlie  Iieaven  of  the  Iicavcns  seven, 
Where  sit  the  tongues  of  fire; 

And  of  God's  heart  and  purposes — • 
His  glory  and  his  power — • 

New  revelations  ope  on  us 
By  virtue  of  the  flower! 

Better  tlian  pulpit  rhapsodies. 

Safer  than  priestly  strife. 
In  its  guidings  to  the  throne  of  love 

Is  the  study  of  Flower-life. 

PAKT   SECOND. 

Angels  are  sowers  everywhere. 

They  scatter  as  they  fly 
The  gifts  of  Heaven,  and  everywhere 

Eeveals  their  passing  by. 

Behold  it  in  that  shining  tuft 

No  jeweller  could  devi.se 
Out  of  the  seed  of  orient  pearl. 

Or  diamond's  flashing  eyes! 

From  imprint  of  the  messenger 

On  mercy's  errand  sent, 
Sprung  up,  obedient  to  the  charm. 

The  sparkling  ornament. 

An  angel  dropt  the  acorn 

Four  centuries  gone  by. 
From  which  yon  gnarled  oak  cast  root, 

And  sprung  its  antlers  high. 

And  oft  among  the  curtains  of 

The  storm-defying  tree 
Are  heard  the  ru.stling  as  of  wings, 

And  a  sound  like  a  nearing  sea. 

The  lovers  trysting  under  it 

Affirm  that  earnest  eyes 
Are  ofttimes  gazing  down  on  them 

Like  stars  from  autumnal  skies; 

And  the  pauses  in  their  whisperings 
Are  filled  up  to  the  car 


■\Vith  conference  among  the  boughs 
Of  voices  low  and  clear — 

"With  renderings  of  legends 

That  stir  the  spirit  fond. 
And  snatches  of  quaint  melody, 

CuU'd  from  the  world  beyond. 

The  gathering  of  angels 

"Mid  the  hidings  of  the  oak 

Is  a  page  in  the  pleasant  fiction 
Of  the  merrie  fairy  folk. 

For  angel-life  and  fairy-life, 
In  the  poet's  soul  and  song, 

Their  part  hold  in  the  mystery 
That  mateth  Right  with  Wrong. 

And  everywhere  and  everywhere. 

The  angels  and  the  elves. 
To  win  God's  creatures,  zealously 

Contend  among  themselves. 

Yet  of  this  grand  contention 

'Twixt  the  Evil  and  tlie  Good — 

'Twixt  elf  and  angel,  -wrong  and  right- 
The  end  is  understood! 

Ye  messengers  of  God!  go  on 

Sowing  the  seed  of  grace, 
And  grant  that  in  the  reaping-time, 

When  face  is  turned  to  face. 

And  man  beholds  the  IMaker 

In  whose  image  he  was  fraught — 

AVhen  the  light  of  apprehending 
Things  that  were  vainly  sougiit 

Comes  flashing  on  an  intellect 
Obscured  by  the  under-powers, 

Be  ye  among  the  presences. 
Ye  sowers  of  the  flowers! 

That  vindicate  God's  glory 
By  the  showing  of  His  love, 

And  lend  a  leal  helping  hand 
To  the  paradise  above! 


JOHN    BETHUNE 


Born  1810  — Died  1839. 


.Toiix  Betju'XE,  the  younger  of  two  remark- 
able brothers,  was  born  at  the  Mount,  once  the 
residence  of  Sir  David  Lindsay,  in  the  parish 


of  Ifonimail,  Fifeshire,  August,  1810.  We 
have  already  noticed  the  scanty  education  re- 
ceived by  his  elder  brother  Alexander;  but  the 


JOHN   BETHUNE. 


331 


schooling  of  John  was  limited  to  a  single  day, 
after  which  he  was  never  at  school  again.    He 
was  taught,  however,  to  read  by  his  mother, 
and  initiated  into  writing  and  arithmetic  by 
Alexander — his  teacher  in  boyhood  and  guar- 
dian and  counsellor  in  more  advanced  years. 
For  some  time  he  was  employed  as  a  cowherd, 
and  at  the  age  of  twelve  he  joined  his  brother 
in  the  work  of  breaking  stones  on  the  road. 
To  better  his  condition  he  apprenticed  himself 
in  1824  to  a  country  weaver,  and  so  soon  ac- 
quired a  good  knowledge  of  the  trade  that  at 
the  end  of  the  first  year  he  could  earn  fifteen 
shillings  a  week.     This  was  much  better  than 
stone-breaking,   and  with  the  hope  of  being 
able  to  assist  his  aged  parents  he  resolved  to 
follow^  weaving  as  his  future  craft,  for  which 
purpose  he  purchased  a  loom  and  commenced 
in  earnest,  with  his  brother  Alexander  for  his 
apprentice.     But  the  national  mercantile  de- 
pression which  followed  so  utterly  disappointed 
liis  calculations  that  his  earnings  were  soon 
reduced  to  six  shillings  weekly,  and  he  was 
obliged  to  return  to  his  old  occupation  as  an 
out-door  labourer.    Amidst  all  these  hardships 
and  privations  John  had  also  to  encounter  the 
evils  attendant  upon  weak  health,  which  re- 
peatedly suspended  his  labour  in  the  fields. 
It  was  during  these  intervals  that  he  consoled 
liimself  Avith  reading   and  composition,  and 
under  this  harsh  apprenticeship  his  intellectual 
qualities  were   called  forth  and   ripened   for 
action.     Before  he  had   completed  his  nine- 
teenth year  he  had  composed  upwards  of  twenty 
poetical  pieces  of  some  length,  and  all  of  them 
pervaded  by  consi<lerable  beauty  both  of  senti- 
ment and  language.    Tliese  attempts,  however, 
by  which,  in  tlie  course  of  time,  he  might  make 
himself  independent  of  bodily  toil,  were  for 
several  years  prosecuted  by  stealth :  none  but 
his  brother  and  his  parents  knew  how  his  lonely 
hours  were  employed.    "  Up  to  the  latter  part 
of  1835,"  Alexander   Bethune  states   in  the 
memoir  of  his  brother,  "  the  whole  of  his  writ- 
ing had  been  prosecuted  as  stealthily  as  if  it 
had  been  a  crime  punishable  by  law.     There 
being  but  one  apartment  in  the  house,  it  was 
his  custom  to  write  by  the  fire,  with  an  old 
copy-book,  upon  which  his  paper  lay,  resting 
on  his  knee,  and  this  through  life  was  his  only 
writing-desk.    On  the  table,  which  was  within 
reach,  an  old  newspaper  was  kept  continually 


lying,  and  as  soon  as  the  footsteps  of  any  one 
were  heard  approaching  the  door,  copy-book, 
pens,  and  inkstand  Avere  thrust  under  the 
covering,  and  before  the  visitor  came  in  he 
had  in  general  a  bookinhis  hand,  and  appeared 
to  have  been  reading." 

Since  October,  1829,  John  Bethune  had  been 
employed  as  a  day-labourer  on  the  grounds  of 
Inchrye,  in  the  neighbourhood  of  his  birth- 
place; but  in  1835,  on  the  death  of  the  over- 
seer, lie   was   appointed   his   successor.     The 
emoluments  of  this  office  considerably  exceeded 
anything   he   had   formerly   enjoyed,   for   its 
salary  was  £26  a  year,  witii  the  right  of  a  cow's 
pastui-age.     To  this  new  situation  he  gladly 
betook  himself,  with  his  brother  Alexander  as 
his  assistant;  but  their  satisfaction  was  short- 
lived, for  the  estate  of  Inchrye  soon  changed 
owners,   Avhich  Avas  followed  by  a  change  of 
servants.       Under    these    circumstances    the 
brothers  were  obliged  to  leave  their  snug  ap- 
pointment; and  to  add  to  their  misfortunes, 
the  new  landlord  required  the  little  cottage  at 
Lochend  in  which  they  had  located  their  aged 
parents.      Being   thus   altogether    homeless, 
John  and  Alexander  resolved  to  erect  a  house 
for  themselves  and  their  parents,  Avliich  they 
did,  chiefly  with  their  own  hands,  at  Mount 
Pleasant,  near  XcAvburgh;  and  here  the  noble- 
hearted  peasants,  after  having  tried  various 
kinds  of  hand-labour  in  vain,  resolved  to  make 
literature  their  principal  resource.     John  con- 
tributed   to   the   Scottish   Christian   Ilcrahl, 
Wilson's  Tales  of  the  Borders,  and  other  serials, 
and  supplied  some  pieces  to  his  brother's  Talcs 
and  Sketches  of  the  Scottish  Peasantry.     He 
also  jointly  Avrote  Avith  Alexander  the  Lectures 
on  Practical  Economy,   designed  to  improve 
the  homes  and  habits  of  the  poor,  and  Avhich 
was  commended  by  the  press,  although  the 
Avork  did  not  become  popular.     Deep  mortifi- 
cation at  the  failure  of  this  Avork  preyed  on  a 
constitution  already  broken,  and  brought  on 
pulmonary  consumption,  of  Avhich  he  died  at 
Mount  Pleasant,  Sept.  1, 1839,  in  the  thirtieth 
year  of  his  age. 

Thus  passed  away  an  obscurely  born  and 
hard-handed  son  of  toil,  Avho,  Avithout  the 
training  of  college  or  school,  and  Avith  few  of 
even  the  ordinary  opportunities  of  self-impro\-e- 
ment,  became  a  vigorous  original  prose  Avriter 
and  a  poet  of  no  ordinary  mark.     While  his 


332 


JOHN   BETHUNE. 


writings  in  eitlier  capacity  were  stamped  with 
the  impress  of  true  genius,  they  also  sliowed 
much  deptli  of  reflection,  ennobled  by  the  spirit 
of  genuine  devotional  piety.  And  such  also 
was  his  daily  life — simple,  pure,  and  medita- 
tive, showing  a  man  far  above  the  ordinary 
mark,  and  isolated  from  the  sphere  in  which 
lie  lived.     His  poems,    by  which  he  was  so 


little  known  while  he  lived,  but  Avhich  will 
constitute  his  best  commemoration,  were  pub- 
lished by  his  brother  Alexander,  Avith  a  memoir 
of  their  author,  in  1840;  and  from  the  profits 
of  the  second  edition,  issued  the  following  year, 
a  suflicient  sum  Avas  realized  to  erect  a  monu- 
ment in  the  churchyard  of  Abdie,  over  the 
grave  where  tlie  two  brothers  now  rest. 


HYMN   OF    THE   CHURCHYARD. 

Ah  me!  this  is  a  sad  and  silent  city; 

Let  me  walk  softly  o'er  it,  and  survey 
Its  grassy  streets  with  melancholy  pity! 

Where  are  its  children  ?  where  their  gleesome 
play  ^ 
Alas!  their  cradled  rest  is  cold  and  deep, — 
Their  playthings  are  thrown  by,  and  they  asleep. 

This  is   pale   beauty's   bower;    but   where    the 
beautiful, 

Whom  I  have  seen  come  forth  at  evening  hours, 
Leading  their  aged  friends,  with  feelings  dutiful. 

Amid  the  wreaths  of  spring,  to  gather  flowers  ? 
Alas!  no  flowers  are  here,  but  flowers  of  death. 
And  those  who  once  were  sweetest  sleep  beneath. 

This  is  a  populous  place;  but  where  the  bustUng— 
The  crowded  buyers  of  the  noisy  mart, — 

The  lookers  on, — the  showy  garments  rustling,  — 
The  money-changers,  and  the  men  of  art? 

Business,  alas!  hath  stopped  in  mid  career, 

And  none  are  anxious  to  resume  it  here. 

This  is  the  home  of  grandeur:  where  are  they, — 
The  rich,  tlie  great,  the  glorious,  and  the  wise? 

Where  are  the  trappings  of  the  proud,  the  gay, — 
The  gaudy  guise  of  human  butterflies  ? 

Alas!  all  lowly  Ues  each  lofty  brow, 

And  the  green  sod  dizens  their  beauty  now. 

This  is  a  place  of  refuge  and  repose : 

Where  arc  the  poor,  tlio  old,  the  weary  wight, 

The  scorned,  the  humble,  and  the  man  of  woes, 
Who  wept  for  mom,  and  sighed  again  for  night? 

Their  sighs  at  last  have  ceased,  and  here  they  sleep 

Beside  their  scorncrs,  and  forget  to  weep. 

This  is  a  place  of  gloom:  where  are  the  gloomy? 

The  gloomy  are  not  citizens  of  death. 
Approach  and  look,  wlien  the  long  grass  is  plumy; 

See  them  above;  they  are  not  found  bcneatli! 
For  these  low  denizens,  with  artful  wiles. 
Nature,  in  flowers,  contrives  her  mimic  smiles. 

This  is  a  place  of  sorrow:  friends  have  met 
And  mingled  tears  o'er  those  who  answered  not; 


And  where  are  they  whose  eyelids  then  were  wet  ? 

Alas!  their  griefs,  their  tears,  are  all  forgot; 
They,  too,  are  landed  in  this  silent  city. 
Where  there  is  neither  love,  nor  tears,  nor  pity. 

This  is  a  place  of  fear:  the  firmest  eye 

Hath  quailed  to  see  its  shadowy  dreariness; 

But  Christian  hope,  and  heavenly  prospects  high, 
And  earthly  cares,  and  nature's  weariness, 

Have  made  the  timid  i^ilgrim  cease  to  fear, 

And  long  to  end  his  painful  journey  here. 


A  SPRING  SONG. 

There  is  a  concert  in  the  trees, 

There  is  a  concert  on  the  hill, 
There's  melody  in  every  breeze. 

And  music  in  the  murmuring  rill. 

The  shower  is  past,  the  winds  are  still, 
Tlie  fields  are  green,  the  flow'rets  spring. 

The  birds,  and  bees,  and  beetles  fill 
The  air  with  harmony,  and  fling 

The  rosied  moisture  of  the  leaves 
In  frolic  flight  from  wing  to  wing. 

Fretting  the  spider  as  he  weaves 
His  aiiy  web  from  bough  to  bough; 

In  vain  the  little  artist  grieves 
Their  joy  in  his  destruction  now. 

Alas!  that,  in  a  scene  so  fair. 

The  meanest  being  e'er  should  feci 
The  gloomy  shadow  of  despair. 

Or  sorrow  o'er  his  bosom  steal. 

But  in  a  world  where  woe  is  real. 
Each  rank  in  life,  and  every  day, 

]\hist  pain  and  suffering  reveal. 
And  wretched  mourners  in  decay — 

When  nations  smile  o'er  battles  won. 
When  banners  wave  and  streamers  jday, 

The  lonely  mother  mourns  licr  son 
Left  lifeless  on  the  bloody  clay; 

And  the  poor  widow,  all  undone. 
Sees  the  wild  revel  with  dismay. 


JOHN   BETHUNE. 


333 


Even  in  the  happiest  scenes  of  earth, 

When  s\Yell'il  the  bridal-song  on  high, 
"When  every  voice  was  tuned  to  mirth. 

And  joy  was  shot  from  eye  to  eye, 

I've  heard  a  sadly-stifled  sigh; 
And,  'mid  the  garlands  rich  and  fair. 

I've  seen  a  cheek,  which  once  could  vie 
In  beauty  with  the  fairest  there, 

Grown  deadly  pale,  although  a  smile 
Was  worn  above  to  cloak  despair: 

Poor  maid!  it  was  a  hapless  wile 
Of  long-conceal'd  and  hopeless  love, 

To  hide  a  heart  which  broke  the  while 
With  pangs  no  lighter  heart  could  prove. 

The  joyous  spring  and  summer  gay 

With  perfumed  gifts  together  meet, 
And  from  the  rosy  lips  of  May 

Breathe  music  soft  and  odours  sweet; 

And  still  my  eyes  delay  my  feet 
To  gaze  upon  the  earth  and  heaven, 

And  hear  the  happy  birds  repeat 
Their  anthems  to  the  coming  even: 

Yet  is  my  pleasure  incomplete; 
I  erieve  to  think  how  few  are  given 

"To  feel  the  pleasures  1  possess, 
While  thousand  hearts,  by  sorrow  riven, 

Must  pine  in  utter  loneliness. 
Or  be  to  desperation  driven. 

Oh!  could  we  find  some  happy  land, 

Some  Eden  of  the  deep  blue  sea, 
By  gentle  breezes  only  fann'd, 

Upon  whose  soil,  from  sorrow  free. 

Grew  only  pure  felicity; 
■  AVho  would  not  brave  the  stormiest  main 

Within  that  blissful  isle  to  be  _ 
Exempt  from  sight  or  sense  of  pain? 

There  is  a  land  we  cannot  see, 
Whose  joys  no  pen  can  e'er  portray; 

And  yet  so  narrow  is  the  road, 
From  it  our  spirits  ever  stray. 

Shed  light  upon  that  path,  0  God! 
And  lead  us  in  the  appointed  way. 

There  only  joy  shall  be  complete, 

More  high  than  mortal  thoughts  can  reach, 
For  there  the  just  and  good  shall  meet. 

Pure  in  affection,  thought,  and  speech; 

No  jealousy  shall  make  a  breach, 
Nor  pain  their  pleasure  e'er  alloy; 

There  sunny  streams  of  gladness  stretch, 
And  there  the  very  air  is  joy. 

There  shall  the  faithful,  who  relied 
On  faithless  love  till  life  would  cloy, 

And  those  who  sorrow'd  till  they  died 
O'er  earthly  pain  and  earthly  woe, 

See  pleasure,  like  a  whelming  tide. 
From  an  unbounded  ocean  flow. 


SACRAMENTAL  HYMN.i 

0  Lord,  munificent,  benign. 

How  many  mercies  have  been  mine, 

Since  last  I  met  with  thee 
In  that  blest  ordinance  of  thine— 
The  holy  feast  of  bread  and  wine. 

Which  was  enjoy'd  by  me! 

How  many  days,  in  goodness  sent, 
Have  been  in  sickening  sadness  spent; 

How  many  nights  have  come. 
Which  promis'd  rest  and  sweet  content, 
Yet  left  behind  them,  when  they  went, 

Distress,  and  grief,  and  gloom! 

How  many  purposes  have  fail'd, 
How  many  doubts  my  heart  assailVl, 

And  held  my  spirit  fast; 
How  many  sins  have  been  bewail'd. 
How  many  follies  have  prevail'd, 

Since  I  confess'd  thee  last! 

But  still  to  thee  my  spirit  springs. 
And  underneath  thy  sheltering  wings 

A  safe  asylum  seeks: 
For  this  memorial  sweetly  brings 
Remembrance  of  thy  sufferings, 

And  all  thy  kindness  speaks. 

And,  like  a  little  child,  I  lay 
My  spirit  at  thy  feet,  and  say, 

"Lord,  take  it,  it  is  thine: 
Teach  it  to  trust,  to  fear,  to  pray,— 
Feed  it  with  love  by  night  and  day, 

And  let  thv  will  be  mine." 


WITHERED  FLOWERS. 

Adieu!  ye  wither'd  flow'rets! 

Your  day  of  glory's  past; 
But  your  latest  smile  was  loveliest. 

For  we  knew  it  was  your  last. 
No  more  the  sweet  aroma 

Of  your  golden  cups  shall  rise 
To  scent  the  morning's  stilly  breath. 

Or  gloaming's  zephyr-sighs. 


1  The  sacrament  here  alluded  to  was  administered  on 
the  second  Sabbath  of  June,  183S,  and  it  was  the  last 
at  which  the  minister  of  the  parish  (Rev.  Laurence 
Millar)  officiated,  and  likewise  the  last  at  which  the 
author  of  these  lines  took  his  seat:  the  former  being 
dead,  and  the  latter  too  ill  to  attend,  before  another 
opportunity  occurred. 


334 


WILLIAM  MILLER 


Ye  were  the  sweetest  offerings 

Wliicli  friendsliip  could  bestow — 
A  token  of  devoted  love 

In  pleasure  or  in  woe! 
Ye  graced  the  head  of  infancy, 

]}y  soft  affection  twined 
Into  a  fairy  coronal 

Its  sunny  brows  to  bind. 

Ye  deck'd  the  coffins  of  the  dead, 

Uy  yearning  sorrow  strew'd 
Along  each  lifeless  lineament, 

In  deatli's  cold  damps  bcdew'd; 
Ye  were  the  pleasure  of  our  eyes 

In  dingle,  wood,  and  wold. 
In  the  parterre's  sheltered  premises, 

And  on  the  mountain  cold. 

But  ah  I  a  dreary  blast  hath  blown 

Athwart  you  in  your  bloom. 
And,  pale  and  sickly,  now  your  leaves 

Tlie  hues  of  death  assume. 
AYe  mourn  your  vanisii'd  loveliness, 

Ye  sweet  departed  flowers; 
For  ah!  the  fate  wliich  blighted  you 

An  emblem  is  of  ours. 


There  comes  a  blast  to  terminate 

Our  evanescent  span: 
For  frail  as  your  existence,  is 

The  mortal  life  of  man! 
And  is  the  land  we  hasten  to 

A  land  of  grief  and  gloom? 
Ko:  there  the  Lily  of  the  Yale 

And  Eose  of  Sharon  bloom! 

And  there  a  stream  of  ecstasy  ■» 

Through  groves  of  glory  flows. 
And  on  its  banks  the  Tree  of  Life 

In  lieavenly  beauty  grows. 
And  flowers  that  never  fade  away, 

Whose  blossoms  never  close. 
Bloom  round  the  walks  whei'e  angels  stray, 

And  saints  redeem'd  repose. 

And  though,  like  you,  sweet  flowers  of  earth, 

We  wither  and  depart, 
And  leave  behind,  to  mourn  our  loss, 

Full  many  an  aching  heart; 
Yet  when  the  winter  of  the  grave 

Is  past,  we  hope  to  rise, 
Warm'd  by  the  Sun  of  Righteousness, 

To  blossom  in  the  skies. 


WILLIAM    MILLEE 


Born  ISIO  — Dif.d  1S72. 


William  JIiller,  author  of  "Willie  Winkie" 
— which  the  IJev. George  Gilfillan  characteristi- 
cally pronounced  "tiie  greatest  nursery  song 
in  the  world'" — was  born  in  Bridgegate,  Glas- 
gow, in  .Vugust,  ISIO,  but  passed  most  of  his 
early  years  at  Parkhead,  then  a  country  village 
near  Glasgow,  and  from  whence  many  of  his 
rural  inspirations  and  recollections  are  derived. 
He  was  intended  for  a  surgeon,  and  pursued  for 
a  period  his  studies  for  tliat  profession,  but  a 
severe  illness,  with  which  he  was  seized  when 
about  sixteen,  induced  his  parents  to  change 
their  intention,  and  Willie  was  apprenticed  to 
a  wood-turner.  By  diligent  application  he  soon 
became  one  of  the  best  skilled  workmen  of  his 
craft,  and  even  in  his  later  years  it  is  said  that 
there  were  but  few  who  could  equal  him  in 
speed  or  excellence  of  workmanship. 

While  still  a  youth  some  of  his  verses  ap- 


peared in  the  public  prints,  but  the  first  of  his 
compositions  that  attracted  attention  was  his 
nursery  song  of  "  Willie  Winkle."  This  was 
followed  by  a  number  of  pieces  of  a  similar 
character,  and  led  to  the  author's  acquaintance 
with  many  eminent  literary  gentlemen.  The 
best  known  of  ^liller's  nursery  songs  were  all 
written  before  he  was  thirty-six  years  of  age, 
but  it  was  not  till  1863  that  he  collected  and 
published  a  small  volume,  entitled  Scottii-h 
Xurseri/  Somjs,  and  other  Poems.  In  Novem- 
ber, 1871,  ill  health  compelled  him  to  aban- 
don work  and  to  confine  himself  to  the  house, 
wlicn  he  again  found  pleasure  in  poetic  com- 
position, which  for  several  years  he  had 
almost  entirely  abandoned.  In  July,  1872, 
he  removed  to  Blantyre  with  the  expectation 
that  the  purer  air  of  the  country  would  re- 
invigorate  his  frame.     But  this  hope  was  not 


WILLIAISI  MILLER. 


335 


fulfilled,  and  in  a  few  weeks  he  was  brought 
back  and  died  at  his  son's  residence  in  Glas- 
gow, Aug.  20, 1872.  His  remains  were  buried 
in  the  family  ground  at  Tollcross,  and  since 
then  a  monument  designed  by  the  sculptor 
!Mossman  has  been  erected  by  the  poet's  friends 
and  admirers  in  the  Glasgow  Necropolis.  To 
his  only  son  we  are  indebted  for  several  unpub- 
lished productions  of  Mr.  Miller's  later  years 
given  in  our  Collection. 

Eobert  Buchanan,  in  writing  of  William 
^liller,  remarks:  "  Xo  eulogy  can  be  too  high 
for  one  who  has  afforded  such  unmixed  pleasure 
to  his  circle  of  readers;  who,  as  a  master  of  the 
Scottish  dialect,  may  certainly  be  classed  along- 
side of  Burns  and  Tannahill;  and  whose  special 
claims  to  be  recognized  as  the  laureate  of  the 
nursery  have  been  admitted  by  more  than  one 
generation  in  every  part  of  the  world  where 
the  Doric  Scotch  is  understood  and  loved. 
Wherever  Scottish  foot  has  trod,  wherever 
Scottish  child  has  been  born,  the  songs  of 
AVilliam  Miller  have  been  sung.  Every  corner 
of  the  earth  knows  'Willie  Winkle'  and  'Gree, 


Bairnies,  Gree.'  Manitoba  and  the  banks  of 
the  Mississippi  echo  the  'Wonderfu'  Wean'  as 
often  as  do  Kilmarnock  or  the  Goosedubs. 
'Lady  Summer'  will  sound  as  sweet  in  llio 
Janeiro  as  on  the  banks  of  the  Clyde.  .  .  . 
Few  poets,  however  prosperous,  are  so  cer- 
tain of  their  immortality.  I  can  scarcely  con- 
ceive a  period  when  William  Miller  will  be 
forgotten;  certainly  not  until  the  Scotch  Doric 
is  obliterated,  and  the  lowly  nursery  abolished 
for  ever.  .  .  .  Speaking  specifically,  he  is 
(as  I  have  phrased  it)  the  Laureate  of  the 
Xursery;  and  there,  at  least,  he  reigns  su- 
preme above  all  other  poets,  monarch  of  all 
he  surveys,  and  perfect  master  of  his  theme. 
His  poems,  however,  are  as  distinct  from 
nursery  gibberish  as  the  music  of  Shelley  is 
from  the  jingle  of  Ambrose  Phillips.  They 
are  works  of  art— tiny  paintings  on  small 
canvas,  limned  with  all  the  microscopic  care  of 
Meissonier.  The  highest  praise  that  can  be  said 
of  them  is  that  they  are  perfect  'of  their  kind.' 
That  kind  is  humble  enough  ;  but  humility 
may  be  very  strong,  as  it  certainly  is  here." 


AVILLIE  WIXKIE. 

Wee  AVillie  Winkle 

Rins  through  the  toun. 
Up  stairs  and  doun  stairs 

In  his  nicht-goun, 
Tirling  at  the  window. 

Crying  at  the  lock, 
"Are  the  weans  in  their  bed, 

For  it's  now  ten  o'clock  .*" 

"Hey,  Willie  Winkie, 

Are  ye  coming  ben? 
The  cat's  singing  gray  thrums 

To  the  sleeping  hen, 
The  dog's  spelder'd  on  the  floor, 

And  disna  gie  a  cheep. 
But  here's  a  waukrife  laddie 

That  wiuua  fa'  asleep." 

Onything  but  sleep,  you  rogue! 

Glow'ring  like  the  moon, 
Uattling  in  an  airn  jug 

Wi'  an  airn  spoon, 
Piumblin',  tumblin',  round  about, 

Crawing  like  a  cock,  , 

Skirlin'  like  a  kenna-what, 

Wauk'nin'  sleeping  folk. 


"Hey,  Willie  Winkie— 

The  wean's  in  a  creel! 
Wamblin'  aff  a  body's  knee 

Like  a  very  eel, 
Euggin'  at  the  cat's  lug, 

Rav'Ilin'  a'  her  thrums — 
Hey,  Willie  Winkie — 

See,  there  he  comes!" 

Wearied  is  the  mither 

That  has  a  stoorie  wean, 
A  wee  stumpie  stousie. 

That  canna  rin  his  lane. 
That  has  a  battle  aye  wi'  .«lecp, 

Before  he'll  close  an  e'e — 
But  a  kiss  frae  afF  his  rosy  lips 

Gies  strength  anew  to  me. 


COCKIE-LEERIE-LA. 

There  is  a  country  gentleman, 
Who  leads  a  thrifty  life. 

Ilk  morning  scraping  orra  things 
Thegither  for  his  wife — 

His  coat  o'  glowing  ruddy  brown, 
And  wavelet  wi'  gold — 


336 


WILLIAM  MILLER 


A  crimson  crown  upon  his  bead, 
Well-fitting  one  so  bold. 

If  ithers  pick  where  he  did  scrape, 

He  brings  them  to  disgrace, 
For,  like  a  man  o'  metal,  he 

Siclike  meets  face  to  face; 
He  gies  the  loons  a  lethering, 

A  crackit  croon  to  claw — 
There  is  nae  gaun  about  the  bush 

AVi'  Coekie-Ieerie-la! 

His  step  is  firm  and  evenly, 

His  look  both  sage  and  grave — 

His  bearing  bold,  as  if  he  said, 

"I'll  never  be  a  slave  I" 

And  tho'  he  bauds  his  head  fu'  high, 
He  glinteth  to  the  grun, 

Nor  fyles  his  silver  spurs  in  dubs 
Wi'  glowerin'  at  the  sun: 

And  whiles  I've  thocht  bad  he  a  hand 

AVbarwi'  to  grip  a  stickie, 
A  pair  o'  specks  across  bis  neb, 

And  round  his  neck  a  dickie, 
That  weans  wad  laughing  baud  their  sides, 

And  cry,  "  Preserve  us  a'! 
Ye" re  some  frien"  to  Doctor  Drawbluid, 

Douce  Cockie-leerie-la!" 

So  learn  frae  him  to  think  nae  shame 

To  work  for  what  ye  need, 
For  he  that  gapes  till  be  be  fed. 

May  gape  till  be  be  dead; 
And  if  ye  live  in  idleness, 

Ye'U  find  unto  your  cost. 
That  they  wha  wiuna  work  in  beat. 

Maun  hunger  in  the  frost. 

And  bain  wi'  care  ilk  sair-won  plack. 

And  honest  pride  will  fill 
Your  purse  wi'  gear — e'en  ftir-off  frien's 

Will  bring  grist  to  your  mill; 
And  if,  when  grown  to  be  a  man. 

Your  name's  without  a  flaw, 
Then  rax  your  neck,  and  tune  your  pipes 

To  Cockie-leerie-la! 


THE  WOXDERFU'  WEAN. 

Our  wean's  the  most  wonderfu'  wean  o'er  I  saw, 
It  would  tak'  me  a  lang  summer  day  to  tell  a' 
His  pranks,  frae  the  morning  till  niglit  shuts 

liis  e'e, 
When  be  sleeps  like  a  peerie,  'tween  father  and 

me. 


For  in  his  quiet  turns,  siccan  questions  he'll 

speir: 
How  the  moon  can  stick  up  in  the  sky  that's 

sae  clear] 
AVbat  gars  the  wind  blaw?  and  wharfrae  comes 

the  rain? 
He's  a  perfect  divert:  he's  a  wonderfu'  wean! 

Or  wha  was  the  first  body's  father?  and  wha 
Made  the  very  first  snaw-shower  that  ever  did 

fa'? 
And  wha  made  the  first  bird  that  sang  on  a 

tree? 
And  the  water  that  sooms  a'  the  ships  on  the 

sea? — 
But  after  I've  tell't  him  as  weel  as  I  ken, 
Again    be   begins   wi'   his  "Wha?"  and    his 

"When?" 
And  he  looks  aye  sae  watchfu'   the  while  I 

explain, — • 
He's  as  auld  as  the  hills — he's  an  auld-farrant 

wean. 

And  folk  wha  ha'e  skill  o'  the  lumps  on  the 

bead, 
Hint  there's  mae  ways  than  toiling  o'  winning 

ane's  bread; 
How  he'll  be  a  rich  man,  and  ha'e  men  to  work 

for  him, 
Wi'  a  kyte  like  a  bailie's,  sbug-shugging  afore 

him, 
Wi'  a  face  like  the  moon,  sober,  sonsy,  ami 

douce, 
And  a  back,  for  its  breadth,  like  the  side  o'  a 

bouse. 
'Tweel  I'm  unco  ta'en  up  wi't,  the}'  mak'a'sae 

plain, — 
He's  just  a  town's  talk — he's  a  by-ord"nar  Avean  I 

I  ne'er  can  forget  sic  a  laugh  as  I  gat. 

When  I  saw  him  put  on  father's  waistcoat  and 

hat; 
Then  the  lang-leggit  boots  gaed  sae  far  owi-c 

bis  knees, 
The  tap  loops  wi'  bis  fingers  he  grippit  wi'  ease, 
Then  be  march'd  thro'  the  house,  he  march'd 

but,  be  march'd  ben, 
Sae  like  mony  mae  o'  our  great  little  men, 
That  I   leugh  clean  outrigiit,   for  I  couldna 

contain. 
He  was  sic  a  conceit — sic  an  ancient-like  wean. 

But  'mid  a'  his  daflin'  sic  kindness  be  shows, 
Tliat  he's  dear  to  my  heart  as  the  dew  to  the 

rose ; 
And  the  unclouded  hinnie-beam  aye  in  liise'e, 
Mak's  him  every  day  dearer  and  dearer  to  me. 


WILLIAM  MILLER. 


337 


Though  fortune  be  saucy,  and  dorty,  and  dour, 
And   glooms   through   her  fingers,    like   hills 

through  a  shower, 
When  bodies  hae  got  ae  bit  bairn  o'  their  ain, 
How  he  cheers  up  their  hearts, — he's  the  wou- 

derfu'  wean. 


GREE,  BAIRNIES,  GREE. 

The  moon  has  rowed  her  in  a  cloud, 

Stravaiging  win's  begin 
To  shuggle  and  daud  the  window-brods, 

Like  loons  that  wad  be  in ! 
Gae  whistle  a  tune  in  the  lum-head, 

Or  craik  in  saughen  treel 
AVe're  thankfu'  for  a  cozy  hame — 

Sae  gree,  my  bairnies,  gree. 

Though  gurgling  bhists  may  dourly  blaw, 

A  rousing  fire  will  thow 
A  straggler's  taes,  and  keep  fu'  cosh 

My  tousie  taps-o'-tow. 
0  who  would  cule  your  kail,  my  bairns, 

Or  bake  your  bread  like  me? 
Ye'd  get  the  bit  frae  out  my  mouth, 

Sae  gree,  my  bairnies,  gree. 

Oh,  never  fling  the  warmsome  boon 

0'  bairnhood's  love  awa'; 
Mind  how  ye  sleepit,  cheek  to  cheek, 

Between  me  and  the  wa'; 
How  ae  kind  arm  was  owre  ye  baith : 

But,  if  ye  disagree. 
Think  on  the  saft  and  kindly  soun' 

0'  "Gree,  my  bairnies,  gree." 


SPRING. 

The  Spring  comes  linking  and  jinking  through 

the  woods, 
Opening  vn'  gentle  hand  the  bonnie  green  and 

j'ellow  buds — 
There's  flowers  and  showers,  and  sweet  sang  o' 

little  bird. 
And  the  gowan  wi'  his  red  croon  peeping  tlii-o' 

the  yird. 

The  hail  comes  rattling  and  brattling  snell  an' 

keen, 
Dauding  and  blauding,  though  red  set  the  sun 

at  e'en; 
In  bonnet  and  wee  loof  the  weans  kep  an'  look 

for  mair. 
Dancing  thro'ther  wi'  the  white  pearls  shining  in 

their  hair. 

Vol.  II.— Y 


We  meet  wi'  blythesome  an'  kythesome  cheerie 

weans, 
Daffing  and  laughing  far  adoon  the  leafy  lanes, 
Wi'  gowans  and  buttercups  busking  the  thorny 

wands, 
Sweetly  singing  wi'  the  flower-branch  waving  in 

their  hands. 

'Boon  a'  that's  in  thee,  to  win  me,  sunny  Spring  I 
Bricht  cluds  and  gi-een  buds,  and  sangs  that  the 

birdies  sing; 
Flower-dappled    hill-side   and   dewy  beech   sae 

fresh  at  e'en; 
Or  the  tappie-tooi-ie  fir-ti-ee  shining  a'  in  green— 

Bairnies  bring  treasure  and  pleasure  mair  to-  me, 
Stealing  and  spelling  up  to  fondle  on  my  knee ! 
In  spring-time  the  young  things  are  blooming 

sae  fresh  and  fair. 
That  I  canna,  Spring,  but  love  and  bless  thee 

evermair. 


LADY   SUMMER. 

Birdie,  birdie,  weet  your  whistle! 

Sing  a  sang  to  please  the  Avean; 
Let  it  be  o'  Lady  Summer 

AValking  wi'  her  gallant  train! 
Sing  him  how  her  gaucy  mantle, 

Forest  green  trails  ower  the  lea, 
Broider'd  frae  the  dewy  hem  o't 

Wi'  the  field  fiowers  to  the  knee! 

How  her  foot's  wi'  daisies  buskit, 

Kirtle  o'  the  primrose  hue, 
And  her  e'e  sae  like  my  laddie's. 

Glancing,  laughing,  loving  blue! 
How  we  meet  on  hill  and  valley, 

Children  SAveet  as  fiiirest  flowei's. 
Buds  and  blossoms  o'  affection. 

Rosy  wi'  the  sunny  hours. 

Sing  him  sic  a  sang,  sweet  birdie! 

Sing  it  ower  and  ower  again; 
Gar  the  notes  fa'  pitter  patter, 

Like  a  shower  o'  summer  rain. 
"Hoot,  toot,  toot!"  the  birdie's  saying, 

"  Wha  can  shear  the  rigg  that's  shorn? 
Ye've  sung  brawlie  simmer's  ferlies, 

I'll  toot  on  anither  horn." 


HAIRST. 

Tho'  weel  I  lo'e  the  budding  spring, 
I'll  no  misca'  John  Frost, 

Kor  will  I  roose  the  summer  days 
At  gowden  autumn's  cost: 


338 


WILLIAM  MILLER. 


For  a'  the  seasons  in  their  turn 
Some  wished-for  pleasures  bring, 

And  iiand  in  hand  tliey  jink  aboot, 
Like  weans  at  jingo-ring. 

Fu'  weel  I  mind  how  aft  re  said, 

AVhen  winter  nights  were  lang, 
"  I  weary  for  the  summer  woods, 

The  lintie's  tittering  sang;'' 
But  when  the  woods  grew  gay  and  green. 

And  birds  sang  sweet  and  clear. 
It  then  was,  "  When  Avill  hairst-tinie  come, 

The  gloaming  o'  the  year?" 

Oh,  hairst-time's  like  a  lipping  cup 

That's  gi'en  wi'  furthy  gleel 
The  fields  are  fu'  o'  yellow  corn, 

I'ed  apples  bend  the  tree; 
The  genty  air,  sae  lailylikel 

Has  on  a  scented  gown, 
And  wi'  an  airy  string  she  leads 

The  thistle-seed  balloon. 

Tlie  yellow  corn  Mill  porridge  mak', 

The  apples  taste  j'our  mou', 
And  ower  the  stibble  riggs  I'll  chase 

The  thistle-down  wi'  you ; 
I'll  pu'  the  haw  frae  aff  the  thorn, 

The  red  hip  frae  the  brier — 
For  wealth  hangs  in  each  tangled  nook 

In  the  gloaming  o'  the  year. 

Sweet  hope!  ye  biggit  ha'e  a  nest 

Within  my  bairnie's  breast  — 
Oh!  may  his  trusting  heart  ne'er  trow 

That  whiles  ye  sing  in  jest; 
Some  coming  joys  are  dancing  aye 

Before  his  langing  een — 
lie  sees  the  flower  tiiat  isna  blawn, 

And  birds  that  ne'er  were  seen; — 

The  stibble  rigg  is  aye  ahin'! 

The  gowden  grain  afore, 
And  apples  drop  into  his  lap, 

Or  row  in  at  the  door! 
Come,  hairst-time,  tlien,  unto  my  bairn, 

Drest  in  your  gayest  gear, 
W  i'  saft  and  winnowing  win's  to  cool 

The  gloaming  o'  the  year! 


NOVEMBER. 

Infant  Winter,  young  November, 
Nursling  of  the  glowing  woods, 
Lo!  the  sleep  is  burst  that  bound  thee — 


Lift  thine  eyes  above,  around  thee, 
Infant  sire  of  storm  and  floods. 

Through  the  tangled  green  and  golden 

Curtains  of  thy  valley  bed, 
See  the  trees  hath  vied  to  woo  thee. 
And  with  homage  to  subdue  thee — 

Show'ring  bright  leaves  o'er  tliy  head. 

Let,  oh!  let  their  fading  glories 

Grace  the  earth  while  still  tliey  may, 
For  the  poplar's-orange,  gleaming. 
And  tlie  beech's  ruddy  beaming. 
Warmer  seems  to  make  the  day. 

Now  the  massy  plane-leaf's  twirling, 

Down  the  misty  morning  liglit. 
And  the  saugh-tree's  tinted  treasure 
Seems  to  seek  the  earth  with  pleasure — 
Show'ring  down  from  morn  till  niglit. 

Tlirongh  the  seasons,  ever  varying, 
Bapture  tills  the  human  soul ; 

Blessed  dower!  to  mankind  given, 

All  is  perfect  under  heaven. 
In  the  part  as  in  the  whole. 

Hush'd  the  golden  flute  of  mavis. 

Silver  pipe  of  little  wren, 
But  the  redbreast's  notes  are  ringing. 
And  its  "weel-kent"  breast  is  bringing 

Storied  boyhood  back  again. 

Woodland  splendour  of  November, 

Did  departing  Autumn  dye 
All  thy  foliage,  that  when  roamin' 
We  might  pictur'd  see  her  gloamin' 

In  thy  woods  as  in  her  sky] 


JOHN   FEOST. 

You've  come  early  to  see  ns  this  year,  John  Frost, 
Wi'  your  Crispin'  an'  poutherin'  gear,  John  Frost; 

For  hedge,  tower,  and  tree, 

As  far  as  I  see. 
Are  as  white  as  the  bloom  o'  the  pear,  John  Fi'ost. 

You're  very  preceose  wi'  your  wark,  Jobn  Frost! 
Altho'  ye  hae  wrought  in  the  dark,  John  Frost; 

For  ilka  tit-stap, 

Frae  the  door  to  the  slap. 
Is  braw  as  a  new  linen  sark,  John  Frost. 

There  are  some  things  about  ye  [  like,  John  Frost, 
And  ithers  that  aft  gar  me  fyke,  John  Frost; 
For  the  weans,  wi'  cauld  taes. 
Crying,  "  Shoon,  stockings,  claes," 
Keep  us  busy  as  bees  in  the  byke,  John  Frost. 


WILLIAM  MILLER. 


339 


And  gae  "\va'  wi'  j-our  lang  slides,  I  beg,  John 

Frost, 
Bairns'  banes  are  as  bruckle's  au  egg,  John  Frost; 

For  a  cloit  o'  a  fa' 

Gars  them  hirple  awa', 
Like  a  hen  wi'  a  happity  leg,  John  Frost. 

Ye  liae  fine  goings  on  in  the  north,  John  Frost! 

Wi'  your  houses  o'  ice  and  so  forth,  John  Frost! 
Tho'  their  kirn's  on  the  fire. 
They  may  kirn  till  they  tire, 

Yet  their  butter — pray  what  is  it  worth,  John 
Frost  ? 

Now,  your  breath  would  be  greatly  improven, 

John  Frost, 
By  a  scone  pipin"-het  frae  the  oven,  John  Frost; 
And  your  blae  frosty  nose 
Nae  beauty  wad  lose 
Kent  ye  mair  baith  o'  boiling  and  stovin',  John 
Frost. 


OUR  AIN  FIRE-END. 

When  tlie  frost  is  on  the  grun', 

Keep  your  ain  fire-end. 
For  the  warmth  o'  summer's  sun 

Has  our  ain  fire-end; 
When  there's  dubs  ye  miglit  be  lair'd  in. 
Or  snaw-wreaths  ye  could  be  smoor'd  in, 
The  best  flower  in  the  garden 

Is  our  ain  fire-end. 

You  and  fatlicr  are  sie  twa! 

lioun'  our  ain  fire-end, 
He  mak's  rabbits  on  the  wa'. 

At  our  ain  fire-end. 
Tlien  sic  fun  as  they  are  mumping, 
When,  to  touch  them  ye  gae  stumping, 
They're  set  on  your  tap  a-jumping, 

At  our  ain  fire-end. 

Sic  a  bustle  as  ye  keep 

At  our  ain  fire-end. 
When  ye  on  your  whistle  wheep, 

Round  our  ain  fire-end; 
Now,  the  dog  maun  get  a  saddle, 
Then  a  cart's  made  o'  the  ladle, 
To  please  ye  as  ye  daidle 

Round  our  ain  fire-end. 

When  your  head's  lain  on  my  lap. 

At  our  ain  fire-end, 
Taking  childhood's  dreamless  nap, 

At  our  ain  fire-end: 
Then  frae  lug  to  lug  I  kiss  ye. 
An'  wi'  heart  o'ei-flowing  bless  ye. 


And  a'  that's  gude  I  wish  ye. 
At  our  ain  fire- end. 

When  ye're  far,  far  frae  the  blink 

0'  our  ain  fire  end. 
Fu'  monie  a  time  yell  think 

On  our  ain  fire-end; 
On  a'  your  gamesome  ploys, 
On  your  whistle  and  your  toys, 
And  ye'll  think  ye  hear  the  noise 

O"  our  ain  fire-end. 


WHEN  JAMIE  COMES  HAME. 

Ye  breezes,  blaw  saft  as  the  coo  o'  the  dove. 
Waft  gently  the  ship  hame,  that  brings  me  my 

love. 
The  joy  o'  my  heart  brings  the  tear  to  my  ee. 
For  I  trust  ye'll  bring  safely  my  laddie  to  me. 
We'll  hae  crackin'  o'  thum's  when  young  Jamie 

comes  hame — 
Some  eatiu'  sour  plums,  when  my  Jamie  comes 

hame — 
An'  seats  will  be  shiftin',  an'  bonnets  be  liftin'. 
When   up   the  Clyde  cbiftin'  my  Jamie  comes 

hame. 

An'  how's  my  joe  Janet  ?  I  ken  what  he'll  say, 
An'  syne  tak'  my  han'  in  his  ain  kindly  way — 
Sae  douce  aye  afore  fock — nae  ane  will  can  tell 
The  touslin'  FU  get,  when  we're  left  by  oursel'. 
I  ken   wha'll  get   married,  when  Jamie   comes 

hame — 
Fock  say  my  head's  carried  at  his  coniin'  hame — 
'Tween  out-in  and  in-in,  an'  here  an'  there  rinnin", 
It  really  is  spinnin'  at  his  comin'  hame. 

The  parish  is  ringin'  wi'  what  I  will  wear, 
An'  spite  has  an  answer  to  a'  that  do  specr, 
"Some  cheap  trash  o'  muslin  at  saxpence  the  ell. 
An'  if  a  thocht  yellow,  the  liker  hersel'." 
A  pose  I've  a-hidin',  till  Jamie  comes  hame — 
My  time  I'm  a-bidin',  till  Jamie  comes  hame; 
Then  a  silk  gown  o'  green,  wi'  a  skinklein'  sheen, 
Will   dazzle   their  een,  when  my  Jamie   comes 
hame. 


THE   BLUE   BELL. 

The  blue  bell,  the  blue  bell,  I'll  try  to  sing 

thy  praise, 
For  thou  hast  been  to  mc  a  joy  in  many  lonely 

ways: 
When  listening  to  the  skylark,  it  puzzled  me 

to  tell 
Which  were  the  most  beloved — his  notes,  or 

thou,  the  Scottish  bell. 


340 


ALEXANDEE  MACLAGAN. 


Tlie  blue  belli  the  blue  bell!  nae  wonder  that 

I  loe 
The  dewy  shimmerin' gloamin',  for  ever  linkd 

wi'  you : — 
A  band  o'  rosv  rovers  then,  we  rifled  copse  au' 

dell 
For   meadow-queen    to    bind,   wi'   thee,   thou 

bonnie  gracefu'  bell. 

The  blue  bell!  the  blue  bell!  where'er  Ave  wan- 
dering go, 

By  highway,  or  in  bye-way,  or  where  tiny 
streamlets  flow; 

By  hedgerow,  or  in  leafy  lane,  or  by  the  way- 
side well, 

We  meet  in  nook,  or  marge  o'  brook,  thy 
bonnie  droopin'  bell. 

The  blue  bell!  the  blue  bell!  does  Afric's  tra- 
veller dream 

0'  slender  wavin'  flow'rets,  that  grew  by 
Clutha's  stream — 

0"  being  once  again  a  boy,  with  blue  bells  in 
his  hand, 

An'  wake  to  bless  the  di'eam  that  gave  to  him 
his  native  land. 

Tiie  sang  o'  the  mavis,  frae  afF  the  holly-tree, 
The  lintie  in  the  whin-bush,  that  sings  sae 

merrilie; 
The   hum   o'   rural    murmurs,   like  sound  o' 

ocean  shell. 
Arc  ever  thine,  for  glaumorie  is  round  the 

sweet  blue  bell. 


THE   HAW   BLOSSOM. 

Think  on  the  time  when  thy  heart  beat  a  measure, 
All  tuneful  as  woods  %\ith  the  music  of  love; 


Then  say  if  thy  breast  can  forget  e'er  the  pleasure 
Gave  by  flowers  at  thy  feet,  or  the  haw  bloom 
above. 

Tell  then  the  lover  to  woo  in  the  e'enin' 

Down  where  the  haw  blossom's  flom-ishing  seen; 
Sweeter   shade   never    two    young    hearts   was 
screenin' 
Than  the  thorn  with  its  snaw-crown  and  mantle 
of  green. 

If,  with  such  sweetness  around  them  when  roam- 
in', 

The  heart  of  the  lassie,  sae  guileless,  is  won, 
Forever  the  haw-bloom,  the  richness  of  gloarnin', 

And  the  blush  of  his  dearie,  shall  mingle  in  one. 

Bloom  with  the  lily-breath !  everywhere  growing — 
Down  in  the  deep  glen  thy  white  crown  is  seen; 

High  'mid  the  dark  firs  alike  art  thou  blowing; 
Thou'rt  the  banner  of  love!  and  the  summer's 
fau"  queen. 


SONNET  TO  A  LADY. 

Thy  hand  is  on  the  plough — look  ye  not  back; 

Thy  hand  is  on  the  harp — strike  ye  the  string: 
A  youthful  poetess  may  courage  lack, 

But  Heaven  deserts  not  whom  it  taught  to  sing. 
If  'mid  the  pageant  of  thy  fancy's  throng, 

Passing  before  thy  mind  in  musing  hour. 
Fair  Blantyre  riseth — beautiful  as  song! — 

And  thou  should  note  some  sweet  neglected 
flow'r — 
The  gift  is  thine — the  poet's  power  to  fling 

A  witch'rj'  round  it,  that  all  eyes  shall  see 
Another — not  the  modest  cow 'ring  thing 

That's  fed  by  dew  and  sunshine  on  the  lea, 
But  glorified — to  grace  a  festival ! 

A  gowan  made  a  gem— meet  for  a  coronal! 


ALEXANDEE    MACLAGAN. 


Alexander  Maclagan  was  born  at  Perth, 
April  3,  1811.  His  father  Thomas  Maclagan, 
first  a  farmer  and  afterwards  a  manufacturer, 
removed  to  Edinburgh  when  his  son  was  five 
years  of  age.  He  attended  several  schools  in 
Edinburgh,  and  when  ten  years  old  was  placed 
in  a  jeweller's  shop,  where  he  remained  for  two 
years,  when  he  was  apprenticed  to  a  plumber. 


He  applied  his  leisure  time  to  diligent  study, 
and  in  1829,  while  yet  an  apprentice,  became 
a  contributor  to  the  Edlnhunjh  Literary  Jour- 
nal, some  of  his  poetical  pieces  receiving  the 
commendation  of  Professor  Wilson  and  the 
Ettrick  Shepherd.  He  afterwards  proceeded 
to  London,  Avhere  he  worked  for  some  time  at 
his  trade,  and  where  he  made  the  acquaintance 


ALEXANDEE  MACLAGAN. 


341 


of  Allan  Cunningham.  He  returned  to  Edin- 
burgli,  and  was  for  two  years  manager  of  a 
plumbery  establishment  at  Dunfermline,  but 
for  many  years  past  he  has  devoted  himself 
entirely  to  literary  and  educational  pursuits. 
In  1841  Maclagan  published  an  edition  of  his 
poems,  which  attracted  the  attention  of  Lord 
Jeffrey,  who  invited  him  to  Craigcrook  Castle, 
his  residence  near  Edinburgh.  The  following 
letter,  the  last  which  his  lordship  ever  wrote, 
was  sent  to  our  author  regarding  a  new  volume 
entitled  Sketches  from  Nature,  and  other 
Poems,  whicli  he  was  about  to  publish:— 

"24  Moray  Place,  4th  Jan.  1850. 
"  Dear  Sir, — I  am  very  much  obliged  to  you 
for  the  poems  and  tlie  kind  letter  you  have  sent 
me,  and  am  glad  to  find  that  you  are  meditat- 
ing an  enlarged  edition  of  your  Poems.  I  have 
already  read  all  these  in  the  slips,  and  I  think 
them,  on  the  whole  fully  equal  to  those  in  thefor- 
mer  volume.  I  am  most  pleased,  I  believe,  with 
that  which  you  have  entitled  'A  Sister's  Love,' 
which  is  at  once  very  touching,  very  graphic, 
and  very  elegant.  Your  'Summer  Sketches' 
have  beautiful  passages  in  all  of  them,  and  a 
pervading  joyousness  and  kindliness  of  feeling, 
as  well  as  a  vein  of  grateful  devotion,  which 
must  recommend  them  to  all  good  minds. 
'The  Scorched  Flowers'  I  think  the  most  pic- 
turesque. Your  muse  seems  to  have  been  un- 
usually fertile  this  last  summer.  It  will  always 
be  a  pleasure  to  me  to  hear  of  your  well-being. 


or  to  be  able  to  do  you  any  service.  If  you 
publish  by  subscription  you  may  set  me  down 
for  five  or  six  copies,  and  do  not  scruple  to 
apply  to  me  for  any  further  aid  you  may  think 
I  can  lend  you.  — Meantime,  believe  me,  with 
all  good  wishes,  your  obliged  and  faithful 
friend,  "  F.  Jeffkey." 

Soon  after  liis  patron's  death  :Maclagan 
found  a  new  friend  in  Lord  Cockburn,  who 
obtained  a  clerkship  for  him  in  the  office  of  the 
Inland  Revenue,  Edinburgh.  In  1851  he  was 
entertained  by  a  number  of  his  admirers  at  a 
public  dinner,  and  more  recently  a  similar 
compliment  was  extended  to  him  in  his  native 
town.  The  poet's  third  publication,  entitled 
Rugijed  and  Industrial  School  Rhymes,  ap- 
peared in  1854.  Two  years  later  he  had 
conferred  on  him  by  the  Queen  a  civil  list 
pension  of  £30  per  annum.  In  1860  the  poet 
joined  a  company  of  Highland  Yolunteers, 
receiving  the  commission  of  ensign.  In  1863 
he  published  a  little  volume  of  patriotic  songs 
under  the  title  of  "  A'olunteer  Songs,  by  Alex- 
ander Maclagan,  Ensign  Second  City  E.E.  V. ;"' 
also  a  collection  of  "War  Songs,"  written 
during  the  Crimean  and  Indian  wars.  His 
latest  poetical  publication,  a  handsome  quarto 
volume  richly  illustrated,  entitled  "Balmoral: 
Songs  of  the  Highlands,  and  other  Poems," 
appeared  in  1871.  It  includes  some  of  the 
author's  formerly  published  poems;  and  is  dedi- 
cated by  permission  to  her  Majesty  the  Queen. 


A    SISTER'S    LOVE. 


The  glory  of  the  starry  night 
Hath  vanished,  with  its  visions  bright: 
Whilst  daybreak  bluslies  glad  my  sight, 
Take  my  first  kiss  of  fond  delight, 

And  let  me  greet. 

With  blessings  meet. 
Thy  morning  smiles,  my  sister  sweet. 

Lo!  whilst  I  fondly  look  upon 

Thy  lovely  face,  drinking  the  tone 

Of  thy  sweet  voice,  my  early  known, — 

Jily  long,  long  loved, — my  dearest  grown,- 

I  feel  thou  art 

A  joy,  a  part 
Of  all  I  prize  in  soul  and  heart. 


Sweet  guardian  of  my  infancj', 
Hast  thou  not  been  the  blooming  tree 
Whose  soft  green  branches  sheltered  me 
From  withering  want's  inclemency? 

No  cloud  of  care. 

Nor  bleak  despair 
Could  blight  me  'neath  thy  branches  fair. 

And  thou  hast  been,  since  that  sad  day 
We  gave  our  mother's  clay  to  clay. 
The  morning  star,  the  evening  ray, 
That  cheered  me  on  life's  weary  way, — 

A  vision  bright, 

Filling  my  night 
Of  sorrow  Avith  thy  looks  of  light. 


342 


ALEXANDEE  MACLAGAN. 


Yet  there  were  hours  I'll  ne'er  forget, 
Ere  sorrow  and  thy  soul  had  met, — 
Ere  thy  young  cheeks  with  tears  were  wet, 
Or  grief's  pale  seal  was  on  them  set, — 

Ere  hope  declined. 

And  cares  unkind 
Threw  sadness  o'er  thy  sunny  mind. 

In  glorious  visions  still  I  see 

The  village  green,  the  old  oak  tree, 

The  sun-bathed  banks  where  oft  with  thee 

I've  hunted  for  the  blaeberrie, 

Where  oft  we  crept, 

And  sighed  and  wept, 
AVhere  our  dead  linnet  soundly  slept. 

Again  I  see  the  rustic  chair 

In  which  you  swung  me  through  sweet  air. 

Or  twined  fair  lilies  with  my  hair, 

Or  dressed  my  little  doll  with  care; 

In  fancy's  sight 

Still  rise  its  bright 
Blue  beads,  red  shoes,  and  boddice  white. 

And  oh!  the  sunsets  in  the  west: 
And  oh!  my  joy  when  gently  prest 
To  the  soft  pillow  of  thy  breast. 
Lulled  by  thy  mellow  voice  to  rest. 

Sung  into  dreams 

Of  woods  and  streams. 
Of  lovely  buds,  and  birds,  and  beams. 

Sweet  were  the  morns  that  then  did  break. 
Sweet  was  thy  song — "  .Vwakel  awake, 
!My  love;  for  life,  for  beauty's  sake, 
xVwake,  and  dewy  kis.ses  take! 

Awake,  and  raise 

A  song  of  praise 
To  Ilim  whose  paths  are  heavenward  ways." 

"When  wintry  tempests  swept  the  vale, 
'When  thunder  and  the  heavy  hail 
A  nd  lightning  turned  each  young  cheek  pale. 
Thine  ever  was  the  Bible  tale 

Or  psalmist's  song 

The  wild  night  long. 
IIow  firm  the  heart  where  faith  is  strong! 

Now  summer  clouds,  like  golden  towers. 
Fall  shattered  into  diamond  showers: 
Come,  let  us  seek  our  wildwood  bowers. 
And  lay  our  heads  among  the  flowers; 

Come,  sister  dear. 

That  we  may  hear 
Our  mother's  spirit  whispering  near. 

For  worldly  wealth  I  have  no  care. 
For  diamond  toy  to  deck  my  hair, 
For  silk  or  satin  robes  to  wear; 
Content,  if  I  can  daily  share, 


And  hourly  prove. 
The  joys  that  move 
The  pure  heart  with  a  sister's  love. 


THE  OUTCAST. 

And  did  you  pity  me,  kind  sir? 

Say,  did  you  pity  me? 
Then,  oh  how  kind,  and  oh  hoAv  warm. 

Your  generous  heart  must  be! 
For  I  have  fasted  all  the  day, 

Ay,  nearly  fasted  three. 
And  slept  upon  the  cold,  hard  earth. 

And  none  to  pity  me; 
And  none  to  pity  me,  kind  sir, 

And  none  to  pity  me. 

My  mother  told  me  I  was  born 

On  a  battlefield  in  Spain, 
Where  mighty  men  like  lions  fought, 

AVhere  blood  ran  down  like  rain! 
And  how  she  wept,  with  bursting  lieart, 

My  father's  corse  to  see! 
When  I  lay  cradled  'mong  the  dead, 

And  none  to  pity  me; 
And  none  to  pity  me,  kind  sir, 

And  none  to  pity  me. 

At  length  there  came  a  dreadful  day, — 

My  mother  too  lay  dead, — 
And  I  was  sent  to  England's  shore 

To  beg  my  daily  bread, — 
To  beg  my  bread;  but  cruel  men 

Said,  Boy,  this  may  not  be. 
So  they  locked  me  in  a  cold,  cold  cell. 

And  none  to  pity  me: 
And  none  to  pity  me,  kind  sir. 

And  none  to  pity  me. 

They  whipped  me, — sent  me  hungry  forth; 

I  saw  a  lovely  field 
Of  fragrant  beans;  I  plucked,  I  ate; 

To  hunger  all  must  yield. 
The  farmer  came, — a  cold,  a  stern, 

A  cruel  man  was  he; 
He  sent  me  as  a  thief  to  jail. 

And  none  to  pity  me; 
And  none  to  pity  me,  kind  sir, 

And  none  to  pity  me. 

It  was  a  blessed  place  for  me, 

For  I  had  better  fare; 
It  was  a  blessed  place  for  me, — 

Sweet  was  the  evening  prayer. 
At  length  they  drew  my  prison  bolts. 

And  I  again  was  free,  -— 


ALEXANDER   M  ACL  AG  AN. 


343 


Poor,  weak,  and  naked  in  the  street, 

And  none  to  pity  mc; 
And  none  to  pity  me,  kind  sir, 

And  none  to  pity  me. 

I  saw  sweet  children  in  the  fields, 

And  fair  ones  in  tlie  street. 
And  some  were  eating  tempting  fruit, 

And  some  got  kisses  sweet; 
And  some  were  in  their  fatlier's  arms, 

Some  on  their  mother's  knee: 
1  thought  my  orphan  heart  would  break. 

For  none  did  pity  me; 
For  none  did  pity  me,  kind  sir, 

For  none  did  pity  me. 

Then  do  you  pity  me,  kind  sir? 

Then  do  you  pity  me  ] 
Then,  oh  how  kind,  and  oh  how  Avarm, 

Your  generous  heart  must  be  I 
For  I  have  fasted  all  the  day. 

Ay,  fasted  nearly  three, 
And  slept  upon  the  cold,  hard  ground, 

And  none  to  pity  me; 
And  none  to  pity  me,  kind  sir. 

And  none  to  pity  me. 


LOVE'S   EVENING  SONG. 

Night's  finger  hath  prest  down  the  eyelids  of  day, 
And  over  his  breast  thrown  a  mantle  of  gray, — 
I'll  out  to  the  fields,  and  my  lonely  way 
Shall  be  lighted  by  fancy's  burning  ray; 
And,  oh!  might  I  hear  my  own  love  say, — 

"Sing  on,  sing  on,  I'll  bless  thy  strain," — 
;My  heart  would  re-echo  most  willingly, 

"Amen,  sweet  spirit,  amen!" 

I  seek  the  green  bank  where  the  streamlet  flows, 
The  home  of  the  bluebell  and  wild  primrose; 
Where  the  glittering  spray  from  the  fountain 

springs, 
And  twines  round  the  branches  like  silver  strmgs. 
Or  falls  again  through  the  yellow  moon's  rays, 
Like  rich  drops  of  gold— a  thousand  ways. 
I  come  in  thy  presence,  thou  bright  new  moon! 
To  spend  nature's  night,  but  true  love's  noon; 
To  stretch  me  out  on  the  flowery  earth, 
And  to  christen  with  tears  the  young  buds'  birth. 

Oh!  surely,  ye  heavens!  some  being  of  light 
Is  descending  to  earth  in  this  calm,  calm  night. 
Bearing  balm  and  bliss  from  a  holy  sphere. 
To  cheer  the  hearts  that  are  sorrowing  here, 
Gently  alighting  upon  each  breast 
It  knew  on  earth  and  loved  the  best; 
That  its  strength  be  renewed,  its  sleep  be  rest. 
Its  thoughts  be  pure,  and  its  di-eams  be  blest. 


Spirit  of  brightness  on  me  alight. 

For  the  thirst  of  my  soul  would  gladly  sip 
The  dew  that  is  shed  from  thy  downy  wing; 

Then  breathe,  sweet  spu-it,  oh!  breathe  on  my 
lip. 
And  teach  me  the  thoughts  of  my  soul  to  smg. 
For  my  words  must  be  warmed  at  a  holy  flame 
Ere  I  venture  to  breathe  my  true-love's  name! 
I  speak  it  not  to  the  worldly  throng, 
I  sing  it  not  in  the  festive  song; 

But  when  clasped  in  the  arms  of  the  solemn 
wood, 
In  the  calm  of  morn  and  the  stillness  of  even, 

I  tell  to  the  ear  of  solitude 
The  name  that  goes  up  with  my  prayers  to  heaven. 

Come,  Echo!  come.  Echo!  but  not  from  the  eaves 
Where  gloom  ever  broods  and  the  wild  wind  raves. 
Come  not  in  the  gusts  that  sweep  over  the  graves, 
In  the  roar  of  the  storm  or  the  dash  of  the  waves; 
But  softly,  gently,  rise  from  the  earth, 

As  full  as  the  heave  of  a  maiden's  breast. 
When  the  first  sigh  of  love  is  starting  to  birth. 

And  sweetly  disturbing  her  bosom's  rest; 
Softly,  gently,  rise  from  the  bed 
Where  the  young  May  gowan  hath  laid  its  head. 
Hath  laid  its  head,  and  slept  all  night. 
With  a  dewy  heart— so  pure  and  bright; 
Come  with  its  breath,  and  the  tinge  of  its  blush, 
Come  with  its  smile  when  the  skies  grow  flush: 
Come,  and  I'll  tell  thee  the  secret  way 
Thou  must  go  to  my  love  with  my  lowly  lay;— 
Onward,  on,  through  the  silent  grove, 
Where  the  tangled  branches  are  interwove; 
Onward,  on,  where  the  moon's  gold  beam 
Is  painting  heaven  upon  the  stream; 
Through  floweiy  paths  still  onward,  on, 
Till  you  meet  my  love  as  you  meet  the  sun — 
A  being  too  bright  to  look  proud  upon! 
But  her  gentle  feet  will  as  softly  pass 
As  the  shade  of  a  cloud  on  the  sleeping  grass; 
And  the  soul-fed  blue  of  her  lovely  eye 
Is  as  dark  as  the  depths  of  the  cloudless  sky, 
And  as  full  of  magic  mystery! 
And,  more  than  all,  her  breath  is  sweet 
As  the  blended  odours  you  love  to  meet. 
When  you  stir  at  morn  the  blooming  bowers, 
And  awake  the  air  that  sleeps  round  the  flowers. 
Then  tell  her.  Echo,  my  whisper'd  vow, 
I  cannot  breathe  it  so  well  as  thou, 
Oh!  tell  her  all  I  am  feeUng  now! 


THE  AULD  MEAL  MILL. 

The  auld  meal  mill— oh,  the  auld  meal  mill. 
Like  a  dream  o'  my  schule-days  it  haunts  me  still; 
Like  the  sun's  summer  blink  on  the  face  o'  a  hfll. 
Stands  the  love  o'  my  boyhood,  the  a\ild  meal  mill. 


344 


ALEXANDER  MACLAGAN. 


The  stream  frae  the  mountain,  rock-ribbit  and 

brown , 
Like  a  peal  o'  loud  laughter,  comes  rattlin'  doon ; 
Tak'  my  word  for't,  my  freen — 'tis  nae  puny  rill 
That  ca's  the  big  wheel  o'  the  auld  meal  mill. 

When  flashin'  atid  dashin'  the  paddles  flee  roimd. 
The  miller's  blythe  whistle  aye   blends  wi'  the 

sound; 
The  spray,  like  the  bricht  draps  whilk  rainbows 

distil, 
Fa's  in  showers  o'  red  gowd  round  the  auld  meal 

mill. 

The  wild  Hielari'  heather  grows  thick  on  its  thack , 

The  ivy  and  apple-tree  creep  up  its  back ; 

The  lightning-wing'd  swallow,  wi'  Nature's  ain 

skill, 
Euilds  its  nest  'neath  the  eaves  o'  the  auld  meal 

mill. 

Keep  your  e'o  on  the  watch-dog,  for  Cajsar  kens 

weel 
When  the  wild  gipsy  laddies  are  tryin'  to  steal; 
But  he  lies  like  a  lamli,  and  licks  wi'  good  will 
The  hard,  horny  hand  that  brings  grist  to  the  mill. 

There  are  mony  queer  jokes  'bout  the  auld  meal 

mill; 
They  are  noo  sober  folks  'bout  the  auld  meal  mill, 
But  ance  it  was  said  that  a  het  Hielan'  still 
Was  aften  at  wark  near  the  auld  meal  mill. 

When  the  plough's  at  its  rest,  the  sheep  i'  the 

fauld, 
Sic  gatherin's  are  there,  baitli  o'  young  folk  and 

auld ; 
The  herd  blaws  his  horn,  richt  bauldlyand  shi-ill, 
A'  to  bring  doon  his  clan  to  the  auld  meal  mill. 

Tlien  sic  jumpin'  o'er  barrows,  o'er  hedges  and 

harrows — 
The  men  o'  the  mill  can  scarce  fin'  then-  marrows; 
Their  lang-barrell'd  guns  wad  an  armoury  fill— 
There's  some  capital  shots  near  the  auld  meal  mill. 

At  blithe  penny-weddin'  or  christ'nin'  a  wee  ane, 
Sic  ribbons,  sic  ringlets,  sic  feathers  are  fleein'; 
Sic  laughin',  sic  daffin',  sic  dancin',  until 
The  laft  near  comes  doon  o'  the  auld  meal  mill. 

I  hae  listen'd  to  music — ilk  varying  tone 
Frae  the  harp's  decin'  fa'  to  the  bagpipe's  drone; 
But  nane  stirs  my  heart  wi'  sae  happy  a  thrill 
As  the  sound  o'  the  wheel  o'  the  auld  meal  mill. 

Success  to  the  mill  and  the  merry  mill-wheel ! 

Lang,  lang  may  it  grind  aye  the  wee  bairnies' 
meal! 

Bless  the  miller — wha  aften,  wi'  heart  and  good- 
will. 

Fills  the  widow's  toom  pock  at  the  auld  meal  mill. 


The  auld  meal  mill — oh,  the  auld  meal  mill, 
Like  a  dream  o'  my  schule-days  it  haunts  me  still; 
Like  the  sun's  summer  bhnk  on  the  face  o'  a  hill, 
Stands  the  love  o'  my  boyhood,  the  auld  meal  mill. 


CURLING   SONG. 

Hurrah  for  Scotland's  worth  and  fame, 
A  health  to  a'  that  love  the  name; 
Hurrali  for  Scotland's  darling  game, 

The  pastime  o'  the  free,  boys. 
While  head,  an'  heart,  an'  arm  are  Strang, 
AVe'll  a"  join  in  a  patriot's  sang, 
And  sing  its  praises  loud  and  lang — 
The  roarin'  rink  for  me,  boys. 

Hurrah,  hurrah,  for  Scotland's  fame, 
A  health  to  a'  tiiat  love  tlie  name; 
Hurrah  for  Scotland's  darling  game; 
The  roarin'  rink  for  me,  boys. 

Gie  hunter  cliaps  their  break-neck  hours, 
Tiieir  slaughtering  guns  amang  the  niuirs; 
Let  wily  fisher  prove  his  powers 

At  the  flinging  o'  the  flee,  boy.s. 
But  let  us  pledge  ilk  hardy  chiel, 
Wha's  liand  is  sure,  ivha's  heart  is  leal, 
Wha's  glory's  in  a  brave  bonspicl — 

The  roarin'  rink  for  me,  boys. 

In  ancient  days — f;ime  tells  the  fact — 
That  Scotland's  iieroes  werena  slack 
The  heads  o"  stubborn  foes  to  crack. 

And  mak'  the  feckless  flee,  boys. 
Wi'  brave  hearts,  beating  true  and  Avarm, 
They  aften  tried  the  cnrlin'  charm 
To  cheer  the  heart  and  nerve  the  arm — 

The  roarin'  rink  for  me,  boys. 

]\Iay  love  and  friendship  crown  our  cheer 

Wi'  a'  the  joys  to  curlers  dear; 

AYe  hae  this  nicht  some  heroes  liere, 

AVe  aye  are  blythe  to  see,  boys. 
A'  brithers  brave  are  they,  I  ween ; 
May  fickle  fortune,  slippery  queen, 
Aye  keep  their  ice  baith  clear  and  clean — 

The  roarin'  rink  for  me,  boys. 

May  health  an'  strength  their  toils  rewanl. 
And  should  misfortune's  gales  blow  hard, 
Our  task  will  be  to  plant  a  guard 

Or  guide  them  to  the  tee,  boys. 
Here's  three  times  tiiree  for  cnrlin'  scenes, 
Here's  three  times  three  for  cnrlin'  freen's. 
Here's  three  times  three  for  beef  an'  greens — 

The  roarin'  rink  for  me,  boys. 

A'  ye  that  love  auld  Scotland's  name, 
A'  ye  that  love  auld  Scotland's  fame, 


ALEXANDER  M  ACL  AG  AN. 


345 


A'  ye  that  love  auld  Scotland's  game, 
A  glorious  sicht  to  see,  boys — 

Up,  brothers,  up,  drive  care  awa'; 

Up,  brothers,  up,  ne'er  think  o'  thaw; 

Up,  brotliers,  up,  and  sing  hurrah — 
The  roarin'  rink  for  me,  boys. 


AYE  KEEP  YOUR  HEAD  ABOOX  THE 
WATER. 

When  breastiu'  up  against  life's  tide, 

Richt  in  tlie  teeth  o'  wind  and  weather — 
To  dasli  the  giant  waves  aside, 

When  tlireat'nin'  clouds  around  you  gather; 
To  face  misfortune's  wildest  shocks, 

Although  it  prove  nae  easy  matter, 
Strike  out,  my  friend,  wi'  manly  strokes — 

Aye  keep  your  head  aboon  the  water! 

Chorus. 
Aye  keep  your  head  aboon  the  water, 
Aye  keep  your  head  aboon  the  water; 
Strike  out,  my  friend,  wi'  manly  strokes — 
Aye  keep  your  head  aboon  the  water! 

W^hen  coward  guile  would  lay  ye  low, 
When  envy  watches  for  your  stum'lin', 

Turn  boldly  round  upon  the  foe — 

There's  little  help  in  useless  grum'lin"! 

W^hen  malice  hides  her  sunken  rocks, 
Your  tiny  bark  o'  hope  to  shatter. 

Strike  out,  my  friend,  wi'  manly  strokes- 
Aye  keep  yom-  head  aboon  the  water! 

When  poortith  drives  ye  to  the  wa'. 

To  poison  ilka  earthly  pleasure, 
Reck  not  how  fortune  kicks  the  ba'. 

Count  honest  fame  your  greatest  treasure. 
When  slander's  tongue  your  ire  provokes, 

That  would  a  vestal  robe  bespatter, 
Strike  out,  my  friend,  wi'  manly  strokes — 

Aye  keep  your  head  aboon  the  water! 

When  fickle  friendship  proves  untrue. 

There's  nae  sweet  balm  in  fits  o'  sadness; 
When  love  forgets  her  warmest  vow, 

To  sigh  and  pine  is  dounricht  madness. 
There's  other  eyes,  and  lips,  and  locks, 

And  truer  hearts  love's  hopes  to  flatter; 
Strike  out,  my  friend,  wi'  manly  strokes — 

Aye  keep  your  head  aboon  the  water ! 

The  world  will  af  ten  do  its  best 

To  fricht  you  wi'  its  hollow  thunder, 

To  plant  its  foot  upon  your  breast, 

To  crush  you  doon,  and  keep  you  under. 

To  guard  against  its  hardest  knocks, 
Its  threat'nin's  to  the  wind  to  scatter, 


Strike  out,  my  friend,  wi'  manly  strokes- 
Aye  keep  your  head  aboon  the  water! 


"DIXNA  Y^E  HEAR  IT?" 

':Mid  the  thunder  of  battle,  the  groans  of  tlie 
dying. 
The  wail  of  weak  women,  the  shouts  of  brave 
men, 
A  poor    Highland    maiden  sat    sobbing  and 
sighing. 
As  she  longed  for  the  peace  of   her  dear 
native  glen. 
But  there  came  a  glad  voice  to  the  ear  of  her 
heart, 
The  foes  of  auld  Scotland  for  ever  will  fear  it, 
"We  are  saved! — Ave  are  saved!"  cried  the 
brave  Highland  maid, 
"'Tis  the  Highlanders'  slogan  1  0  dinna  ye 
hear  it?" 

Dinna  ye  hear  it?  dinna  ye  hear  it? 
High  o'er  the  battle's  din,  dinna  ye  hear 

it? 
High  o'er  the  battle's  din,   hail  it  and 

cheer  it! 
"'Tis  the  Highlanders' slogan!  0  dinna 

ye  hear  it?" 

A  moment  the  tempest  of  battle  was  hushed, 
But  no  tidings  of  help  did  that  moment 
reveal ; 
Again  to  their  shot-shattered  ramparts  they 
rushed — 
Again  roared  the  cannon,  again  flashed  tlie 
steel ! 
Still    the  Highland  maiden  cried,    "Let  us 
welcome  the  brave! 
The  death-mists  are  thick,  but  their  clay- 
mores will  clear  it! 
The  war -pipes  are  pealing   'The  Campbells 
are  coming!' 
They  are  charging  and  cheering!  0  dinna 
ye  hear  it?" 

Dinna  ye  hear  it?  dinna  ye  hear  it]  &c. 

Y"e  heroes  of  Lucknow,  fame  crowns  you  wilh 
glory; 
Love  welcomes  you  home  with  glad  songs 
in  your  praise; 
And  brave  Jessie  Brown,  with  her  soul-stir- 
ring story, 
For  ever  will  live  in  the  Highlanders'  lays. 
Long  life  to  our  Queen,  and  the  hearts  who 
defend  her! 


34(5 


ALEXANDER  MACLAGAN. 


Success  to  our  flag!  and  Avhen  danger  is  near  it, 
May   our   pipes    be   heard    playing    '-The 

Campbells  are  coming  1" 
And  an  angel  voice  crying,  "0  dinna  ye 

hear^it?" 

Dinna  ye  hear  it?  dinna  ye  hear  it? 
High  o'er  the  battle's  din,  dinna  ye  hear 

it? 
High  o'er  the  battle's  din,  hail  it  and 

cheer  it! 
"'Tis  the  Highlanders' slogan!  0  dinna 

ye  hear  it?" 


WE'LL  HA'E  NANE  BUT  HIGHLAND 
BONNETS   HERE.1 

Alma,  field  of  heroes,  hail ! 

Alma,  glorious  to  the  Gael! 

Glorious  to  the  sjTnbol  dear, 

Glorious  to  the  mountaineer. 

Hark,  hark  to  Campbell's  battle-crj'! 

It  led  the  brave  to  victory; 

It  thundered  through  the  charging  cheer, 

We'll  ha'e  nane  but  Highland  bonnets  here ! 

We'll  ha'e  nane  but  Highland  bonnets  here! 

We'll  ha'e  nane  but  Highland  bonnets  here! 

It  thundered  through  the  charging  cheer. 

We'll  ha'e  nane  but  Highland  bonnets  here ! 

See,  see  the  heights  where  fight  the  brave ! 
See,  see  the  gallant  tartans  wave! 
How  wild  the  work  of  Highland  steel, 
When  conquered  thousands  backward  reel. 
See,  see  the  warriors  of  the  North, 
To  death  or  glory  rushing  forth! 
Hark  to  their  shout  from  front  to  rear. 
We'll  ha'e  nane  but  Highland  bonnets  here! 
We'll  ha'e  nane  but  Highland  bonnets  here! 

Braver  field  was  never  won. 
Braver  deeds  were  never  done; 
Braver  blood  was  never  shed. 
Braver  chieftain  never  led; 
Braver  swords  were  never  wet 
With  life's  red  tide  when  heroes  metl 
Braver  words  ne'er  thrilled  the  ear. 
We'll  ha'e  nane  but  Highland  bonnets  here! 
We'll  ha'e  nane  but  Highland  bonnets  here! 

1  This  fine  song  was  dedicated  to  Sir  Colin  Cam|ibel!. 
At  the  decisive  charge  on  the  lieights  of  Alma,  wlieii 
tlie  Guards  were  pressing  on  to  share  tlie  honour  of 
taking  the  first  giuis  with  the  Highhinders,  Sir  Colin 
C'anii)bell,  cheering  on  his  men,  cried  aloud,  "We'll 
ha'e  nane  but  Highland  bonnets  here!"  How  these 
heroic  words  acted  upon  liis  brave  followers  is  well 
known. — Ed. 


Let  glory  rear  her  flag  of  fame, 
Brave  Scotland  cries,  "  This  spot  I  claim!" 
Here  will  Scotland  bare  her  brand. 
Here  will  Scotland's  lion  stand  ! 
Here  will  Scotland's  banner  fly. 
Here  Scotland's  sons  will  do  or  die! 
Here  shout  above  the  "  symbol  dear," 
We'll  ha'e  nane  but  Highland  bonnets  here! 
We'll  ha'e  nane  but  Highland  bonnets  here! 


SUCCESS  TO  CAMPBELL'S  HIGHLAND- 
MEN. 

All  beneath  an  Indian  sun. 
Another  mighty  work  is  done! 
Another  glorious  field  is  won! 

Success  to  Campbell's  Highlandmen  ! 
They  march!  the  dauntless  hearts  and  true! 
They  march !  the  stainless  bonnets  blue  I 
They  dash  the  traitor  columns  through. 

Success  to  Campbell's  Highlandmen! 

Chorus. 
Success  to  Campbell's  Highlandmen! 
Success  to  Campbell's  Highlandmen! 
They  fought  the  traitors  one  to  ten! 
Success  to  Campbell's  Highlandmen! 

They  charge!  the  bravest  files  they  break! 
They  charge!  the  loudest  guns  they  take! 
They  charge  for  dear  auld  Scotland's  sake! 

Success  to  Campbell's  Highlandmen! 
They  fight!  lo,  blood-stained  Lueknow  falls! 
They  fight!  their  flag  is  on  its  walls! 
How  true  their  steel!  how  sure  their  balls! 

Success  to  Campbell's  Highlandmen! 

Hail,  heroes  of  a  glorious  day! 
Hail,  favourite  sons  of  victory! 
Let  honours  thick  your  toils  repay! 

Success  to  Campbell's  Highlandmen! 
A  nation's  love,  a  nation's  praise. 
Will  wed  them  to  her  proudest  lays. 
And  crown  with  bright  immortal  bays 

Brave  Campbell's  dauntless  Highlandmen! 


TO  A  WOUNDED  SEA-BIRD. 

I  marked  the  murdering  rifle's  flash, 
I  marked  thy  shattered  pinions'  dash 

Of  agony,  and  heard 
Thy  wild  scream  'hove  the  wailing  blast, 
When,  stricken  low,  ye  struggled  past, 

Poor  wounded  ocean-bird  I 


WILLIAM  B.   SCOTT. 


347 


And  ever  as  the  SAvelling  wave 
Thee  and  thy  riven  plumage  gave 

Up  to  my  aching  sight, 
Thy  glossy  neck,  witli  terror  strained, 
Showered  forth  warm  crimson  drops,  which 
stained 

The  sea-surf,  foaming  white. 

Away!  on,  on  the  proud  ship  flies; 

And  he  who  struck  thee  from  the  skies- 
Heartless  destroyer  hel  — 

Feels  not  a  pang  for  thee,  poor  thing  I 

Tossed  by  the  reckless  bufl'eting 
Of  the  cold  careless  sea. 

Thy  mates,  perchance  to  bathe  their  breast, 
May  seek  a  while  thy  wave  to  rest, 

With  greetings  soothing  kind! 
But  soon,  alas!  they'll  gild  the  air, 
"With  flasliing  plumage,  fresh  and  fair. 

Leaving  thee  far  behind. 

How  it  will  wring  thy  little  heart. 
To  see  tiiy  kindred  all  depart. 

All  ghid,  refreshed,  and  free! 
Thou'lt  stretch  in  vain  thy  wounded  wing, 
Thou  may'st  not  from  the  wave  upspring — 

Alas!  poor  bird,  for  thee! 


Alas,  for  thee,  poor  bird! — no  more 
'Twill  be  tiiy  joy  with  them  to  soar 

Through  sunsliine,  calm,  or  storm; 
Kor  on  the  shelly  shore  to  land. 
And  sit  like  sunshine  on  the  sand, 

riuming  tliy  beauteous  form. 

The  wintry  wind  that  rudely  raves, 
The  lashing  rains,  the  torturing  waves. 

Thy  bleeding  bosom  beats. 
The  ocean-scattered  food  dolh  pass 
Before  tiiine  eyes,  but  thou,  alas! 

May  never  taste  its  sweets. 

Cold,  nestled  on  the  black  sea-rock, 
I  liear  thy  little  feathered  flock 

In  piteous  accents  mourn 
For  thee  and  food — but  all  are  gone; 
And  thou  art  drifting  on,  and  on, 

And  can  no  more  return. 

Farewell,  poor  wounded  birdl  like  thee 
Full  many  a  pilgrim  o'er  life's  sea 

In  peace  Avould  fain  float  on, 
Wer't  not  that  tyrants  on  the  flood 
Thirst,  ever  thirst,  to  shed  tlie  blood 

That's  purer  than  their  own! 


WILLIAM    B.    SCOTT. 


"William  Bell  Scott  was  born  at  St.  Leon- 
ards, near  Edinburgh,  September  12,  ISIL 
The  house  then  inhabited  by  his  father  Robert 
Scott,  a  landscape -engraver,  was  an  old- 
fashioned  villa,  standing  by  itself,  with  a  coat 
of  arms  over  the  doorway,  both  outside  and 
inside  of  the  house  showing  the  characteristics 
of  by-past  days.  Here  his  boyhood  was  passed 
with  his  two  elder  brothers  and  a  sister  younger 
than  himself,  who  died  when  he  was  still  in 
his  teens.  This  house  and  sister  he  has  com- 
memorated in  a  sonnet,  which  we  give  among 
our  selections:  it  also  speaks  of  his  loving, 
pious  mother.  His  father  had  at  this  time  a 
large  workshop  in  Edinburgh,  which  tiie  boys 
were  in  the  habit  of  frequenting;  and  David 
the  eldest  having  learned  to  engrave  and  etch, 
finally  became  a  painter,  the  same  course  being 
followed  by  "William.    Tlie  boys  were  educated 


at  the  high  school  of  their  native  city;  but  our 
author,  wlio  in  after  years  has  written  so  much 
in  biography,  criticism,  and  poetry,  does  not 
appear  to  have  been  distinguished  as  a  pupil. 
Theearliest  metrical  compositions  of  William 
are  described  as  of  a  very  ambitious  character, 
his  first  being  a  tragedy  of  the  wildest  descrip- 
tion, which  he  diffidently  persuaded  his  school 
companions  he  had  picked  up  in  the  street! 
His  first  published  poem  was  the  "Address  to 
P.  B.  Shelley,"  revised  and  reprinted  in  his 
late  illustrated  volume.  It  appeared  in  Tait's 
Edinburgh  Magazine  in  1831-32,  and  was  fol- 
lowed by  other  pieces,  and  by  several  in  the 
"EdinburghUniver^ity  Souvenir,"  published  at 
Christmas,  1834.  This  volume,  emulating  the 
annuals  then  fashionable,  was  wiitten  and  pro- 
duced by  a  few  students  in  the  theological 
section,  these  being  the  most  intimate  friends 


348 


WILLIAM   B.   SCOTT. 


of  Scott  at  this  time,  although  he  liad  long 
before  entered  the  Trustees'  Academy  of  Art, 
and  had  determined  his  path  in  life. 

At  the  age  of  twenty-five  he  resolved  to  leave 
Edinburgh,  and  proceeded  to  London  in  Sept. 
1836.  He  here  became  acquainted  with  Leigh 
Hunt,  who  was  then  editing  the  Montldy 
Repository,  in  whicli  Scott  printed  a  poem 
of  considerable  length  called  "  Eosabell,"  after- 
wards re-christened  "  JIary  Anne,"  by  whicli 
he  became  favourably  known.  In  1838,  when 
he  was  beginning  to  exhibit  at  the  British 
Institution  and  elsewhere,  he  issued  his  first 
book,  a  very  small  one,  called  "Hades,  or  the 
Transit,"  two  poems  with  two  etchings  by  him- 
self. This  little  volume,  like  his  later  ones  the 
' '  Year  of  the  World  "  and  "  Poems  by  a  Painter, " 
both  of  which  in  their  original  form  were  to 
some  extent  illustrated  with  designs  by  him- 
self, is  now  an  object  of  rarity  and  prized  as 
such,  although  we  believe  the  author  Avould 
rather  it  had  never  been  published  at  all,  as 
the  second  of  the  two  poems  is  a  juvenile  ex- 
pression of  the  fact  that  there  is  a  progress  in 
human  affairs  as  represented  by  history;  and 
as  this  formed  the  motive  in  the  scheme  of  the 
only  large  poem  he  has  produced,  the"  Year  of 
the  World,"  which  is  so  able  and  splendid  as  a 
whole,  he  would  rather  that  the  latter  had 
stood  quite  alone. 

Before  the ' '  Year  of  the  World  "  was  produced 
Scott  had  taken  a  step  which  seriously  mili- 
tated against  his  position  as  a  historical  painter, 
by  connecting  himself  with  the  newly-formed 
Government  Schools  of  Design,  and  by  leaving 
London,  the  centre  of  the  arts  in  England. 


Having  organized  the  School  of  Art  at  Xew- 
castle-on-Tyne,  however,  he  was  fortunate  to 
be  commissioned  by  Sir  Walter  Trevelyan  to 
paint  eight  important  pictures  for  the  saloon 
of  his  large  house  at  Wallington.  These  pic- 
tures, four  of  the  ancient  and  four  of  the  later 
"History  of  the  English  Border,"  are  among 
the  few  excellent  monumental  works  in  paint- 
ing yet  existing  in  England. 

His  eldest  brother  David,  the  author  of  two 
poems,  and  a  painter  of  great  intellectual 
activity,  died  in  1849,  and  William  published 
his  memoir  in  1850.  This  volume  was  the 
beginning  of  his  prose  publications,  which  have 
now  lengthened  out  to  a  considerable  list.  The 
next  was  "Antiquarian  Gleanings  in  theXorth 
of  England,"  followed  by  "Half -hour  Lec- 
tures on  the  History  and  Practice  of  the  Arts." 
The  last  we  need  to  mention  is  "Albert  DUrer, 
his  Life  and  Works,"  1869.  Previous  to  this 
the  volume  of  miscellaneous  poems  entitled 
"  Poems  by  a  Painter"  had  appeared,  the  date 
of  the  first  issue  being  1864.  Mr.  Scott  was 
now,  if  not  one  of  the  popular  poets — which 
possibly  he  never  can  be — known  to  the  ini- 
tiated, and  appreciated  by  the  "inner  circle," 
and  he  was  content  to  remain  so  till  1875, 
when  he  thought  the  time  had  come  when  he 
"should  put  his  poetical  house  in  order."  He 
accordinglyissued  a  beautiful  edition  of  the  ma- 
jority of  his  poems,  entitled  "Poems,  Ballads, 
Studies  from  Nature,  Sonnets,  &c.,"  richly 
illustrated  by  himself  and  his  friend  L.  Alma 
Tadema,  E.  A.  It  is  now  many  years  .'^ince  ilr. 
Scott  returned  to  London,  and  finally  took 
up  his  residence  there. 


SONXET— MY  MOTHER. 
ST.  Leonard's,  Edinburgh,  is2G. 

A  [lebbled  pathway  led  up  to  the  door 

AVhere  I  was  born,  with  holly  hedge  confined. 
Whose   leaves  the  winter  snows  oft  inter- 
lined ; 

Oft  now  it  seems,  because  the  year  before 

My  sister  died,  we  were  together  more. 
And  from  the  parlour  window  every  morn 
Looked  on  that  hedge,  while  mother's  face, 
so  worn 

With  fear  of  coming  ill,  bent  sweetly  o'er. 


And  when  she  saw  me  watching,  smile  would 
she. 
And  turn  away  with  many  things  distraught; 
Thus  was  it  manhood  took  me  by  surprise. 
The  sadness  of  her  heart  came  into  me, 
And  everything  I  ever  yet  have  thought 
I  learned  then  from  her  anxious  loving 
eyes. 


WOODSTOCK   MAZL. 

"0  never  shall  anyone  find  you  then!" 
Said  he,  merrily  jiinching  her  cheek; 


WILLIAM   B.   SCOTT. 


349 


•'But  why?"  she  asked, — he  only  laughed, — 

"  Why  shall  it  be  thus,  now  speak! " 
"  Because  so  like  a  bird  art  thou, 

Thou  must  live  within  green  trees. 
With  nightingales  and  thrushes  and  wrens, 
And  the  humming  of  wild  bees." 

Oh,  the  shower  and  the  sunshine  every  day 
Pass  and  pass,  be  ye  sad,  be  ye  gay. 

"Nay,  nay,  you  jest,  no  wren  am  I, 

Nor  thrush  nor  nightingale. 
And  rather  would  keep  this  arras  and  wall 

'Tween  me  and  the  wind's  assail. 
I  like  to  hear  little  Minnie's  gay  laugh, 

And  the  whistle  of  Japes  the  page. 
Or  to  watch  old  Madge  when  her  spindle  twirls, 
And  she  tends  it  like  a  sage." 

Oh,  the  leaves,  brown,  yellow,  and  red, 

still  fall. 
Fall  and  fall  over  churchyard  or  hall. 

"Yea,  yea,  but  thou  art  the  world's  best  Eose, 

And  about  thee  flowers  I'll  twine. 
And  wall  thee  round  with  holly  and  beech, 

Sweet  brier  and  jessamine." 
"Nay,  nay,  sweet  master,  I'm  no  Eose, 

But  a  woman  indeed,  indeed, 
And  love  many  things  both  great  and  small, 

And  of  many  things  more  take  heed." 

Oh, the  shower  and  the  sunshine  every  day, 
Pass  and  pass,  be  ye  sad,  be  ye  gay. 

"Aye,  sweetheart,  sure  thou  sayest  sooth, 

I  think  thou  art  even  so! 
But  yet  needs  must  I  dibble  the  hedge, 

Close  serried  as  hedge  can  grow. 
Then  Minnie  and  Japes  and  Madge  shall  be 

Thy  merry-mates  all  day  long, 
And  thou  shalt  hear  my  bugle-call 
For  matin  or  even-song." 

Oh,  the  leaves,  brown,  yellow,  and  red, 

still  fall. 
Fall  and  fall  over  churchyard  or  hall. 

"Look  yonder  now,  my  blue-eyed  bird, 

See'st  thou  aught  by  yon  far  stream? 
There  shalt  thou  find  a  more  curious  nest 

Than  ever  thou  sawest  in  dream." 
She  followed  his  finger,  she  looked  in  vain, 

She  saw  neither  cottage  nor  hall, 
But  at  his  beck  came  a  litter  on  wheels, 

Screened  by  a  red  silk  caul; 
He  lifted  her  in  by  her  lily-white  hand. 

So  left  they  the  blythe  sunny  wall. 

Oh,  the  shower  and  the  sunshine  every  day 
Pass  and  pass,  be  ye  sad,  be  ye  gay. 

The  gorse  and  ling  are  netted  and  strong. 
The  conies  leap  everywhere, 


The  wild-brier  roses  by  runnels  grow  thick; 

Seems  never  a  pathway  there. 
Then  come  the  dwarf  oaks,  knotted  and  wrung, 

Breeding  apples  and  mistletoe, 
And  now  tall  elms  from  the  wet  mossed  ground 
Straight  up  to  the  white  clouds  go. 

Oh,  the  leaves,  brown,  yellow,  and  red, 

still  fall. 
Fall  and  fall  over  churchyard  or  hall. 

"0  weary  hedge,  0  thorny  hedge  1" 

Quoth  she  in  her  lonesome  bower, 
"Kound  and  round  it  is  all  the  same; 

Days,  weeks,  have  all  one  hour; 
I  hear  the  cushat  far  overhead. 

From  the  dark  heart  of  that  plane. 
Sudden  rushes  of  wings  I  hear, 

And  silence  as  sudden  again. 

Oh,  the  shower  and  the  sunshine  every  day 
Pass  and  pass,  be  ye  sad,  be  ye  gay. 

''Maiden  Minnie  she  mopes  by  the  fire, 

Even  now  in  the  warmth  of  June; 
I  like  not  Madge  to  look  in  my  face, 

Japes  now  hath  never  a  tune. 
But,  oh,  he  is  so  kingly  strong. 
And,  oh,  he  is  kind  and  true; 
Shall  not  my  babe,  if  God  cares  for  me. 
Be  his  pride  and  his  joy  too? 

Oh,  the  leaves,  brown,  yellow,  and  red, 

still  fall, 
Fall  and  fall  over  churchyard  or  hall. 

"  I  lean  my  faint  heart  against  this  tree, 

Whereon  he  hath  carved  my  name, 
I  hold  me  up  by  this  fair  bent  bough, 

For  he  held  once  by  the  same; 
But  everything  here  is  dank  and  cold. 

The  daisies  have  sickly  eyes. 
The  clouds  like  ghosts  down  into  my  prison 

Look  from  the  barred-out  skies. 

Oh,  the  shower  and  the  sunshine  every  day 
Pass  and  pass,  be  ye  sad,  be  ye  gay. 

"I  tune  my  lute  and  I  straight  forget 

What  I  minded  to  play,  woe's  me! 
Till  it  feebly  moans  to  the  sharp  short  gusts 

Aye  rushing  from  tree  to  tree. 
Often  that  single  redbreast  comes 

To  the  sill  where  my  Jesu  stands; 
I  speak  to  him  as  to  a  child;  he  flies. 
Afraid  of  these  poor  thin  hands! 

Oh,  the  leaves,  brown,  yellow,  and  red, 

still  fall. 
Fall  and  fall  over  churchyard  or  hall. 

"The  golden  evening  burns  right  through 
My  dark  chamber  windows  twain; 


350 


AVILLIAM   B.   SCOTT. 


I  listen,  all  round  me  is  only  a  grave, 

Yet  listen  I  ever  again. 
AVill  he  come?     I  pluck  the  flower-leaves  off. 

And  at  each  cry,  yes,  no,  yes! 
I  blow  the  down  from  tiie  dry  hawkweed 
Once,  twice,  ah  I  it  flieth  amiss! 

Oh,  the  shower  and  the  sunshine  every  day 
Pass  and  pass,  be  ye  sad,  be  ye  gay. 

"Hark!  he  comes!  yet  his  footstep  sounds 

As  it  sounded  never  before! 
Perhaps  he  thinks  to  steal  on  me, 
But  ril  hide  behind  the  door." 
She  ran,  she  stopped,  stood  still  as  stone — 

It  was  Queen  Eleanore; 
And  at  once  she  felt  that  it  was  death 
The  hungering  she-wolf  bore! 

Oh,  the  leaves,  brown,  yellow,  and  red, 

still  fall. 
Fall  and  fall  over  churchyard  or  hall. 


PARTED   LOVE. 


-THE   P.VST.' 


Methinks  I  have  passed  through  some  dreadful 
door. 
Shutting  off  summer  and  its  sunniest  glades 
From  a  dank  waste  of  marsh  and  ruinous 
shades: — 

And  in  that  sunlit  past,  one  day  before 

All  other  days  is  crimson  to  the  core; 

That  day  of  days  when  hand  in  hand  became 
Encircling  arms,  and  Avith  an  effluent  flame 

Of  terrible  surprise,  we  knew  love's  lore. 

The  rose-red  ear  that  then  my  hand  caressed. 
Those  smiles  bewildered,  that  low  voice  so 
sweet, 
The  truant  threads  of  silk  about  the  brow 
Dishevelled,  when  our  burning  lips  were  pressed 
Together,  and  the  temple-pulses  beat! 

AH  gone  now — Avhere  am  I,  and  where 
art  thou? 

II. — THE   PRESENT. 

No  cypress-wreath  nor  outward  signs  of  grief; 
But  I  may  cry  unto  the  morn,  and  flee 
After  the  god  whose  back  is  turned  to  me. 

And  touch  his  wings  and  plead  for  some  relief; 

Draw,  it  may  be,  a  black  shaft  from  his  sheaf: — 

1  W.  M.  Rosetti  remarks  in  Macmillan's  Magazine  for 
irarcli,  ISTG,  tliat  one  of  the  forms  of  verse  in  which  the 
Ijoet-painter  succeeds  best  is  that  form  whicii  moft 
urgently  demands  iierfection  of  execution— the  sonnet. 
—Ed. 


For  now  I  know  his  quiver  harbours  those 
Deatli  mixed  with  his,  as  the  old  fable  shows, 

AVlien  he  slept  heedless  on  the  red  rose  leaf. 

.\nd  I  may  open  Memory's  chamber-door 

To  grope  my  way  around  its  noiseless  floor, 
Now  that,  alas!  its  windows  give  no  light, 

Nor  gentle  voice  invites  me  any  more; 
For  she  is  but  a  picture  faintly  bright 
Hung  dimly  high  against  the  walls  of  night. 

III. — MORNIXG. 

Last  night, — it  must  have  been  a  ghost  at 
best,— 
I  did  believe  the  lost  one's  slumbering  head 
Filled  the  white  hollows  of  the  curtained  bed, 

.\nd  liappily  sank  again  to  sound  sweet  rest. 

As  in  times  past  with  sleep  my  nightly  guest, 
A  guest  that  left  me  only  when  the  day 
Showed  me  a  fairer  than  Euphrosyne, — 

Day  that  now  shows  me  but  the  untilled  nest. 

0  night!  thou  wert  our  mother  at  the  first. 
Thy  silent  chambers  are  our  homes  at  last; 
And  even  now  thou  art  our  bath  of  life. 
Come  back!  the  hot  sun  makes  our  lips  athirst; 
Come  back!   thy  dreams  may  recreate  the 
past; 
Come  back!  and  smooth  again  this  heart's 
long  strife. 

IV.  —  BY   THE   SE.V-SIDE. 

Rest  here,  my  heart,  nor  let  us  further  creep; 
Rest  for  an  hour;  I  shall  again  be  strong. 
And  make  for  thee  another  little  song: 
Rest  here,   and  look  down  on  the  tremulous 

deep, 
Where  sea-weeds  like  dead  maenad's  long  locks 
sweep 
Over  that  dreadful  floor  of  stagnant  green. 
Strewed  with  the  bones  of  lovers  that  have 
been, 
Nor  even  yet  can  scarce  be  said  to  sleep. 

Beyond  that  sea,  far  o'er  that  wasteful  sea. 
The  sunset  she  so  oft  hath  seen  with  me 

Flames  up  with  all  the  arrogances  of  gold, 
Scarlet  and  purple,  while  the  west  wind  falls 

Upon  us  with  its  deadliest  winter-cold; — 
Shall  we  slide  down?     I   think  the  dear  one 
calls! 


SAINT   MARGARET. 

The  wan  lights  freeze  on  the  dark  cold  floor, 
Witch  lightsand  green  the  high  windows  adorn ; 
The  cresset  is  gone  out  the  altar  before. 


MRS.  JANE   C.   SIMPSON. 


351 


She  knows  her  long  houi*  of  life's  nigh  worn, 
And  she  kneels  here  waiting  to  be  re-born, 
On  the  stones  of  the  chancel. 

"That  door  darkly  golden,  that  noiseless  door. 
Through  which  1  can  see  sometimes,"  said  she, 
"Will  it  ever  be  opened  to  close  no  more; 
Will  those  wet  clouds  cease  pressing  on  me: 
Shall  I  cease  to  hear  the  sound  of  the  sea?" 
Her  handmaids  miss  her  and  rise. 

"  I've  served  in  life's  prison-house  long,"  she 

said, 
"  Where  silver  and  gold  are  heavy  and  bright, 
AVhere  children  wail,  and  where  maidens  wed. 
Where  the  day  is  wearier  than  the  night, 
-Vnd  each  would  be  master  if  he  might." 
Margaret!  they  seek  thee. 

The  night  waxed  darker  than  before; 
Scarce  could  the  windows  be  traced  at  all. 
Only  the  sliarp  rain  was  heard  rushing  o'er; 
A  sick  sleeper  moaned  through  the  cloister  wall, 


.Vnd  a  horse  neighed  shrill  from  a  distant  stall, 
And  the  sea  sounded  on. 

"Are  all  the  dear  holy  ones  shut  within. 
That  none  descend  in  my  strait?"  said  she; 
"Their  songs  are  afar  off,  far  off  and  thin. 
The  terrible  sounds  of  the  prison-house  flee 
About  me,  and  the  sound  of  tlie  sea." 

Lights  gleam  from  room  to  room. 

Slowly  a  moonshine  breaks  over  the  glass. 
The  black  and  green  witchcraft  is  there  no  more; 
It  spreads  and  it  brightens,  and  out  of  it  pass 
Four  angels  with  glorified  hair, — all  four 
With  lutes;  and  our  Lord  is  in  heaven's  door. 
Margaret  I  they  hail  thee. 

Her  eyes  are  a-wide  to  the  hallowed  light. 
Her  head  is  cast  backward,  her  bosom  is  clad 
With  the  flickering  moonlight  pale  purple  and 

white; 
.A. way  to  the  angels  her  spirit  hath  fled. 
While  her  body  still  kneels, — but  is  it  not  dead  ? 
She  is  safe,  she  is  well ! 


MES.    JANE    C.    SIMPSON. 


Mrs.  Jane  Cross  Simpson  is  a  daughter  of 
the  late  James  Bell,  advocate,  and  was  born 
at  Glasgow  in  1811.  Her  first  verses  appeared 
in  the  Greenock  Advertiser  while  her  father 
resided  in  that  town.  To  the  Edlnbur(jh 
Literary  Journal,  edited  by  her  brother  Henry 
Glassford  Bell, she  afterwards  contributed  many 
beautiful  poems  under  the  assumed  name  of 
"Gertrude," and  subsequently  various  articles 
in  prose  and  verse  to  the  Scottish  Christian 
Herald.  In  1836  Miss  Bell  published  a  volume 
of  tales  and  sketches  entitled  The  Piety  of 
Daily  Life.  A  collection  of  her  poems,  which 
she  called  April  Hours,  was  published  in  1838; 


and  in  1848  there  appeared  fi'om  her  pen  a 
volume  entitled  Woman's  History;  followed 
in  1859  by  Linda,  or  Beauty  and  Genius,  a 
metrical  romance.  Mrs.  Simpson's  last  work 
appeared  under  the  title  of  Picture  Poems. 
She  is  the  author  of  the  beautiful  and  much- 
admired  hymn  beginning  "Go  when  the 
morning  shineth,"  and  a  frequent  contributor 
to  Good  Words  and  other  current  periodi- 
cals. In  July,  1837,  Miss  Bell  was  married 
to  her  cousin  Jlr.  J.  B.  Simpson  of  Glasgow, 
in  which  city  they  chiefly  resided  for  many 
years.  Her  present  home  is  at  Portobello, 
near  Edinburgh. 


THE    LONGINGS    OF    GENIUS. 


It    is   a    sacred    privilege   to    lofty    natures 

given. 
Even  while  in  mortal  guise,  to  walk  midway 

'twixt  earth  and  heaven, 


To  own  all  gentle  sympathies  that  bind  the 

human  race. 
Yet  rise  in  pure  and  earnest  aim,  a  brighter 

course  to  trace. 


352 


MES.   JANE   C.   SIMPSON. 


Creation  teems  with  poetry — above,  beneatli, 
around — 

Thought,  fancy,  feeling,  lie  enshrined  in  sim- 
plest sight  and  sound; 

Mysterious  meaning  clothes  whate'er  we  hear, 
or  touch,  or  view. 

And  still  the  soul  aspires  to  grasp  the  beautiful 
and  true! 

0  Genius:  tliou  hast  high  desires,  and  longings 
wild  and  vain, 

Which  never  in  this  darken'd  world  their 
bright  fulfilment  gain! 

Within  a  lonely  chamber  burn'd  a  single  sickly 

lamp, 
Around  the  watcher's  brows  the  dews  of  night 

hung  cold  and  damp, 
The  page  yet  wet  before  him  lay,  the  faithful 

record  bore 
Of  many  a  high  heroic  thought   he   in   his 

bosom  wore. 
But  though  the  strain  his  muse  had  coin'd 

would  soon,  in  cadence  deep. 
Cause   manly   hearts  to  thrill   response,  and 

gentle  eyes  to  weep. 
The  pen  dropped  sadly  from  his  hand,  his  head 

lean'd  on  his  breast — 
Alas!  how  feebly  had  his  song  the  burning  soul 

express'd: 

0  Genius!  thou  hast  high  desires,  and  longings 

wild  and  vain, 
Which    never   in   this   darken'd    world   their 
bright  fulfilment  gain! 

It  was  a  gorgeous  landscape  on   the   ample 

canvas  lay — 
Wood,    valley,    mountain,    lake,    and    river 

stretching  far  away. 
In  some  sweet  southern  clime  of  earth,  where 

skies  are  blue  and  warm. 
And  seldom  Nature's  smiling  face  is  marr'd 

by  gloom  and  storm; 
So  fresh  the  sod  whence,  blushing,  peep'd  the 

softly-cradled  flowers, 
So  rich  the  radiance  mantling  round  the  ruin's 

ivied  towers. 
This  is  no  picture.'     On  my  cheek  I  feel  the 

balmy  breeze; 

1  hear  the  murmur  of  the  stream,  the  song- 

birds in  the  trees. 
Thanks!  great  magician-painter,  thanks!  whose 

mind  :ind  hand  unite 
To  steep  the  dreaming  senses  thus  in  silent, 

deep  delight! 
Well  may'st  thou  now  the  lofty  mien  and  flush 

of  trium)>h  wear: 
Ah!  wiiy  instead  that  sunken  eye,  those  looks 

of  pallid  care? 


0  Genius!  thou  hast  high  desires,  and  longings 

wild  and  vain. 
Which    never   in   this   darken'd    world    their 

bright  fulfilment  gain! 

'Tis  ever  thus!     The  souls  that  prove  their 

source  and  end  divine 
Must  ceaseless  strive,  yet  never  win  the  prize 

for  which  they  pine; 
Whate'er  is  purest,  loveliest,  best,  floats  on 

their  tide  of  thought. 
But,  like  the  rainbow''s  fleeting  form,  dissolves 

ere  it  is  caught. 
And  why  is  this,  if  not  to  teach  that  beauty, 

truth,  and  love 
Have  but  one  birth-place  and  one  goal — the 

land  of  light  above. 
Where,  far  beyond  our  highest  dreams  of  poetry 

or  art, 
Inviolate    perfection    reigns   serene    through 

every  part ! 
0  Genius!  there,  and  there  alone,  thy  longings 

wild  and  vain. 
Expanding  still,  shall  all  at  last  their  bright 

fulfilment  gain ! 


GOOD    AXGELS. 

An  angel  came  down  in  the  still  of  the  night. 

And  stood  by  tiie  bed  of  a  sleeping  child. 
He  breathed  in  his  ear;  and  I  knew  that  the 
words 

Were  a  whisper  of  joy — for  the  cherub  smiled. 
Then  the  angel  flew  back  to  his  home;  and   I 
heard, 

As  the  golden  gates  were  wide  open  thrown. 
Ten  thousand  voices  the  tidings  rehearse— 

"O  child  of  earth!  thou  art  all  our  own!" 

An  angel  came  down  at  the  dusky  dawn, 
Where  a  youth  kept  watcii  on  the  field  of 
fight: 
The  hostile  camp  in  the  distance  loom  d, 
And  the  grass  waving  green  would  be  red 
ere  night. 
But  the  soldier's  heart  was  of  metal  true — 
God's  trust  and  strength   in   his  blue   eye 
shone: 
So  the  angel  went  np,   and   the  voices  rang 
fortii— 
"  0  child  of  earth!  thou  art  still  our  own  !  " 

An  angel  came  down  as  the  twilight  closed, 
To  a  lighted  hall,  where  the  wine  flow'd  free: 

And  tiie  young  man  laugh'd  as  the  ribald  je.st 
And  the  song  ro.se  high  of  the  drunkard's  glee. 


MRS.  JANE   C.   SIMPSON. 


353 


Ah!  then  fell  a  shade  on  that  pale  pure  face 
(As  the  summer  moon  veil'd  in  a  soft  mist 
o'er) ; 

And  tender  and  low  was  the  seraph's  strain — 
"0  child  of  earth!  thou  art  ours  no  more!" 

An  angel  came  down  on  a  forest  glade 

As  the  stars  went  out  at  the  flush  of  day, 
"Where  one,  with  hot  cheek  and  a  blood- stain'd 
sword, 

Through  the  dewj^  copse  strode  in  haste  away. 
For  angry  words  overnight,  they  had  met 

As  foes  this  morn  who  were  friends  of  yore, 
And  the  angel  went  up  witli  the  murmur'd 
sigh— 

"0  child  of  earth!  thou  art  ours  no  more! 

An  angel  came  down  as  the  moonbeams  play'd 
'Mong  the  scatter'd  gray  stones  of  the  old 
churchyard, 
Where  the  strong  man,  bowing  bis  angu'.sh'd 
head. 
By  a  fresh  grave  knelt  on  the  cold  damp 
sward. 
The  gentle  friend  of  his  youth  was  at  rest, 

And  the  fruits  were  blessed  her  memory  bore: 
So  the  angel  flew  up  with  a  smile,  and  they 
sang — 
"  0  child  of  earth!  thou  art  ours  once  more!" 

An  angal  came  down  to  a  darken'd  room, 

Where  a  father  lay  pale  on  his  dying  bed; 
The  daughter,  sole  light  of  his  widow'd  home. 

In  tears  heard  the  blessings  he  pour'd  on 
her  head. 
As  the  angel  look'd,  the  soul  broke  free. 

And  he  bore  it  in  triumph  to  God  the  giver; 
Then  rang  heaven's  arch  with  the  welcome 
shout — 

"0  child  of  earth!  thou  art  ours  for  ever  1 " 

Thus  watching  and  waiting  with  zeal  untired, 

Good  angels  hover  round  pilgrims  here; 
And  whether  in  folly's  or  wisdom's  scene, 

Be  sure  that  some  radiant  spirit  is  near. 
And  oh,  my  brother!  as  first  they  found  thee — 

A  blossom  of  hope  on  life's  desert  thrown — 
Jlay  the  bright  host  hail  thee  at  last,  in  glory — 

A  child  of  heaven,  and  all  their  own! 


GOING  TO  THE  COUNTRY. 

Upon  the  city's  dusty  street  the  sun  beat  fierce 
and  high. 

For  biting  winds  had  sudden  veer'd,  and  sum- 
mer fleck'd  the  sky: 

Vol.  II.— Z 


And  at  a  tall  house-door  flung  wide  a  chariot 

stood  in  wait, 
"With   bag  and   box  atop,   behind— a  mix'd 

suggestive  freight; 
While  children's  merry  voices  rang  upon  the 

quiet  air, 
And  boys  and  girls  with  sunshade  hats  tripp'd 

nimbly  down  the  stair, 
And  leapt  into  the  carriage  straight;  while  on 

the  steps  apace, 
With  shawl  and  cloak  the  parents  came,  and 

smiling  took  their  place. 
•'Oh!  but  the  town  is  hot  and  dry— here  we 

no  longer  stay ; 
Off  to  the  country  cool  and  clear,  on  wings  of 

light  away!" 
The  door  was  bang'd,  the  reins  caught  up,  the 

whip  was  crack'd  amain. — 
Will  rattling  wheels  to  young  fresh  hearts  e'er 

bring  such  joy  again  1 — 


In  that  same  street,  that  very  hour,  in  that 
bright  morn  of  spring, 

A  gentle  form  of  maiden  grace  lay  wan  and 
withering; 

And   as   her  quick  ear  caught   the  sound  of 
horses'  trampling  feet. 

She  knew  that  household  band  was  borne  ta 
life  more  green  and  sweet. 

Yet  if  a  pang  came  o'er  her  heart  it  vanish'd 
in  a  sigh, 

And  holier  meanings  lit  the  depths  of  her  re- 
splendent eye; 

And  as  the  sounds  in  distance  died,  a  low  clear 
voice  awoke, 

Of  tone  so  flute-like  that  it  seem'd  she  rather 
sang  than  spoke : 

"Yes,  these  to  fields  and  woods  are  gone,  with 
pulses  bounding  high. 

For  May  now  hangs  her  blossoms  'neath  a  blue 
delicious  sky; 

And  they  will  climb  the  mountains  and  inhale 
the  balmy  breeze. 

And  gather  flowers,  and  launch  the  boat  upon 
the  sunny  seas. 

Then  pluck  the  autumn  fruits,  and  stand  be- 
side the  golden  grain. 

And  when  the  winds  blow  chill,  return  to  city's 
home  again. 

But   I — oh!   fairer   far   the   land  to  which  I 
surely  go. 

Where  fadeless  trees  are  mirror'd  in  the  crystal 
river's  flow; 

Where  high  upon  the  hills  of  God,  aye  steep'd 
in  golden  sheen. 

The  angels  find  their  radiant  rest  'mong  pas- 
tures ever  green ; 


354 


MES.  JANE   C.   SIMPSON. 


Where  peace  unutterable  fills  like  light  the 

liquid  air. 
And  speech  divinest  music  hath,  for  perfect 

love  is  there. 
Say,   what  are   all   the  loveliest  scenes  here 

spread  from  shore  to  shore. 
To  that  far  boundless  summer-land  whence 

travellers  come  no  more? 
Oh!  but  this  earth  is  dim  and  drear — I  would 

I  were  away ! 
Home  to  that  country  of  the  soul,  this  early 

morn  of  May. " 

The  prayer  went  up  as  incense  from  a  holy 

censer  pour'd, 
Down  came  the  willing  angel  straight,   and 

loosed  the  silver  cord : 
And  when  that  eve  the  boys  and  girls  ran 

shouting  by  the  sea, 
She  went  to  spend  the  long  bright  days  where 

summers  ceaseless  be. 


That  make  the  sum  of  good  to  man  below— 
Food,  raiment,  kindred  and  domestic  ties. 
Music  and  books,  and  art's  exhaustless  stores. 
With  glorious  pageantry  of  nature's  realm  ^ 
If  these  have  wearied  thee,  look  to  thyself — 
Thy  wit's  diseased.     Go,  pray  to  have  it  healed. 
Down,  down  upon  thy  knees;  or  if  there  be 
A  lowlier  posture,  wherein  knees,  hands,  face, 
Clasp  the  cold  earth,  pour  out  thy  spirit  there; 
And,  while  hot  tears  for  pardon  plead,  cry  out 
"0  Lord!  change  naught  but  this  weak,  thank- 
less heai't!" 


TEDIUM   YIT.E. 

Thou  say  est  "  I  am  weary.     Day  by  day. 
Time,  like  a  quiet  river,  glideth  on; 
No  ruffle  on  the  tide,  no  shifting  skies — 
Naught  save  the  noiseless  round  of  common  tasks. 
Oh!  'tis  a  tasteless  life.  Heaven  send  me  change!" 

Friend,  many  feel  as  thou,  the  thought  un- 
shaped; 
Many  are  vainly,  vaguely  weary  thus. 
Such  weariness  is  i-ash,  ungrateful,  mean. 
Consider — change  brings  grief  more  oft  than  joy; 
Monotony  of  good  is  good  supreme, 
And  pain's  exemption  test  of  health  entire. 

Oh !  there  be  men  and  women  who  ne'er  owned 
Of  thy  full  measured  blessings  even  a  tithe: 
Whose    natural   wants,   health,   money,  friends 

denied, 
Might  well  have  sapped  the  core  of  sweet  content, 
And  caused  them  pine,  and  fret,  and  weep  for 

change — 
Who  yet  go  almost  singing  on  their  way: 
Such  music  patience  makes  in  great  meek  souls! 

Art  weary  of  God's  love,  that  wraps  thee  close 
In  the  sweet  folds  of  mercy  hour  by  hour  ? 
Weary  of  strength  renewed  and  sight  uiidimmed. 
To  walk  'mid  summer  scenes  'neath  open  skies  ? 
Wearj-of  friendship's  voice  that  woos  thee  forth. 
And  calm  affection  of  the  household  band. 
That  watch  thy  steps  and  hail  thee  home  with 

smiles? — 
Art  weary  of  all  fair  and  gracious  things 


I  KNOAV  NOT. 

I  know  not  if  thy  spirit  weaveth  ever 

Tlie  golden  fantasies  of  mine  for  thee; 
I  only  know  my  love  is  a  great  river, 
And  thou  the  sea! 

I  know  not  if  the  time  to  thee  is  dreary, 

When  ne'er  to  meet  we  pass  the  wintry  days; 
I  only  know  my  muse  is  never  wear}'. 
The  theme  thy  praise. 

I  know  not  if  thy  poet  heart's  emotion 

Responsive  beats  to   mine  through   many  a 
chord; 
I  only  feel  in  my  untold  devotion 
A  rich  reward. 

I  know  not  if  the  grass  were  waving  o'er  me, 

Would  nature's  voice  for  thee  keep  sadder  tune : 
I  only  know  wert  thou  gone  home  before  me, 
I'd  follow  soon. 

But  while  thou  walk'stthe  earth  with  brave  heart 
ever, 
I'll  singing  go,  though  all  unrecked  by  thee 
My  great  affection  floweth  like  a  river. 
And  thou  the  sea! 


TO   A   FRIEND. 

How  art  thou  spending  this  long  summer  day, 
Beloved  friend,  where'er  thy  home  may  be? 

On  breezy  heather  uplands  dost  thou  stray, 
Or  by  the  margin  of  the  sounding  sea? 

Is  the  boat  mirrored  in  the  glassy  lake 

Where  thou  art  resting  on  suspended  oar — 

Or,  in  some  nook  reclined  of  forest  brake, 
Dost  linger  o'er  the  page  of  classic  lore  ? 

Ah !  well  I  know  that  nature's  holy  face 

Will  woo  thee  from  thy  prison-house  of  care; 


WILLIAM  SINCLAIR. 


355 


Will  deepen  in  thy  soul  the  poet  grace, 
And  wider  ope  the  golden  gate  of  prayer. 

I  sit  and  watch  the  ocean's  quivering  sheen — 
The  old   romance   of    youth   still    round   me 
clinging, 
Dreaming  of  thousand  things  that  might  have 
been, 
And  losing  half  my  sadness  in  my  singing! 


PRAYER.  1 

Go  when  the  morning  shineth, 

Go  wlien  tlie  noon  is  bright, 
Go  when  the  eve  declinetli, 

Go  in  the  hush  of  night, 
Go  with  pure  mind  and  feeling. 

Fling  earthly  thouglit  away, 
And,  in  thy  chamber  kneeling, 

Do  thou  in  secret  pray. 

Remember  all  who  love  thee, 
All  who  are  loved  by  thee; 


Pray,  too,  for  those  who  hate  thee, 

If  any  such  tliere  be. 
Tlien  for  thyself,  in  meekness, 

A  blessing  humbly  claim; 
And  link  with  each  petition 

The  great  Redeemer's  name. 

Or  if  'tis  e'er  denied  thee 

In  solitude  to  pray, 
Should  holy  thoughts  come  o'er  thee, 

AVhen  friends  are  round  thy  way; 
Even  then  the  silent  breathing 

Of  thy  spirit  raised  above. 
May  reach  his  throne  of  glor^', 

Who  is  mercy,  truth,  and  love! 

Ol  not  a  joy  or  blessing 

With  this  can  we  compare,       • 
Tiie  power  that  he  hath  given  us 

To  pour  our  hearts  in  prayer! 
AVIiene'er  thou  pin'st  in  sadness, 

Before  his  footstool  fall, 
And  remember,  in  thy  gladness. 

His  grace  who  gave  thee  all. 


WILLIAM    SINCLAIB, 


Born  1  SI  1  — Died  1870. 


William  Sinclair,  the  author  of  some 
pleasing  patriotic  songs,  &c.,  was  born  at  Edin- 
burgh in  1811.  He  received  an  ordinary  edu- 
cation, and  in  his  fourteenth  year  was  appren- 
ticed to  a  bookseller.  A  large  circulating 
library  connected  with  his  employer's  shop 
enabled  him  to  gratify  his  taste  for  reading, 
and  he  soon  became  devoted  to  verse-making, 
contributing  to  the  newspapers  and  periodicals 
of  the  day,  including  Blackwood's  Magazine. 
He  afterwards  became  a  lawyer's  clerk  in 
Dundee,  and  Avas  subsequently  employed  in 
the  customs  at  Liverpool  and  Leith. 

In  1843  Sinclair  published  a  volume  of 
poems  and  songs,  entitled  Poems  of  the  Fancy 
and  the   Affections.      To   the   work  entitled 

^  This  mnch-admired  hymn  has  heen  attributed  to 
different  uuthors,  among  others  to  the  Earl  of  Carlisle. 
It  appeared  in  the  Ediuburrih  Literary  Journal  of  Feb. 
2ti,  ISyi,  where  it  is  signed  "  Gertrude."— Ed. 


Poetical  Illustrations  of  the  Achievements  of 
the  Duke  of  WelVmgton,  published  in  1852,  he 
was  a  contributor.  While  residing  at  Leith 
he  enjoyed  the  intimate  friendshipof  the  poets 
Gilfillan,  Moir,  and  A^edder.  Robert  Nicoll 
submitted  the  first  edition  of  his  poems  to  his 
revision.  Several  of  iiis  patriotic  strains  have 
been  set  to  music,  and  continue  to  enjoy  a 
wide-spread  popularity,  not  only  in  his  native 
land  but  also  in  the  United  States  and  tiie 
Canadas.  His  poem  of  "  The  Royal  Breadal- 
bane  Oak"  was  an  especial  favourite  with  Sir 
Allan  MacNab,  Bart.,  prime  minister  of  Can- 
ada. For  several  years  previous  to  his  deatli 
Mr.  Sinclair  resided  at  Stirling,  M'here  he  was 
connected  with  the  local  press,  and  acted  also 
as  the  correspondent  of  several  of  the  daily 
newspapers.  He  died,  April,  1870,  and  a  neat 
monument,  erected  by  public  subscription, 
marks  the  place  of  his  interment. 


356 


WILLIAM   SINCLAIR 


THE   ROYAL   BEEADALBANE   OAK. 

Thy  queenly  hand,  Victoria, 

By  tiie  mountain  and  tlie  rock, 
Hath  planted  'midst  the  Highland  hills 

A  Royal  British  Oak; 
Oh,  thou  guardian  of  the  free! 
Oh,  thou  mistresf5  of  the  sea! 
Trebly  dear  shall  be  the  ties 

That  shall  bind  us  to  thy  name, 
Ere  this  lloyal  Oak  sliail  rise 

To  tliy  fame,  to  thy  fame! 

The  oak  hath  scatter'd  terror 

O'er  our  foemen  from  our  ships. 
They  have  given  the  voice  of  England's  fame 

In  thunders  from  their  lips; 
'Twill  be  mirror'd  in  the  rills! 
It  sliall  wave  among  the  hills! 
And  the  rallying  cry  shall  wake 

Nigh  the  planted  of  thy  hand. 
That  the  loud  acclaim  may  break 

O'er  the  land,  o'er  the  land! 

"While  it  waves  unto  the  tempest, 

It  shall  call  thy  name  to  mind, 
And  the  "gathering"  'mongthe  hills  shall  be 

Like  the  rushing  of  tlie  wind ! 
Arise!  ye  Gaels,  arise! 
Let  the  echoes  ring  your  cries, 
By  our  mountain's  rocky  tlirone. 

By  Victoria's  name  adored — 
AVe  shall  reap  her  enemies  down 

With  the  sword,  with  the  sword! 

Oh,  dear  among  the  mountains 

Sliail  thy  kindly  blessing  be; 
Though  rough  may  be  our  mien,  we  bear 

A  loyal  heart  to  thee! 
'Neath  its  widely  spreading  shade 
Sliail  tlie  gentle  Higlilaml  maid 
Teach  the  youths,  who  stand  around, 

Like  brave  slips  from  freedom's  tree, 
That  thrice  sacred  is  the  ground 

Unto  thee,  unto  thee! 

In  the  bosom  of  the  Highlands 
Thou  iiast  left  a  glorious  jilcdge. 

To  the  honour  of  our  native  land. 
In  every  coming  age: 

By  the  royal  voice  that  spoke 

On  the  soil  where  springs  tlic  oak — 

By  the  freedom  of  the  land 
That  can  never  bear  a  slave — 


The  Breadalbane  Oak  shall  stand 
With  the  brave,  with  the  brave! 


IS  NOT  THE  EARTH. 

Is  not  the  earth  a  burial  place 
AVliere  countless  millions  sleep. 

The  entrance  to  the  abode  of  death. 
Where  waiting  mourners  weep. 

And  myriads  at  his  silent  gates 
A  constant  vigil  keep? 

The  sculptor  lifts  his  chisel,  and 

The  final  stroke  is  come, 
But,  dull  as  the  marble  lip  he  hews. 

His  stiffened  lip  is  dumb; 
Though  the  Spoiler  hath  cast  a  holier  work. 

He  hath  called  to  a  holier  home! 

The  soldier  bends  his  gleaming  steel, 

He  counts  his  laurels  o'er, 
And  speaks  of  the  wreaths  he  yet  may  win 

On  many  a  foreign  shore; 
But  his  l\Iaster  declares  with  a  sterner  voice 

He  shall  break  a  lance  no  morel 

The  mariner  braved  the  deluge  long, 
He  bow'd  to  the  sweeping  blast. 

And  smiled  when  the  frowning  heavens  above 
AVere  the  deepest  overcast; 

He  hath  perish'd  beneath  a  smiling  sky  — 
He  hath  laid  him  down  at  last. 

Far  in  the  sea's  mj'sterious  depths 

The  lowly  dead  are  laid. 
Hath  not  the  ocean's  dreadful  voice 

Their  burial  service  said] 
Have  not  the  quiring  tempests  rung 

The  dirges  of  the  dead? 

The  vales  of  our  native  land  are  strewn 
AVith  a  thousand  pleasant  things; 

The  ui)lands  rejoicing  in  the  light 
Of  the  morning's  flashing  wings; 

Even  there  are  the  martyrs'  rugged  cairns — 
The  resting-place  of  kings! 

And  man  outpours  his  heart  to  heaven, 
And  "chants  his  holiest  hymn," 

But  anon  his  frame  is  still  and  cold. 
And  his  sparkling  eyes  are  dim — 

And  who  can  tell  but  the  home  of  death 
Is  a  happier  home  to  him  .' 


FRANCIS  BENNOCH. 


357 


FEANCIS    BENNOCH. 


Francis  Bexxoch  was  born  in  the  parish  of 
Durisdeer,  Dumfriesshire,  June  25,  1812.  At 
the  age  of  sixteen  he  went  to  liOndon  and 
entered  a  commercial  house,  where  he  remained 
for  a  period  of  nine  years.  In  1837  he  began 
business  as  a  merchant  on  his  own  account, 
and  is  now  the  head  of  the  well-known  firm  of 
Francis  Bennoch  &  Co. 

Bennoch  had  been  two  years  in  the  metro- 
polis before  his  Scottish  feelings  sought  expres- 
sion in  verse,  and  it  was  in  the  Dumfries 
Courier  that  his  first  poetic  essay  found  its 
way  to  the  public.  Amid  the  cares  of  business 
he  has  always  found  time  to  pay  court  to  liter- 
ature and  to  cultivate  the  society  of  artists  and 
literary  men.  He  proved  a  kind  friend  to  the 
eccentric  and  unfortunate  Haydon,  who  never 
applied  to  him  in  vain;  and  it  is  probable  that 
hud  Bennoch  not  been  ab.sent  on  the  Continent 
at  the  time,  the  sad  termination  of  that  artist's 
career  might  have  been  averted.  He  also  ren- 
dered very  essential  service  to  the  late  Miss 
Mitford,  and  it  was  through  his  intervention 
that  the  public  were  gratified  by  the  issue  of 
Atherton  and  other  Tales,  and  also  by  a  col- 
lected edition  of  her  dramatic  works,  which 


she  dedicated  to  him  as  a  mark  of  her  gratitude 
and  esteem.  At  his  residence  in  Leicester 
Square,  London,  artists  and  authors  are  con- 
stantly met;  and  Mr.  Bennoch's  business  con- 
nections with  the  Continent  and  the  United 
States,  both  of  which  he  has  repeatedly  visited, 
contribute  very  much  to  gather  at  his  elegant 
entertainments  a  variety  of  eminent  foreigners 
and  literary  men  of  the  New  AVorld.  Nathaniel 
Hawthorne  was  a  frequent  guest  of  Mr.  Ben- 
noch's at  his  former  residence  at  Blackheath 
Park,  and  was  indebted  to  him  for  the  use  of  a 
mansion-house  about  a  mile  di-stant  from  his 
own,  which  the  gifted  writer  so  charmingly 
described  as  "Our  Old  Home." 

Three  volumes  of  Bennoch's  poems  have  been 
published  in  London;  he  has  besides  contri- 
buted extensively  both  in  prose  and  verse  to 
the  periodicals  of  the  day.  He  is  a  Fellow 
of  the  Society  of  Antiquaries,  a  member  of 
the  Society  of  Arts  and  of  the  Royal  Society 
of  Literature.  In  a  note  to  the  Editor  Mr. 
Bennoch  remarks,  "  I  am  still  engaged  in 
business,  where  I  am  only  known  as  a  man  of 
business,  few  dreaming  that  I  ever  wrote  any 
notes  but  business  notes." 


MAY-DAY    FANCIES. 


The  biting  wintry  winds  are  laid, 

And  spring  comes  carolling  o'er  the  earth; 
5Iead,  mountain,  glen,  and  forest  glade 

Are  singing  with  melodious  mirth. 
The  fields  have  doff'd  their  sober  brown, 

And  donn'd  then-  robes  of  lovely  green. 
On  meadow  wide,  on  breezy  down, 

Are  flowers  in  countless  mpiads  seen. 

Come  forth,  come  forth,  enjoy  the  day, 
And  welcome  song-inspiring  May! 

Through  bud  and  branch,  and  gnarled  tnmk, 

To  deepest  root,  when  quickening  light 
Touches  the  torpid  juices,  sunk 

In  slumber  by  the  winter's  might, 
Electric  currents  tingling  rise, 

Each  circle  swells  with  life  anew; 
Wide  opening  to  the  sunny  skies. 

Young  gi-ateful  blossoms  drink  the  dew. 


Come  forth,  time-furrowed  age,  and  say. 
If  anything  feels  old  in  May  ] 

Step  o'er  the  brook,  climb  up  the  bank. 

And  peep  beneath  those  wither'd  leaves — 
Among  the  roots  with  wild  weeds  rank; 

See  how  the  fruitful  earth  upheaves 
With  pulsing  life !     How  quiveringly 

The  timid  j'oung  flowers,  blu.shing,  bend 
Their  gentle  heads,  where  modesty 
And  all  the  graces  sweetly  l^lend. 

Come  forth,  come  forth,  ye  young,  and 

say 
What  cheeks  can  vie  with  rosy  May  1 

From  desk  and  'Change  come  forth  and  range; 

From  clanging  forge,  and  shop,  and  mill; 
From  crowded  room,  from  board  and  loom, 

Come !  bid  the  rattling  wheels  be  still. 


358 


FEANCIS   BENNOCH. 


Come,  old  and  young,  come,  strong  and  weak, 

Indulge  the  limli  and  brain  with  rest. 
Come  g-ushing  youth  and  wrinkled  cheek, 
In  leisure  feel  your  labour  blest. 

Come  forth,  come  forth,  and  hail  the  day. 
Come,  welcome  in  the  glorious  May! 

Come,  ere  the  dappled  East  has  burn'd— 

Made  molten  gold  the  winding  stream; 
Come,  ere  the  fiery  sun  has  turn'd 

The  jiearly  dew  to  misty  steam; 
Come,  ere  the  lark  has  left  his  nest, 

Or  lambkin  bleated  on  the  hill; 
Come,  see  how  nature  looks  in  rest, 

And  learn  the  bliss  of  being  still. 

Come  forth,  come  forth,  and  hail  the  day! 
Come,  welcome  blossom-teeming  May! 

^olian  murmurs  swell  the  breeze. 

Enchant  the  ear,  and  charm  the  brain; 
While  merry  bells  and  humming  bees 

Fill  up  the  burden  of  the  strain. 
On  earth,  in  air,  oh,  everywhere, 

A-  brighter  glory  shines  to-day; 
Old  bards  reveal  how  birds  prepare 

New  songs  to  hei-ald  joyous  May. 

Come  forth,  come  forth,  nor  lingering  stay. 
Come,cro  wn  with  flowers  the  matchless  May  1 

No  trumpet's  thrilling  call  is  heard 

To  servile  host  or  lordly  crest, 
But  that  mysterious  voiceless  word, 

By  which  the  world  is  onward  presfc  — 
Which  bids  the  grass  in  beauty  grow, 

And  stars  their  path  of  glory  keep. 
Makes  winds  and  waves  hannonious  flow. 

And  dreaming  infants  smile  in  sleep. 
That  voice,  resistless  in  its  sway, 
Turns  winter  wild  to  flowery  May. 

From  edges  of  the  dusky  .shade. 

That  canopies  the  restless  town. 
Come  trooping  many  a  youth  and  maid. 

With  flushing  face  and  tresses  brown. 
High  hopes  have  they,  their  hearts  to  please, 

They  seek  the  wild-wood's  haunted  dell; 
Tlioy  laugiiing  come,  l)y  twos  and  threes. 

But  chiefly  twos.  I  mark  them  well — 
So  trimly  drest,  so  blithe  and  gay, 
With  them  it  seems  'tis  always  May. 

They  steep  their  kerchiefs  in  the  dew; 

Then  follow  wondrous  wringings  out; 
As  winged  seeds  were  blown,  they  knew 

What  laggard  lovers  were  about. 
Some  pluck  the  glowing  leaves  to  learn 

If  love  declared  be  love  sincere; 
Or  in  red  ragged  streaks  discern 

Love  lost,  and  virtue's  burning  tear. 
Oh,  love  is  earnest  though  in  plaj'. 
When  comes  the  love-inciting  May. 


With  hawthorn  blooms  and  speckled  shells, 

Chaplets  are  twined  for  blushing  brows; 
While  gipsies  work  their  magic  spells, 

And  lovers  pledge  their  deathless  vows. 
Then  round  and  round  with  many  a  boimd. 

They  tread  the  mystic  fairy  ring; 
The  silent  woods  have  voices  found, 

And  echoing  chorus  while  they  sing: 

"  With  shout  and  song,  and  dance  and  play, 
We  welcome  in  the  glorious  May!" 

Link'd  hand  in  hand,  their  tripping  feet 

Keep  time  to  mirth's  inspiring  voice; 
They  wheel  and  meet,  advance,  retreat, 

Till  happy  hearts  in  love  rejoice. 
The  ring  is  formed  for  kisses  sly — 

Leaping  and  racing  o'er  the  plain; 
The  young  wish  time  would  quicker  fly. 

The  old  wish  they  were  young  again. 
Away  with  care :  no  cares  to-day ! 
Care  slumbers  on  the  lap  of  May! 

The  voice  that  bade  them  welcome  forth, 

Now  gently,  kindly  whispers  "  Home!" 
To-day  has  been  a  day  of  mirth; 

To-morrow  nobler  duties  come. 
Such  pleasures  nerve  the  arm  for  strife. 

Bring  joyous  thoughts  and  golden  dreams, 
To  mingle  with  the  web  of  life — 

And  memory  store  'with  woods  and  streams. 
Such  joys  drive  cankering  care  away; 
Then  ever  welcome,  flowery  May! 


THE  LIME   TREE. 

Sing,  sing  the  lime, — the  odorous  lime! 

With  tassels  of  gold  and  leaves  so  green, 
It  ever  has  made  the  pleasantest  shade 

For  lovers  to  loiter  and  talk  unseen — 
When  high  overhead  its  arms  are  spread, 

And  bees  are  busily  buzzing  around. 
When  sunlight  and  shade  a  woof  have  laid 

Of  flickering  net-work  on  the  groimd. 
I  love  the  lime — the  odorous  lime! 

With  tassels  of  gold  and  leaves  so  green. 
To  its  balmy  bower  in  the  noontide  hour 

Is  wafted  pleasure  on  wings  unseen. 

When  the  Switzcr  fought  and  gallantly  wrought 

His  charter  of  freedom  with  liow  and  spear, 
A  branch  was  torn  from  the  lime,  and  borne 

As  the  patriot's  hojie,  and  the  tyrant's  fear. 
They  proudly  tell  where  the  herald  youth  fell 

With  a  living  branch  in  his  dyii>g  hand; 
Blood-hallowed,  the  tree  is  of  libei'ty 

The  sacred  symliol  throughout  the  land. 
Oh  the  lime — the  odorous  lime! 

With  tassels  of  gold  and  leaves  so  green; 


FEANCIS   BENNOCH. 


359 


The  whisperings  heard  when  its  leaves  are  stirred, 
Are  the  voices  of  martyrs  that  prompt  unseen. 

I  love  it  the  more  for  the  days  of  yore, 

And  the  avenue  leading — I  tell  not  where; 
But  there  was  a  bower,  and  a  witching  flower 

Of  gi-acefullest  beauty  grew  ripening  there. 
From  valley  and  hill,  from  forge  and  mill. 

From  neighbouring  handets  murmurs  stole; 
But  the  sound  most  dear  to  my  raptured  ear 

Was  a  musical  whisper  that  thrilled  my  soul. 
Oh  the  lime — the  odorous  lime ! 

With  tassels  of  gold  and  leaves  so  green, 
It  ever  has  made  the  pleasantest  shade 

For  lovei's  to  wander  and  woo  unseen, 

\Vlaen  the  gairish  noon  had  passed,  and  the  moon 

Came  silvering  forest  and  lake  and  tower, 
In  the  hush  of  night,  so  calm  and  bright. 

How  silent  and  sweet  was  the  linden  bower. 
They  may  boast  of  their  forests  of  larch  and  pine, 

Of  maple  and  elm  and  scented  thorn, 
Of  ash  and  of  oak,  defying  the  stroke 

Of  the  tempest  on  pinions  of  fury  bome; 
Give  me  the  lime — the  odorous  lime! 

With  tassels  of  gold  and  leaves  so  green; 
The  vows  that  are  made  beneath  its  shade 

Ai"e  throbbings  of  spirits  that  bless  unseen. 


OUR  SHIP. 

A  song,  a  song,  brave  hearts  a  song, 

To  the  ship  in  which  we  ride, 
Which  bears  us  along  right  gallantly, 

Defying  the  mutinous  tide. 
Away,  away,  by  night  and  day. 
Propelled  by  steam  and  wind. 
The  watery  waste  before  her  lies. 
And  a  flaming  wake  behind. 

Then  a  ho  and  a  hip  to  the  gallant  sliip 

That  can-ies  us  o'er  the  sea, 
Through  storm  and  foam,  to  a  western  home. 
The  home  of  the  brave  and  the  free. 

With  a  fearless  bound  to  the  depths  profound, 

She  rushes  with  proud  disdain, 
While  pale  lips  tell  the  fears  that  swell. 

Lest  she  never  should  rise  again. 
With  a  courser's  pride  she  paws  the  tide, 

Unbridled  by  bit,  I  trow. 
While  the  churlish  sea  she  dashes  with  glee 

In  a  cataract  from  her  prow. 
Then  a  ho  and  a  hip,  &c. 

She  bears  not  on  board  a  lawless  horde, 

Piratic  in  thought  or  deed. 
Yet  the  sword  they  would  draw  in  defence  of  law. 

In  the  nation's  hour  of  need. 


Professors  and  poets,  and  merchant  men 

Whose  voy agings  never  cease; 
From  shore  to  shore,  the  wide  world  o'er, 

Their  bonds  are  the  bonds  of  peace. 
Then  a  ho  and  a  hip,  &c. 

She  boasts  the  brave,  the  dutiful. 

The  aged  and  the  young. 
And  woman  bright  and  beautiful. 

And  childhood's  prattling  tongue. 
With  a  dip  and  a  rise,  like  a  bird  she  flies, 

And  we  fear  not  the  storm  or  squall; 
For  faithful  officers  rule  the  helm, 
And  Heaven  protects  us  all. 

Then  a  ho  and  a  hip  to  the  gallant  ship 

That  carries  us  o'er  the  sea, 
Through  stonn  and  foam,  to  a  western  home. 
The  home  of  the  brave  and  free. 


LOXDOX. 

If  glorious  deeds  deserve  a  song. 

Then,  London,  one  to  thee ! 
Thine  ancient  name  all  tongues  proclaim 

The  watchword  of  the  free; 
Where'er  the  flag  of  liberty 

Is  righteously  unfurl'd. 
There  London  is; — her  mighty  heart 
Beats  through  the  civil  world. 

Then  ho!  for  London  brave  and  high. 

Which  she  shall  ever  be, 
While  justice  rules  within  her  walls. 
And  honom*  guides  the  free. 

Of  conquering  peace  the  pioneers 

Her  dauntless  merchants  are; 
Her  ships  are  found  the  world  around, 

Her  sons  'iieath  every  star. 
Her  sheltering  tree  of  liberty 

Spreads  hourly  more  and  more; 
Its  roots  run  under  every  sea, 
It  blooms  on  every  shore. 

Unfading  youth,  untarnished  truth. 

Great  London!  bide  with  thee; 
Of  cities, — queen,  supreme,  serene. 
The  leader  of  the  free. 

In  days  of  dread,  she  boldly  stood 

Undaunted,  though  alone, 
To  guard  with  might  the  people's  right 

Invaded  by  the  throne; 
And  yet  when  civil  fury  raged, 

And  loyalty  took  wing, 
Her  gallant  bands,  with  bows  and  brands. 
Defended  well  their  king. 

Then  ho!  for  London,  might  and  right. 

With  her  twin  brothers  be; 
To  curb  with  right  the  despot  might. 
Exalting  still  the  free ! 


360 


FEANCIS  BENNOCH. 


The  wandering  king,  of  crown  bereft, 

The  patriot,  lone,  exiled, 
Alike  find  refuge  and  repose 

Where  freedom  ever  smiled; 
And  evermore  she  spreads  her  store 

The  exile  to  maintain, 
And  what  has  been  her  pride  before. 
Shall  be  her  pride  again. 
Then  ho!  for  London,  ward  and  guard 

To  all  who  refuge  seek; 
A  terror  to  the  tyrant  strong, 
A  shelter  to  the  weak. 

And  now  within  her  ancient  halls, 

Where  freemen  ever  stand. 
She  welcomes  men  from  every  clime, 

With  open  heart  and  hand; 
She  welcomes  men  of  eveiy  creed, 

The  brave,  the  wise,  the  good; 
And  bids  all  nations  form  indeed 
A  noble  brotherhood. 

Clasped  hand  in  hand,  let  all  mankind 

Like  loving  brothers  be; 
From  pole  to  pole,  let  every  soul 
United  be — and  free. 


FLORENCE  NIGHTINGALE. 

With  lofty  song  we  love  to  cheer 

The  hearts  of  daring  men ; 
Applauded  thus,  they  gladly  hear 

The  trumpet's  call  again. 
But  now  we  sing  of  lowly  deeds 

Devoted  to  the  brave. 
Where  she,  who  stems  the  wound  that  bleeds, 

A  hero's  hfe  may  save: 
And  heroes  saved  exulting  tell 

How  well  her  voice  they  knew; 
How  sorrow  near  it  could  not  dwell, 

But  spread  its  wings  and  flew. 

Neglected,  dying  in  despair. 

They  lay  till  woman  came 
To  soothe  them  with  her  gentle  care, 

And  feed  life's  flickering  flame. 
When  wounded  sore,  on  fever's  rack, 

Or  cast  away  as  slain. 
She  called  their  fluttering  spirits  back, 

And  gave  them  strength  again. 
'Tvvas  grief  to  miss  the  passing  face 

That  suffering  could  dispel; 
But  joy  to  turn  and  kiss  the  place 

On  which  her  shadow  fell. 

When  words  of  wrath  profaning  rung. 
She  moved  with  pitying  grace; 

Her  presence  stilled  the  wildest  tongue, 
And  holy  made  the  i)lace. 


They  knew  that  they  were  cared  for  then, 

Their  eyes  forgot  their  tears; 
In  dreamy  sleep  they  lost  their  pain. 

And  thought  of  early  years — 
Of  early  years,  when  all  was  fair, 

Of  faces  sweet  and  pale. 
They  woke;  the  angel  bending  there 

Was — Florence  Nightingale! 


OVER  THE  HILLS. 

Over  the  hills  the  wintry  wind 

Blew  fiercely— wildly  screaming. 
Adown  the  glen  rushed  tawny  floods — 
The  tempest  rocked  the  Closeburn  woodc 

Where  lay  the  cushats  dreaming. 
And  dreaming  too  a  maiden  lay, 
A  maiden  lovely  as  the  day. 
And  sweet  as  is  the  scented  May, 
Lay  Hebe  fondly  dreaming. 

Over  the  hills  the  spring  winds  came. 

Softly,  gently  blowing. 
Ado^^^l  the  glen  the  glancing  rills 
Came  dancing  from  the  Closeburn  hills 

In  sweetest  cadence  flowing: 
And  down  the  glen  a  gallant  came. 
Who  woke  to  life  love's  latent  flame, 
New  life  awakened  by  a  name 

That  came  like  music  flowing. 

Over  the  hills  the  summer  breeze 

Came  with  odours  laden — 
Odours  wafted  fi-om  the  trees 
Wliere  sing  the  happy  summer  bees — 

And  happy  made  the  maiden. 
For  with  it  came  sweet  orange  flowers, 
So  wisely  prized  in  lady  bowers. — 
Oh,  Hebe  is  no  longer  ours. 

For  married  is  the  maiden. 


UNDER  THE  LINDEN. 

Come — come — come ! 

You  know  where  the  lindens  bloom ; 
Come — come — come  I 

And  drink  of  their  sweet  perfume. 
Come!  meet  mc,  beloved,  beneath  their  shade, 
When  day  into  night  begins  fo  fade; 
A  time  for  wooers  and  wooing  made 

Is  the  twilight's  deepening  gloom. 

Wait — wait— wait! 

I  will  come  unto  thee  betimes; 
Wait — wait — wait ! 

I  will  come  with  the  evening  chimes — 


NOEMAN   MACLEOD. 


3G1 


I  will  come  when  sliimmcring  up  the  sky 
The  light  of  the  day  retreats  on  high, 
And  darkening  shadows  unveiling  lie 
Beneath  the  odorous  limes. 

Here — here — here ! 

My  beautiful  met  at  last. 
Here — here — here ! 

My  sheltering  arm  thou  hast. 
The  storms  of  life  may  fiercely  blow, 
And  sorrow  in  surging  tides  may  flow. 
Come  wealth  or  want — come  pleasure  or  woe, 

My  treasure  is  in  thy  breast. 


VERSES   ADDRESSED   TO   IIAAV- 
TH0RNE.1 

A  verse! — My  friend,  'tis  hard  to  rhyme 

AVhen  cares  tlie  heart  enfold, 
And  Fancy  feels  tlie  freezing  time, 

And  shrivels  with  the  cold. 
And  yet,  however  hard  it  seems 

To  generously  comply. 
The  heart,  fraternal,  throbbing,  deems 

It  harder  to  deny. 

Few  love  the  weary  winter  time. 

When  trees  are  gaunt  and  bare, 
And  fields  are  gray  with  silver  rime, 

And  biting  keen- the  air. 
Though  all  without  is  weird  and  waste, 

And  shrill  the  tempest's  din, 
With  those  well  suited  to  our  taste 

How  bright  is  all  within! 


But  oh!  the  spring,  the  early  spring. 

Is  brimming  full  of  mirtii. 
When  mating  birds,  on  happy  wing. 

Rain  music  on  the  earth; 
And  earth,  responsive,  spreadeth  wide 

Her  leafy  robe  of  green. 
Till  March  is  wreathed  in  flowery  pride — 

A  smiling  virgin  queen. 

Oh !  that  dear  time  is  dearer  made 

By  love's  mysterious  will. 
Which  in  the  sun  and  in  the  shade 

Its  impulse  must  fulfil; 
In  wood,  or  wild,  or  rosy  face, 

The  law  is  broad  and  clear; 
Love  lends  its  all-entrancing  grace 

To  springtime  of  the  year. 

Spring-time,  my  friend,  with  mystic  words. 

Has  filled  thy  life  with  joy. 
Bound  close  thy  heart  with  triple  cords 

That  age  can  ne'er  destroy. 
For  her,  thy  first — so  fair,  so  good, 

So  innocent  and  sweet — 
An  angel  pure  as  model  stood! 

The  copy,  how  complete! 

Oh!  sacred  season,  ever  blest. 

When  saints  their  offerings  bring. 
Thou  to  thy  heart  an  offering  prest 

]\Iore  fair  than  flowers  of  spring. 
A  miracle! — long  ere  the  frost 

Or  snowdrift  passed  away. 
Thy  Hawthorne  into  blossom  burst, 

Anticipating  May! 


NOEMAN    MACLEOD. 


Born  1812  — Died  1872. 


Norman    Macleod  was  born  at  Campbel- 
town, Argyleshire,  June  3,  1812.    He  belonged 


I  The  following  verses  were  composed  at  the  urgent 
request  of  the  late  Nathaniel  Hawthorne  — a  distin- 
guished American  writer,  and  an  intimate  and  \evy 
dear  friend  of  the  author  of  them- on  the  occasion  of 
the  anniversary  of  the  birth  day  of  Mr.  Hawthorne's 
daugliter  Una.  Hence  the  allusion  in  the  last  verse. 
The  poem  «as  written  in  1804,  and  is  now  first  i)ub- 
lished.  Mr.  Hawthorne  was  tlien  staying  at  Leaming- 
ton, in  Warwickshire,  busy  with  the  last  sheets  of  his 
Italian  romance  l\-ans/onnaiion.     In  the  words  of  the 


to  a  race  of  ministers.  His  grandfather  was 
the  pastor  of  Morven,  and  was  succeeded  in 

author,  "  the  verses  bring  up  many  pleasant  recollec- 
tions dimmed  by  the  remembrance  that  he  who  could 
rouse  with  a  skill  unequalled  the  tenderest  emotions, 
and  depict  with  infinite  power  the  deepest  passions  of 
the  human  heart,  is  mouldering  in  the  tomb.  Those  who 
knew  Mr.  Hawthorne  best  loved  him  most;  and  all  who 
were  acquainted  with  the  plans  he  had  hoped  to  cany 
out  regret  that  death  should  have  stilled  the  heart  and 
stayed  the  hand  before  his  greatest  work  was  accom- 
plished."—Ed. 


362 


NORMAN   MACLEOD. 


that  office  by  one  of  his  sonf?,  whose  tall  figure 
and  stately  gait  procured  for  him  the  name 
of  "the  high -priest  of  Morven."  Norman's 
father  was  minister  first  of  Campbeltown,  after- 
wards of  Campsie,  and  finally  of  St.  Columba 
Church,  in  Glasgow.  He  was  said  to  be  one  of 
the  most  eloquent  Gaelic  preachers  of  his  day, 
and  was  a  great  authority  in  all  matters  per- 
taining to  the  Gaelic  language.  Norman  was 
educated  partly  at  the  University  of  Glasgow, 
after  leaving  which  he  spent  some  time  in 
Germany,  and  finally  completed  his  divinity 
studies  at  the  University  of  Edinburgh,  where 
he  came  under  the  influence  of  Dr.  Chalmers, 
Avitli  whom  he  was  a  favourite  student.  In 
1833,  almost  immediately  after  being  licensed, 
he  was  ordained  pastor  in  the  parish  of  Loudon, 
Ayrshire.  Here  he  continued  for  about  five 
years,  and  when  the  secession  of  the  Free 
Church  from  the  Establishment  took  place  in 
1843  he  received  the  charge  of  Dalkeith,  near 
Edinburgh.  It  was  while  minister  here  that 
he  first  began  to  attract  the  notice  of  the 
Church  and  the  public.  About  this  time  he 
became  the  editor  of  the  Edtnhvnjh  Christian 
Magazine,  which  he  conducted  for  ten  years. 
In  1846  he  was  intrusted  by  the  General 
Assembly  with  a  mission  to  Canada  on  the 
affairs  of  the  Church.  In  1851  he  was  inducted 
into  the  Barony  parish,  Glasgow,  one  of  the 
most  influential  charges  in  Scotland.  From 
this  time  liis  fame  as  a  preacher  gradually  in- 
creuseil,  and  his  church  was  every  Sunday  filled 
to  overHowiiig  by  crowds  eager  to  hear  him. 
In  1854  he  published  his  first  work  of  import- 
ance, being  the  memorials  of  iiis  friend  John 
Macintosh,  under  the  title  7^/(6  Earnest  Student. 
In  October  of  that  year  he  first  preached  before 
the  Queen  in  the  parish  church  of  Crathie. 
Henceforth  his  life  seems  to  have  been  one 
continuous  scries  of  labours.  Not  content  with 
tiie  arduous  duties  of  his  large  and  popu- 
lous parish,  which  he  performed  with  an  efli- 
cicncy  and  zeal  that  has  been  seldom  equalled, 
he  threw  liis  whole  soul  also  into  the  general 
work  of  the  Church.  In  all  her  schemes  of 
public  usefulness,  all  her  efforts  to  elevate  and 
Christianize  the  masses  at  home  or  the  heathen 
abroad,  he  ever  took  the  warmest  interest. 
Year  after  year  he  travelled  through  the  coun- 
try, everywhere  addressing  meetings,  and  seek- 
ing to  infuse  into  others  some  of  the  enthusiasm 


that  burned  within  himself.  On  all  matters 
pertaining  to  Christian  life,  every  scheme  that 
aimed  at  improving  the  social  or  moral  con- 
dition of  the  w'orking  poor,  no  one  could  speak 
with  more  eloquence  than  he,  and  no  one  was 
ever  listened  to  with  more  rapt  attention.  Nor 
all  this  time  was  his  pen  idle,  as  is  shown  by 
the  large  number  of  works  published  under 
his  name,  including  sermons,  lectures,  ad- 
dresses, devotional  works,  treatises  on  practi- 
cal subjects,  tales,  travels,  children's  songs  and 
stories,  all  bearing  the  impress  of  his  warm 
heart  and  enthusiastic  nature. 

In  1860  Good  Words  was  begun,  a  maga- 
zine which  he  continued  to  edit  till  his  death; 
and  every  volume  of  it  was  enriched  with  much 
in  prose  and  verse  from  his  own  pen.  But  it 
is  to  his  tales  that  he  chiefly  owes  his  position 
in  literature:  "  The  Old  Lieutenant  and  His 
Son;"  "The  Starling,  a  Scotch  story;"  the 
"Reminiscences  of  a  Highland  Parish,"  in 
which  he  gives  a  picture  of  life  in  the  parish 
of  Morven;  "Character  Sketches,"  containing 
eleven  tales,  among  others  "Billy  Buttons," 
with  its  racy  humour,  and  "  Wee  Davie,"  the 
best  known  and  most  pathetic  of  all  his  stories; 
and  "Eastward,"  an  account  of  his  travels  in 
Egypt  and  Palestine  in  1865.  These,  which 
appeared  originally  in  the  pagesof  Good  Words, 
were  afterwards  published  separately  at  dif- 
ferent times.  In  1865  considerable  excitement 
was  produced  in  Scotland  by  his  opposition  to  the 
strict  views  on  the  observance  of  the  Sabbath 
laid  down  in  a  pastoral  address  which  the  pres- 
bytery of  Glasgow  had  proposed  to  issue;  but  the 
suspicion  of  "heresy"  on  this  point  gradually 
died  out.  In  1867  he  was  commissioned  by 
the  General  Assembly  to  visit  the  mission-field 
of  the  Church  in  India,  and  his  "  Peeps  at 
the  Far  East,"  Avhich  also  appeared  in  Good 
Words,  are  a  memorial  of  this  visit.  From  the 
shock  which  his  system  received  from  the 
fatigues  of  his  eastern  journey  and  the  climate 
Dr.  ^[acleod  never  quite  recovered,  and  he  died 
on  June  16,  1872,  aged  sixty  years.  He  sleeps 
in  Campsie  churchyard,  near  the  glen  where 
he  watched  as  a  boy  the  "squirrel  in  the  old 
beech-tree,"  and  learned  from  his  brother 
James  to  "trust  in  God  and  do  the  right." 

In  1858  Mr.  !Macleod  received  the  honorary 
degree  of  D.D.  He  was  also  api)ointcd  one  of 
the  Deans  of  the  Chapel  Royal,  Holyrood,  one 


NOEMAN   MACLEOD. 


363 


of  the  Queen's  Chaplains  for  Scotland,  and  Dean 
of  the  order  of  the  Thistle.  In  May,  1869, 
was  conferred  upon  him  by  acclamation  the  last 
honour  which  he  lived  to  receive,  that  of  being 
elected  to  the  moderator's  chair  in  the  General 
Assembly,  and  never  was  honour  more  richly 
deserved  or  more  hardly  earned.  An  inter- 
esting memoir  of  the  far-famed  Scottish  min- 
ister, from  the  pen  of  his  brother,  the  Eev. 
Donald  Macleod,  D.  D. ,  appeared  in  1876. 

In  alluding  to  Dr.  JIacleod's  death  Dean 
Stanley  said,  in  a  sermon  delivered  in  West- 
minster Abbey — "When  ten  days  ago  there 
went  up  the  sound  of  great  lamentation  as  of 


a  multitude  weeping  for  a  lost  chief,  in  the 
second  greatest  city  of  the  empire,  when  rich 
and  poor  of  all  creeds  and  opinions  followed 
to  his  grave  the  great  Scottish  pastor,  Avhose 
good  deeds  had  so  endeared  him  to  all  who 
knew  him,  and  whose  Good  Words  had  i-eached 
thousands  who  had  never  seen  his  face,  in 
homes  and  lands  far  away,  what  was  it  that 
shed  over  the  close  of  that  career  so  peaceful, 
so  cheering  a  light?  It  was  that  he  was  known 
to  have  fought  the  good  fight  manfully,  that 
he  had  finished  his  course  with  joy,  and  had 
done  what  in  him  lay  to  add  to  the  happiness 
and  goodness  of  the  world." 


DANCE,  MY   CHILDKElSr! 

"Dance,  my  children!  lads  and  lassesl 
Cut  and  shuffle,  toes  and  heels! 
Piper,  roar  from  every  chanter 
Hurricanes  of  Highland  reels! 

"Make  the  old  barn  shake  with  laughter. 
Beat  its  flooring  like  a  drum, 
Batter  it  with  TuUochgorum, 
Till  the  storm  without  is  dumb! 

"Sweep  in  circles  like  a  whirlwind, 
Flit  across  like  meteors  glancing. 
Crack  your  fingers,  shout  in  gladness. 
Think  of  nothing  but  of  dancing!" 

Thus  a  gray-haired  father  spcaketh, 
As  he  claps  his  hands  and  cheers; 

Yet  his  heart  is  quietly  dreaming, 
And  his  eyes  are  dimmed  with  tears. 

AVell  he  knows  this  world  of  sorrow, 
Well  he  knows  this  world  of  sin. 

Well  he  knows  the  race  before  them. 
What's  to  lose,  and  what's  to  win! 

But  he  hears  a  far-off  music 

Guiding  all  the  stately  spheres — 

In  his  father-heart  it  echoes, 

So  he  claps  his  hands  and  cheers. 


TRUST  IN  GOD. 

Courage,  brother!  do  not  stumble, 
Though  thy  path  is  dark  as  night; 

There's  a  star  to  guide  the  humble: 
"Trust  in  God,  and  do  the  right." 


Let  the  road  be  long  and  dreary, 
And  its  ending  out  of  sight; 

Foot  it  bravely,  strong  or  weary; 
"  Trust  in  God,  and  do  the  right." 

Perish  "policy"  and  cunning. 
Perish  all  that  fears  the  light! 

Whether  losing,  whether  winning, 
"  Trust  in  God,  and  do  the  right." 

Trust  no  forms  of  guilty  passion. 
Fiends  can  look  like  angels  bright; 

Trust  no  custom,  school,  or  fashion, 
"  Trust  in  God,  and  do  the  right." 

Trust  no  party.  Church,  or  faction; 

Trust  no  leaders  in  the  fight; 
But,  in  everj^  word  and  action, 

"  Trust  in  God,  and  do  the  right." 

Some  will  hate  thee,  some  will  love  thee. 
Some  will  flatter,  some  will  slight; 

Cease  from  man,  and  look  above  thee; 
"Trust  in  God,  and  do  the  right." 

Simple  rule,  and  safest  guiding; 

Inward  peace,  and  inward  light; 
Star  upon  our  path  abiding: 

"Trust  in  God,  and  do  the  right." 


CLTiLER'S   SONG. 

A'  nicht  it  was  freezin',  a'  nicht  I  was  sneezin', 
"  Tak'  care,''  quo'  the  wifie,  "gudeman,  o'  yer 
cough;" 

A  fig  for  the  sneezin',  hurrah  for  the  freezin'! 
This  day  we're  to  play  the  bonspiel  ou  the  loch! 


364 


NOEMAN   MACLEOD. 


Then  get  up,  my  auld  leddy,  the  breakfast  get 
ready, 
For  the  sun  on  the  snawdrift's  beginning  to 
blink, 
Gi'e  me  bannocks  or  brochan,  I  am  aff  for  the 
lochan. 
To  mak'  the  stanes  flee  to  the  tee  o'  the  rink! 

Chorus—Then  hurrah  for  the  curiin'  frae  Girvan 
to  Stirlin'! 
HuiTah  for  the  lads  o'  the  besom  and 
stane! 
"Ready  noo!"    "  soop  it  up!"  "dap   a 
g-uard  I "  "  steady  noo ! " 
Oh !    curiin'   aboon   every   game   stan's 
alane! 

The  ice  it  is  splendid,  it  canna  be  mended  — 
Like  a  glass  ye  may  glower  on't  and  shave  aff 
yer  beard; 
And  see  hoo  they  gether,  comin'  ower  the  brown 
heather. 
The  servant  and  master,  the  tenant  and  laird! 
There's  brave  Jamie  Fan-lie,  he's  there  late  and 
early. 
Better  curlers  than  him  or  Tam  Conn  canna  be. 
Wi'  the  lads  frae  Kilwinnin',   they'll  send  the 
stanes  spinnin' 
Wi'  irhlir  an'  a  ciur  till  they  sit  roun'  the  tee. 
Then  hurrah,  &c. 

It's  an  unco-like  story  that  baith  Whig  and  Tory 

Maun  aye  collyshangie  like  dogs  ower  a  bane; 
And  a'  denominations  are  wantin'  in  patience. 

For  nae  kirk  will  thole  to  let  ithers  alane; 
But  in  the  frosty  weather  let  a'  meet  thegither, 

Wi'  a  broom  in  their  haun'  and  a  stane  by  tlie 
tee. 
And  then,  by  my  certes,  ye'U  see  hoo  a'  parties 

Like  brithers  will  love,  and  like  brithers agree! 
Then  hurrah,  &c. 


WE  ARE   KOT    THERE,  BELOVED 


A  VOICE  HEAED  WHILE  LOOKING  AT  THE  GRAVES 
OF   OUR   HOUSEHOLD   AT   CAMPSIE. 

AVc  are  not  there,  beloved! 

So  dry  tliose  tearful  eyes, 
And  lift  tlieni  up  in  calmness 

To  yonder  cloudless  skies; 

To  yonder  home  of  glory, 

Where  we  together  live, — 
'Ti-i  all  our  Savio\ir  died  for, 

'Tis  all  our  Ciod  can  give. 

Yet,  in  that  home  of  glory, 
jMidst  all  wc  hear  and  see, 


The  past  is  not  forgotten, 
And  we  ever  think  of  thee — 

Of  thee  and  all  our  dear  ones. 
Far  dearer  now  than  ever. 

For  we  are  one  in  Jesus, 
And  nothing  can  us  .sever. 

Be  of  good  cheer,  beloved  ! 

And  let  those  eyes  be  dry — 
Oh,  be  not  crushed  by  sorrow. 

Nor  ever  wish  to  die. 

Wish  only  to  act  bravely 
In  doing  our  Father's  will, 

And  where  our  Master  puts  thee. 
Be  faithful  and  be  still. 

Be  still!  for  Ciod  is  with  thee. 

And  thou  art  not  alone. 
But  one  in  all  thy  labours 

With  the  hosts  around  his  throne. 

Be  of  good  cheer,  beloved  ! 

For  not  an  hour  is  given 
That  may  not  make  thee  fitter 

To  join  us  all  in  heaven. 

What  though  no  sin  or  sorrow 

Are  in  our  world  above. 
Thy  world  below  most  needetli 

The  life  and  light  of  love. 

Thou  canst  not  see  our  glory 
Beyond  that  peaceful  sky, 

Nor  canst  tliou  tell  when  angels 
Or  dearer  friends  are  nigh ; 

But  thou  canst  see  the  glory 
Of  our  Saviour  and  our  Lord, 

And  know  his  living  presence, 
And  hear  his  living  word. 

Ilim,  dear  one!  trust  and  follow. 
Him  liear  with  faith  and  love. 

And  He  will  lead  thee  safely 
To  join  us  all  above. 

And  tlien  we  Avill  remember, 

And  talk  of  all  the  past, 
When  sin  an<l  death  liave  perished. 

And  love  alone  shall  last. 


THE  ANXIOUS  MOTHER. 

Never  did  a  kinder  mother 
Nurse  a  child  upon  her  knee; 

Yet  I  knew  somehow  or  other 
That  she  always  feared  for  nic. 


NORMAN   MACLEOD. 


365 


AVhen  at  school  m}-  teacher  told  her 

I  was  busy  as  a  bee — 
Learning  more  tlian  others  older — 

She  was  pleased — jet  feared  for  me. 

All  the  summer  woods  were  ringing 
With  my  shouts  of  joyous  glee, 

Through  the  house  she  heard  me  singing- 
Yet  she  always  feared  for  me. 

Was  she  whimsical,  or  fretted? 

That  the  dear  one  could  not  be! 
AVas  I  selfish,  false,  or  petted? 

That  she  always  feared  for  me. 

Did  she  think  I  did  not  love  her, 
Nor  at  heart  with  iier  agree? 

Yain  such  question  to  discover 
AVhy  she  always  feared  for  me! 

But  one  morn,  in  anguish  waking 

With  a  dreadful  agony, 
She  said,  in  hers  my  small  hand  taking, 

"  He  was  drowned  this  day  at  sea." 

And  she  told  how  but  one  other 

Branch  grew  from  her  iiousehold  tree, 

And  lest  I,  the  best,  should  wither. 
That  was  why  she  feared  for  me! 

Then  convulsively  she  snatched  me; 

Setting  me  upon  her  knee — 
To  her  beating  heart  she  clasped  me. 

While  I  sobbed,  "  Why  fear  for  me? — 

"For  you  told  me  I  must  walk,  too, 
h\  the  path  my  father  trod, 
And  that  he,  with  none  to  talk  to, 
On  the  ocean  walked  with  God. 

"Often  did  you  tell  me,  mother. 

That  our  father's  God  was  near — 
Tliat  iiis  Saviour  was  my  brother — 
Therefore  I  should  never  fear." 

"I'll  walk,"  I  said,  "as  did  mj'  father; 
Wliy  then  should  you  fear  for  me? 
ril  not  grieve  you,  for  I'd  rather 
Sleep  beside  him  in  the  sea!" 

Then,  again,  she  hugged  and  kissed  me, 
W^hile  I  saw  the  shadows  flee 

From  her  anxious  face  that  blessed  me, 
Now  from  sad  forebodings  free. 

As  she  looked  to  Heaven,  saying: — 
"Thou  hast  given  this  child  to  me!" 

Whispering  o'er  me,  as  if  praying, 
"  Never  more  I'll  fear  for  thee!" 


TEMPORA  MUTANTUR. 


Tick!  tick!  tick!  my  heart  is  sick 
To  hear  how  time  is  flying; 
For  at  break  of  day  I  must  haste  away. 
And  leave  dear  Kitty  a-crying. 

0  cruel  clock, 

AVhy  dost  thou  mock 

ISly  heart  so  sick, 

With  tiiy  tick,  tick,  tick? 

Go  slowly ! — 

II. 

Tick — tick — tick — my  heart  is  sick 
To  hear  how  time  doth  tarry; 
For  at  break  of  day  I  will  liastc  away, 
My  own  dear  Kitty  to  marry. 

0  cruel  clock, 

Wiiy  dost  tiiou  mock 

jMy  heart  so  sick. 

With  thy  tick— tick— tick  ! 

So  slowly '] 


SUNDAY   IN   THE   HIGHLANDS. 

What  holy  calm  is  this!     The  mountains  sleep, 
Wrapped    in    the    sun-mist,    through    which 

heaven-born  gleams 
Kiss  their  old  foreheads  tiU  they  smile  in  dreams 

Of  early  youth,  when  rising  from  the  deep. 

Baptized  by  God ,  they  shared  man's  sinless  da  j's : — 
Dreams,  too,  of  Restoration,  when  shall  cease 
Creation's  groans  in  universal  peace, 

And  harmonies  of  universal  praise. 

But  hark!    From  yonder  glen  the  kirk-bell  rings, 
Where  lambs  at  play  'midst  purple  heather 

bleat, 
And  larks  make  glad  the  air;  while  shepherds 
meet 
To  worship  Christ.     Good  Lord !   Thy  world  now 

sings 
The  hymn  that  louder  yet  shall  fill  the  sky. 
Of  "Peace  on  earth!     Glory  to  God  on  high!" 


A   MOTHER'S  FUNERAL. 

Ah!  sune  ye'Il  lay  yer  mither  doon 
In  her  lanely  bed  and  narrow; 

But,  till  ye' re  sleepin'  by  her  side, 
Ye'U  never  meet  her  marrow! 


366 


JAMES   C.   GUTHRIE. 


A  faither's  love  is  strong  and  deep, 
And  ready  is  a  brither's, — 

A  sister's  love  is  pure  and  sweet — 
But  what  love's  like  a  mither's? 

Ye  manna  crreet  ower  muckle,  bairns, 
As  round  the  fire  ye  gaither, 

And  see  the  twa  cliairs  empty  then, 
O'  mither  and  o'  faither; 

Xor  dinna  let  yer  hearts  be  dreicb, 
When  wintry  winds  are  blawin'. 

And  on  their  graves,  wi'  angry  sugh. 
The  snelly  drift  is  snawin'; 

But  think  of  blyther  times  gane  by — 
The  mony  years  of  blessing, 


AVhen  sorrow  passed  the  door,  and  nana 
Frae  'mang  ye  a'  were  missing. 

And  mind  the  peacefu'  gloamin'  hours 
When  tlie  out-door  wark  was  endin'. 

And  after  time,  when  auld  gray  heads 
Wi'  yours  in  prayer  were  bendin'. 

And  think  how  happy  baith  are  noo, 

Aboon  a'  thocht  or  tellin'; 
For  they're  at  hame,  and  young  again, 

AVithiu  their  Father's  dwelliu'. 

Sae,  gin  ye  wish  to  meet  up  there 
Yer  faither  and  yer  mither, 

0  love  tlieir  God,  and  be  gude  bairns. 
And  0  love  ane  anither! 


JAMES    C.    GUTHEIE. 


James  Cargill  Guthrie  was  born  at  Air- 
niefoul  Farm,  in  the  parish  of  Glamis,  Strath- 
more,  Forfarshire,  August  27,  1812.  His  fa- 
ther, a  respectable  tenant-farmer,  could  trace 
his  descent  from  James  Guthrie,  the  famous 
Scotch  worthy  who  suffered  martyrdom  for  his 
adherence  to  the  Covenant  at  Edinburgh  in 
1651;  and  his  mother  was  descended  from  the 
no  less  famous  Donald  Cargill,  who  suffered  for 
the  same  cause  in  1681.  He  was  educated  first 
at  the  neighbouring  parish  school  of  Kin- 
nettles,  and  was  afterwards  sent  to  Jlontrose 
Academy,  where  he  successfully  studied  for 
some  years.  Being  intended  by  his  parents  for 
the  Church,  he  then  attended  the  necessary 
classes  in  Edinburgh  University;  but  circum- 
stances intervened  which  completely  changed 
his  destination,  and  instead  of  the  Chui'cli  he 
was  consigned  to  the  counting-house.  This  dis- 
appointment in  the  choice  of  a  profession  seems 
to  have  tinged  with  a  kind  of  unrest  the  whole 
of  his  future  life,  and  to  have  struck  that 
tender  ciiord  which  has  given  a  tone  of  pensive 
sadness  to  all  his  writings. 

Guthrie  wrote  verses  from  his  earliest  years; 
yet,  although  assiduously  cultivating  his  poeti- 
cal gifts,  and  occasionally  contributing  to 
magazines  and  reviews,  he  did  not  publish 
until  1851,  and  even  then  his  V'dlarje  Scenes 


appeared  anonymously,  so  sensitively  doubtful 
was  he  of  ultimate  success.  Nevertheless  the 
first  edition  of  this  long  descriptive  poem 
at  once  gained  the  ear  of  the  public,  and 
was  rapidly  disposed  of.  The  work  has  now 
reached  a  fifth  edition.  In  1854  he  published 
"The  First  False  Step,"  which  was  also  well 
received.  In  1859  another  continuous  poem 
from  his  pen  appeared  entitled  "Wedded  Love." 
A  large  volume  of  miscellaneous  poems,  en- 
titled "My  Lost  Love,  &c. ,"  was  published  by 
him  in  1865;  followed  in  1867  by  "Summer 
Flowers."  The  last  of  his  poetical  works  is 
"Rowena;  or  the  Poet's  Daughter,"  a  poem  in 
blank  verse,  which  appeared  in  1871. 

The  versatility  of  our  author's  genius 
showed  itself  by  his  publication  in  1875  of 
Tlie  Vale  of  Strathmore:  Us  Scenes  and  Le- 
gends, a  large  and  exhaustive  prose  work,  full 
of  historical  and  legendary  lore.  He  is  also 
the  author  of  several  popular  songs,  amongst 
which  may  be  noticed  "  The  Bonnie  Braes  o' 
Airlie"  ami  "The  Flower  of  Strathmore," 
Aviiich  have  taken  a  high  place  amongst  stan- 
dard Scotch  songs.  In  1829,  when  a  mere 
youth,  he  aided  materially  in  establishing  and 
conducting  the  ClirM'tan  Reporter,  the  first 
cheap  religious  periodical  published  in  Scot- 
land.    In  this  magazine,  besides  several  able 


JAMES   C.   GUTHRIE. 


367 


papers  in  prose,  appeared   for  the  first  time 
many  of  the  earlier  effusions  of  his  muse. 

In  1863  Mr.  Guthrie  was  chosen  from 
amongst  a  number  of  candidates  to  fill  the 
position  of  principal  librarian  in  the  Dun- 
dee Public  Library,  then  newly  established. 
The  duties  of  this  office  he  continued  satisfac- 


torily to  discharge  until  the  whole  library  had 
been  put  into  complete  and  thorough  working 
order,  when  he  retired  from  its  management, 
receiving  from  tlie  library  committee,  as  re- 
presenting the  town-council  and  ratepayers, 
a  handsome  recognition  of  his  valuable  ser- 
vices. 


THE  UXSEEX. 

'Twas  on  a  wild  and  gusty  night,  in  winter's 

dreary  gloom, 
I  sat  in  meditation  rapt,  within  my  lonesome 

room , 
While  like  a  panorama  passed  the  days  of  love's 

sweet  joy, 
And  all  youth's  blissful  visions  bright  whicii 

cheered  me  when  a  boy. 

The  winds  let  loose,  mad  shrieking  howled, 
among  the  leafless  trees, 

Sad  from  the  distance  hollow  came  the  mur- 
mur of  the  seas. 

While  on  the  trembling  window-panes  wild 
dashed  the  sobbing  rain, 

Like  a  maiden  by  her  lover  left  in  sorrow  and 
in  pain. 

Clear  high  above  the  blast  arose,  like  an  ancient 
melody, 

The  silver  tones  of  a  well-known  voice — "I 
come,  my  love,  to  thee; 

Jly  broken  vows  forgive,  fain  I  would  come  to 
thee  for  rest. 

And  pillow  soft  my  weary  head  upon  thy  faith- 
ful breast." 

Like  summer  cloud  across  the  blue,  a  shadow 

on  my  soul 
Fell  dark  and  heavily,  but  quick  it  vanished 

like  a  scroll: 
Yes,  freely  I  forgave,  forgot  the  change  she'd 

wrought  in  me. 
And  seizing  quick  the  lamp,  I  cried,  "  I  come, 

my  love,  to  thee!" 

The  door  I  opened  wide,  and  blushed  to  wel- 
come to  my  hearth, 

Her  to  my  heart  the  dearest  jewel,  most  pre- 
cious gem  of  earth: 

Alas!  the  flickering  taper  frail,  it  went  out  like 
a  spark. 

And  lo!  all  weeping,  left  me  lone,  faint  crying 
in  the  dark — 


"BelovM:  0  belovJiuI  come,  I  wait  to  welcoma 

thee!" 
But  no  refrain  came  answering  back,  save  the 

wailing  of  the  sea: 
Yet  still  I  cried—"  Beloved,  come" — as  if  I'd 

cry  my  last, 
Heard  only  by  the  rushing  wind   mock'd  by 

the  stormy  blast! 

Deserted,   sad,  woe's  me!    rcturn'd   into  my 

widow'd  room, 
The  chambers  of  my  soul  hung  round  witii  dark 

funereal  gloom. 
Loud  on  the  shivering  window-panes  wild  beats 

the  sobbing  rain, 
Like  a  lover  by  his  false  one  left  in  sorrow  and 

in  pain! 


THE  LINKS  0'  B.YRRY. 

In  young  Ufa's  sweet  spring-time,  one  mom, 

My  heart  like  wax  inclining 
Some  pure  impression  to  receive, 

My  future  keen  divining; 
A  comely  maiden  fair  I  met 

That  made  my  footsteps  tarry. 
And  bless  the  hour  I  wander'd  forth 
Adown  the  Links  o'  Bany. 

0,  fragrant  flowers  'mong  sylvan  bowers, 

No  longer  can  I  tarry; 
Far  dearer  to  my  heart  the  breeze 
Adown  the  Links  o'  Barry. 

Her  ej'es  like  violets  steep'd  in  dew. 

Her  hair  like  sunshine  glancing, 
Like  cherries  ripe  her  pouting  lips, 

Her  lily  cheeks  enhancing. 
And  0,  her  voice  so  soft  and  low. 

Like  music  did  she  carry 
My  fluttering  heart  within  her  own, 
Adown  the  Links  o'  Barry. 

0  bonnie  streams,  sweet  mountain  streams, 

With  you  I  cannot  tarry, 
Far  deai-er  to  my  heart  the  sea 
That  laves  the  Links  o'  Barry. 


368 


JAMES   C.   GUTHEIE. 


I  took  the  rose-bud  from  my  breast, 

She,  blushing,  kiss'd  its  blossom; — 
"Will  you  be  mine?"—"  I  will;"  the  flower 

She  laid  upon  her  bosom : 
Then  hand  clasp'd  hand,  and  lip  met  lip; 

No  longer  could  we  tarry. 
But  vowed  oft-times  to  meet  again 
Adown  the  Links  o'  Barry. 

0,  hazel  glades,  sweet  hazel  glades, 

'Mong  you  I  cannot  tarry; 
The  trysting  hour  approaches,  love, 
Adown  the  Links  o'  Barry. 

Oh,  crael  fate!  why  thus  our  hearts 

So  early,  sadly  sever; 
Woes  me!  I  mourn  hke  wounded  dove, 

For  ever  and  for  ever! 
Where'er  you  be,  sweet  early  love. 

My  blessing  with  you  carry. 
Oft-times  I  muse  on  love's  first  j  lys, 
Adown  the  Links  o'  Barry. 

Bowers,    glades,    and   streams,   now   fain 
would  I 
Among  you  ever  tarry, 
The  trysting  hour  now  comes  no  more 
Adown  the  Links  o'  Barry. 


THE  MINSTREL'S   LAY. 

The  winds  were  whistling  loud  and  shrill, 
Fast  fell  the  wild  and  sobbing  rain. 

While  in  my  desolate  home  I  mused 
Of  joys  which  ne'er  come  back  again. 

My  thoughts  were  melted  into  tears, 
That  ran  like  rivers  to  the  sea, 

Sore  yeain'd  my  heart  for  those  I  loved, 
With  them  I  longed — oh!  longed  to  be. 

Thus  hopeless,  weeping  like  a  child, 
I  heard  no  sound  of  opening  door. 

Nor  human  voice  admittance  claim. 
Nor  footsteps  pace  the  oaken  floor. 

Yet  there  my  own  loved  brother  sat, 
And  smiled  so  sweetly  now  on  me, 

That  lighter  grew  my  heavy  heart — 
I  wonder'd  what  his  words  might  be! — 

'  With  hope,  dear  brother,  have  I  come 
To  guide  you  'cross  the  stormy  sea. 
No  longer  mourn,  weep,  weep  no  more, 
But  come,  my  brother,  come  with  mo. 

*  All  that  you  loved  on  earth  have  gone, 
No  one  remains  your  heart  to  cheer; 
A  welcome  waits  you  in  the  sky — 
Oh!  why  then  linger,  tarry  here? 


"The  world  unhoeds,  nay,  mocks  your  grief; 
Night's  gone;  'tis  near  the  break  of  day; 
The  voyage  is  short,  the  shore  soon  reached- 
Come,  come,  my  brother,  come  away!" 

I  rose,  enraptured,  to  embrace. 
To  take  him  kindly  by  the  hand; 

Then  go  together  to  rejoin 

My  all  in  that  bright  sunny  land. 

But  he  was  gone!  remembrance  came; 

I,  trembling,  held  my  stifling  breath— 
My  brother  dead  for  twenty  years; 

Oh !  I  have  shaken  hands  with  Death ! 

The  ghostly  warning  well  I  know, 
I'll  welcome  glad  the  break  of  day: 

Hush! — listen — full  the  chorus  swells — 
"  Come,  come,  my  brother,  come  away!" 


FORGET  HERi 

Forget  lier?  mock  me  not;  beliolJ 

The  everlasting  hills, 
Adown  whose  rugged  fissures  dash 

A  tiiousaml  flashing  rills; 
E'en  they,  inheriting  decay, 

Slow  moulder,  though  unseen; 
But  love,  celestial  sacred  flower, 

Is  ever  fresh  and  green. 

Forget  her?  gaze  on  that  bright  stream. 

E'er  deepening  as  it  runs 
Its  rocky  channel,  leaping  free, 

In  storms  and  summer  suns. 
So  in  my  heart  of  hearts  do  years, 

As  onward  swift  they  roll, 
The  deeper  grave  in  diamond  lines 

Her  name  upon  my  soul. 

Forget  licr!  hast  thou  ever  loved? 

Know  then  love  cannot  die; 
Eternal  as  tiie  eternal  God, 

"Twill  ripen  in  the  sky. 
0  yes!  sad,  drencli'd  in  tears  on  earth, 

By  stoi-ms  and  tempests  riven, 
'Twill  only  blossom  in  its  prime 

In  the  golden  air  of  heaven! 


WILLS'  BONNIE  BRAES. 

We  love  but  once;  in  after  life, 
'ilidst  sorrows,  hopes,  and  waes. 

How  fondly  turns  my  yearning  heart 
To  Wills'  lionnie  braes! 


JAMES   C.   GUTHRIE. 


30!) 


Upon  a  flower-enamelled  bank 

We  sat  in  golden  joy, 
Witliin  our  inmost  heart  of  hearts 

What  bliss  without  alloy! 

The  glad  birds  sang  their  even-song 

Above  each  guarded  nest, 
Then  folding  soft  their  dewy  wings, 

Sank  lovingly  to  rest. 

Coy  with  her  sunny  ringlets  fair 

Did  arch  the  zephyr's  play, 
■While  murmured  fondly  at  our  feet 

The  wavelets  of  the  Tay. 

Expressive  silence  reigned  around, 

I  clasp'd  her  hand  in  mine — 
She  raised  her  eyes — I  read  it  there — 

Her  answer — "  I  am  thine!" 

Alas!  cruel  Mammon  with  his  wand 
Hath  cleft  the  rocks  in  twain. 

And  all  our  favourite  pathways  sweet 
Have  crumbled  in  the  main. 

All,  all  is  changed,  yet  not  more  changed, 

AVoe's  me,  alas!  than  she; 
Yet  no  reproach  escapes  my  lips, 

Though  ever  lost  to  me. 

Ko  turning  love  to  scornful  hate. 

Ko  wailing  o'er  my  Avaes; 
I  only  dream  of  early  joys, 

On  Wills'  bonnie  braes. 


THE  BONNIE  BRAES  0'  AIRLIE. 

Bonnie  sing  the  birds  in  the  bright  English 

valleys, 
Bonnie  bloom  the  flowers  in  the  lime-sheltered 

alleys, 
Oolden  rich  the  air,  with  perfume  laden  rarely. 
But  dearer  far  to  me  the  bonnie  braes  o"  Airlie. 

Winding  flows  the  Cam,  but  it's  no  my  ain 

loved  Isla; 
liosy  decked  the  meads,  but  they're  no  like 

dear  Glenisla; 
Cloudless  shines  the  sun,  but  I  wish  I  saw  it 

fairly 
Sweet  blinkin'  through  the  mist  on  the  bonnie 

braes  o'  Airlie. 


Thirsting  for  a  name,  I  left  my  native  moun- 
tains, 

Drinking  here  my  fill  at  the  pure  classic  foun- 
tains; 

Striving  hard  for  fame,  I've  wrestled  late  and 
early. 

An'  a'  that  I  might  rest  on  the  bonnie  braes  o' 
Airlie. 

Yonder  gleams  the  prize  for  which  I've  aye 
been  longing — 

Darkness  comes  atween,  my  struggles  sad -pro- 
longing, 

Dimly  grow  my  een,  and  my  heart  is  breaking 
sairly, 

Waes  me!  I'll  never  see  the  bonnie  braes  o" 
Airlie. 


THE  FLOWER  OF  STRATHMORE. 

The  morning  star's  waning,  the  wild  deer  arc 
springing. 
And  fair  breaks  the   morn  on  the  vale  I 
adore, 
Hark!  sweet  o'er  the  homesteads  the  lav'rocks 
are  singing 
Of  golden-haired  Helen,  the  flower  of  Strath- 
more. 

To  songs  of  the  mountains  I've  listen'd  when 
roaming. 
And  heard  tlie  lute  touch'd  on  a  far  southron 
shore. 
But    sweeter  to  me   in   the   calm   summer's 
gloaming, 
The  voice  of  my  Helen,  the  flower  of  Strath- 
more. 

Her  hair  of  the  sunniest,   her  eyes   of  the 

bluest, 

On  the  lea  tripping  light  as  the  fawn  on  the 

moor, 

Her  soul  of  the  purest,  her  heart  of  the  truest, 

All  rivals  excelling,  the  flower  of  Strathmore. 

Come,    hope   of  my   life,    the   light   of  each 
morrow, 
In  my  heart  fondly  nestling,  a  love  ever- 
more, 
To  bless  me  in  gladness,  to  cheer  me  in  sorrow. 
Dear,   golden- haired  Helen,    the  flower  of 
Strathmore! 


Vol.  II.— a  a 


370 


EOBEET   NICOLL. 


EOBEET    NICOLL. 


Born  1814  — Died  1837. 


Few  among  the  long  list  of  Scottish  poets  of 
the  nineteenth  century  have  more  closely  ap- 
proached the  standard  of  their  great  master 
Burns  than  Robert  Nicoll,  who  was  born  at 
Little  Tullieheltane,  in  the  parish  of  Auchter- 
gaven,  Perthshire,  January  7, 1814.  His  father 
was  at  that  time  a  farmer  in  comfortable  cir- 
cumstances; his  motlier's  name  was  Grace 
Fenwick,  a  daughter  of  the  venerable  Seceder 
"Elder  John,"  of  Avhom  Nicoll  speaks  so  fre- 
quently and  affectionately  in  his  poems.  His 
mother  was  the  poet's  first  and  almost  only 
teaclier,  and  by  her  aid  he  could  read  the  New 
Testament  when  five  years  of  age.  At  this  period 
a  sad  reverse  befell  the  family.  His  father 
had  become  security  to  a  large  amount  for  a 
relative,  who  failed  and  absconded,  and  Mr. 
NicoU's  ruin  was  the  immediate  consequence. 
He  gave  up  his  entire  property  to  satisfy  the 
creditors  of  this  individual;  he  lost  even  the 
lease  of  his  farm,  and  with  his  wife  and  several 
young  children  he  left  the  farmhouse  and 
became  a  day-labourer  on  tiie  fields  he  had 
lately  rented.  The  young  poet  was  thus  from 
the  date  of  his  earliest  recollection  the  son  of 
a  very  poor  man  and  the  inmate  of  a  very 
lowly  home.  In  his  sixth  year  he  attended 
the  parish  school  for  a  short  time,  and  at  seven 
he  was  set  to  iierd  in  the  fields  during  the 
summer  months.  Even  at  this  eav]y  age  Robert 
was  a  voracious  reader,  and  never  went  to  the 
herding  without  a  book  under  his  plaid;  and 
from  his  studious  disposition  he  was  known 
among  his  young  companions  by  the  name  of 
the  minisler.  AVhen  about  twelve  he  was  taken 
from  herding  and  set  to  work  in  the  garden 
of  a  neighbouring  proprietor.  During  this  time 
Robert  was  a  diligent  home  student,  and  man- 
aged to  acquire  some  knowledge  not  only  of 
arithmetic  and  grammar,  but  also  of  Latin  and 
geometry.  In  histhirteenth  year  he  was  appren- 
ticed to  a  grocer  in  Perth,  and  although  working 
from  seven  in  the  morning  until  nine  at  night, 
yd  found  time  by  abridging  his  hours  of  sleep 
to  write  verses  and  correspond  for  a  newspaper. 


His  first  production  as  an  author  was  an 
Italian  love-story  entitled  "II  Zingaro,"  which 
appeared  in  Johnstone's  Magazine.  H  is  health 
began  to  fail  before  the  expiry  of  his  appren- 
ticeship, and  in  1832  he  returned  home  to  be 
nursed  by  his  loving  mother.  lie  rapidly 
recovered,  and  in  September  of  that  year  he 
proceeded  to  Edinburgh  in  search  of  other 
employment.  Here  he  met  his  friend  Mr. 
Johnstone,  and  was  introduced  to  Mr.  Robert 
Chambers  and  Mr.  Robert  Gilfillan.  Disap- 
pointed in  not  finding  employment  in  Edin- 
burgh, he  opened  a  small  circulating  library 
in  Dundee,  and  the  year  following  published  a 
volume  of  Poems  and  Lyrics,  which  Avas  well 
received  by  the  press  and  public. 

The  business  upon  which  Nicoll  had  entered 
not  proving  profitable,  he  abandoned  it  and 
went  again  to  Edinburgh,  tormenting  himself 
with  the  thought  of  an  unpaid  debt  of  £20, 
which  his  mother  had  borrowed  to  aid  in 
establishing  him  in  business.  "  That  money 
of  R.'s,"  he  writes,  "hangs  like  a  millstone 
about  my  neck.  If  I  had  it  paid  I  would 
never  borrow  again  from  mortal  man.  But  do 
not  mistake  me,  mother;  I  am  not  one  of  those 
meii  who  faint  and  falter  in  the  great  battle  of 
life.  God  has  given  me  too  strong  a  heart  for 
that.  I  look  upon  earth  as  a  place  where 
every  man  is  set  to  struggle  and  to  work,  that 
he  may  be  made  humble  and  pure-hearted,  and 
fit  for  that  better  land  for  which  earth  is  a 
{U'eparation — to  which  earth  is  the  gate.  .  .  . 
If  men  would  but  consider  how  little  of  real 
evil  there  is  in  all  the  ills  of  which  they  arc  .so 
much  afraid — poverty  included — there  would 
be  more  virtue  and  happiness,  and  less  world 
and  mammon  worship,  on  earth  than  is.  .  .  . 
Half  the  unhappiness  of  this  life  springs  from 
looking  back  to  griefs  which  are  jiast,  and 
forward  with  fear  to  the  future.  That  is  not 
?«»/  way.  I  am  determined  never  to  bend  to 
the  storm  that  is  coming,  and  never  to  look 
back  on  it  after  it  has  pas-sed." 

He  obtained  temporary  employment  in  the 


ROBERT   NICOLL. 


371 


o.Ticc  of  Mr.  Tait,  and  through  the  kind  inter- 
vention of  that  gentleman  in  the  summer  of 
1836  he  was  appointed  editor  of  the  Leeds 
Times,  with  a  salary  of  £100  per  annum. 
This  was  a  weekly  new.-^paper  repre.senting 
extreme  Radical  opinions,  and  NicoU  entered 
upon  the  work  of  editor  with  a  burning  zeal. 
"  He  wrote  as  one  of  the  three  hundred  might 
be  supposed  to  have  fought  at  Thermopylte, 
animated  by  the  pure  love  of  his  species,  and 
zeal  for  what  he  thought  their  interests;  but, 
amidst  a  struggle  which  scarcely  admitted  of 
a  moment  for  reflection  on  his  own  position, 
the  springs  of  a  naturally  weak  constitution 
were  rapidly  giving  way  and  symptoms  of 
consumption  became  gradually  apparent."  The 
excitement  of  a  political  contest  during  a  par- 
liamentary election  completed  the  physical 
prostration  of  the  poet-editor;  he  removed  to 
Kuaresborough,  and  from  thence  to  Laverock 
Bank,  the  residence  near  Leith  of  his  friend 
Mr.  Johnstone.  Here  he  lingered  until  De- 
cember 9,  1837,  when  his  gentle  spirit  pas.sed 
away.  His  remains  were  followed  tothechurch- 
yard  of  North  Leith  by  a  large  assemblage, 
and  were  interred  near  the  grave  of  the  dramatic 
poet  John  Home.  It  is  now  (1876)  proposed 
to  erect  a  suitable  monument  over  the  poefs 
grave.  In  1836  NicoU  married  Miss  Alice 
Suter  of  Dundee,  a  lady  possessed  of  sweet  and 
gentle  manners,  and  an  unbounded  admiration 
of  her  husband's  talents.  Her  health  was,  like 
his  own,  extremely  delicate  ;  but  although  at 


first  she  appeared  likely  to  precede  her  husband 
to  the  grave,  she  survived  him  for  a  consider- 
able period  before  falling  a  victim  to  the  same 
malady. 

A  second  edition  of  Nicoll's  poems,  with 
numerous  additions  and  a  memoir  of  his  life 
by  Jlrs.  Johnstone,  was  published  in  1842  by 
Mr.  Tait,  the  publisher  of  the  magazine  which 
bears  his  name,  and  who  had  proved  himself 
a  faithful  friend  to  the  young  poet.  Since 
that  date  numerous  editions  of  Nicoirs  poems 
have  appeared  in  Great  Britain  and  the  United 
States.  Although  some  of  his  songs  have 
attained  a  popularity  only  surpassed  by  those 
of  Burns,  they  are  not  equal  to  his  serious 
poems,  which  breathe  that  simple  and  pure 
piety  which  may  be  looked  for  in  the  descen- 
dant of  such  parents  as  his — "decent,  honest, 
God-fearing  people."  Ebenezer  Elliott  says  of 
NicoU:  "Unstained  and  pure,  at  the  age  of 
twenty-three,  died  Scotland's  second  Burns ; 
happy  in  this,  that  without  having  been  a 
'blasphemer,  a  persecutor,  and  injurious,'  he 
chose,  like  Paul,  the  right  path:  and  when  the 
terrible  angel  said  to  his  youth,  'AVhei-e  is  the 
wise? — where  is  the  scribe? — where  is  the  dis- 
puttr?  Hath  not  God  made  foolish  the  wisdom 
of  this  world?'  he  could  and  did  answer,  'By 
the  grace  of  God  I  am  what  I  am.'  Robert 
NicoU  is  another  victim  added  to  the  hundreds 
of  thousands  who  'are  not  dead,  but  gone 
before,'  to  bear  true  witness  against  the  merci- 
less." 


LIFE'S    PILGRIMAGE. 


Infant!  I  envy  thee 
Thy  seraph  smile — thy  soul,  without  a  stain; 
Angels  around  thee  hover  in  thy  glee 

A  look  of  love  to  gain! 

Thy  paradise  is  made 
Upon  thy  mother's  bosom,  and  her  vo'.ce 
Is  music  rich  as  that  by  spirits  shed 

AVhen  blessed  things  rejoice! 

Bright  are  the  opening  flowers — 
Ay,  bright  as  thee,  sweet  babe,  and  innocent, 
They  bud  and  bloom;  and  straight  their  in- 
fant hours. 

Like  thine,  are  done  and  spent! 


Boy!  infivncy  is  o'er: — 
Go  with  thy  playmates  to  the  grassy  lea. 
Let  thy  bright  eye  with  yon  far  laverock  soar. 

And  blithe  and  happy  be! 

Go,  crow  thy  cuckoo  notes 
TUl  all  the  greenwood  alleys  loud  are  ringing — 
Go,  listen  to  the  thousand  tuneful  throats 

That  'mong  the  leaves  are  singing! 

I  M'ould  not  sadden  thee. 
Nor  wash  the  rose  upon  thy  cheeks  with  tears: 
Go,  while  thine  eye   is   bright— unbent  thy 
knee — 

Forget  all  cares  and  fears! 


372 


EOBEET   NICOLL. 


Youth!  is  thy  boyhood  gone?— 
The  fever  hour  of  life  at  length  has  come, 
And  passion  sits  in  reason's  golden  throne, 

While  sorrows  voice  is  dumb! 

Be  glad:  it  is  thy  hour 
Of  love  ungrudging— faith  without  reserve — 
And  from  the  right,  ill  hath  not  yet  the  power 

To  make  thy  footsteps  swerve! 

Kow  is  thy  time  to  know 
IIow  much  of  trusting  goodness  lives  on  earth; 
And  rich  in  pure  sincerity  to  go 

llejoicing  in  thy  birth! 

Youth's  sunshine  unto  thee — 
Love  first  and  dearest,  has  unveil'd  her  face. 
And  thou  hast  sat  beneath  the  trysting  tree. 

In  love's  first  fond  embrace! 

Enjoy  thy  happy  dream, 
For  life  hatli  not  another  such  to  give; 
Thestream  is  flowing — love's  enchanted  stream ; 

Live,  happy  dreamer,  live! 

Though  sorrow  dwelleth  here. 
And  falsehood,  and  impurity,  and  sin, 
Tlie  light  of  love,  the  gloom  of  earth  to  cheer, 

Come  sweetly,  sweetly  in! 

'Tis  o'er — thou  art  a  wan! — 
Tlie  struggle  and  the  tempest  botii  begin 
Where  he  who  faints  must  fail—  he  fight  who  can 

A  victory  to  win! 

Say,  toilest  thou  for  gold  ? 
Will  all  that  earth  can  give  of  drossy  hues 
Compensate  for  that  land  of  love  foretold, 

Which  mammon  makes  thee  lose? 

Or  waitest  thou  for  power? 
A  proud  aml)ition,  trifler,  dotli  thee  raise! 
To  be  the  gilded  bauble  of  the  hour 

That  fools  may  wondering  gaze! 

But  would'st  thou  be  a  man  — 
A  lofty,  noble,  uncornipted  thing, 
Beneath  whose  eye  the  false  might  tremble  wan, 

The  good  with  gladness  sing? 

Go,  cleanse  thy  heart  and  fill 
Thy  soul  with  love  and  goodness;  let  it  be 
Like  yonder  lake,  so  holy,  calm,  and  still. 

And  full  of  purity! 

This  is  thy  task  on  earth — 
This  is  thy  eager  manhood's  proudest  goal; — 
To  cast  all  meanness  and  worldworsiiip  forth — 

And  thus  exalt  the  soull 


'Tis  manhood  makes  the  man 
A  high-soul'd  freeman  or  a  fettered  slave. 
The  mind  a  temple  fit  for  God  to  span, 

Or  a  dark  dungeon-grave! 

God  doth  not  man  despise. 
He  gives  him  soul — mind — heart — that  living 

flame; 
Nurse  it,  and  upwards  let  it  brightly  rise 
To  heaven,  from  whence  it  came! 

Go  hence,  go  hence,  and  make 
Thy  spirit  pure  as  morning,  light  and  free! 
The  pilgrim  shrine  is  Avon,  and  I  awake — 

Come  to  the  woods  with  me! 


THE  MORNING-STAR. 

Thy  smile  of  beauty.  Star! 
Brings  gladness  on  the  gloomy  face  of  night — 

Thou  comest  from  afar. 
Pale  mystery!  so  lonely  and  so  bright, 
A  thing  of  dreams — a  vision  from  on  high — 
A  virgin  spirit — light — a  type  of  purity ! 

Star!  nightly  wanderest  thou 
Companionless  along  thy  far,  cold  way: — 

From  time's  first  breath  till  now, 
On  thou  hast  flitted  like  an  etlier  fay! 
Where  is  the  land  from  whence  thou  first  arose; 
And  where  the  place  of  light  to  which  thy 
pathway  goes? 

Pale  dawn's  first  messenger! 
Thou  prophet-sign  of  brightness  yet  to  be! 

Thou  tcllcst  earth  and  air 
Of  light  and  glory  following  after  thee; 
Of  smiling  day  'mong  wild  green  woodlands 

sleeping; 
And  God's  own  sun,  o'er  all,  its  tears  of  bright- 
ness weeping! 

Sky  sentinel!  when  first 
The  liomade  i)atriarchsaw  thee  fmni  his  hill 

Upon  his  vision  burst. 
Thou  wast  as  pure  and  fair  as  thou  art  still; 
And  changeless  thou  hast  looked  on  race,  and 

name. 
And  nation,  lost  since  then — but  flion  art  yet 
the  same! 

Night's  youngest  child!  fair  gem! 
The  hoar  astrologer  o'er  thee  would  cast 

His  glance,  and  to  thy  name 
His  own  would  join;    then   tremble  when 
thou  wast 


EGBERT  NICOLL. 


In  darkness;  and  rejoice  when,  like  a  bride, 
^  Thou  blushed  to  earth — and  thus  the  dreamer 
dreamed  and  died! 

Pure  star  of  morning  love! 
The  daisy  of  the  sky's  blue  plain  art  thou; 

And  thoughts  of  youth  are  wove 
Kound  thee,  as  round  the  flowers  that  freshly 
blow- 
In  bushy  dells,  where  thrush  and  blackbird 

sing— 
FloAver-star,  the  dreams;  of  youth  and  heaven 
thou  back  dost  bring! 

Star  of  the  morn!  for  thee 
The  watcher  by  aflfection's  couch  doth  wait; 

'Tis  thine  the  bliss  to  see 
Of  lovers  fond  who  'mid  the  broom  have  met: 
Into  the  student's  home  thine  eye  doth  beam ; 
Thou  listenest  to  the  words  of  many  a  troubled 
dream! 

Lone  thing! — yet  not  more  lone 
Than  many  a  heart  which  gazeth  upon  thee, 

AVith  hopes  all  fled  and  gone — 
AVhicli  loves  not  now,  nor  seeks  beloved  to  be. 
Lone,  lone  thou  art— but  we  are  lonelier  far. 
When  blighted  by  deceit  the  heart's  affections 
are! 

Myslerious  morning  star! 
Bright  dweller  in  a  gorgeous  dreamy  home, 

Than  others  nobler  far — 
Thou  art  like  some  free  soul,  which  here 
hath  come 
Alone,  but  glorious,  pure,  and  disenthrall'd  — 
A  spark  of  mind,  which  God  through  eartli  to 
heaven  hath  call'd! 

Pure  maiden  star!  shine  on. 
That  dreams  of  beauty  may  be  dreamed  of 
thee! 
A  home  art  thou — a  throne — 
A  land  where  fancy  ever  roameth  free — 
A  God-sent  messenger — a  light  afar — - 
A  blessed  beam — a  smile — a  gem — the  morn- 
ing star! 


A   MAIDEN'S   MEDITATION. 

Nae  sweetheart  hae  T — 
Yet  I'm  no  that  ill-faur'd: 

But  there's  ower  mony  lasses, 
An'  wooers  are  scared. 

This  night  I  the  hale 
0'  my  tocher  wad  gie, 


If  a'  ithcr  bodie 

AV'ere  married  but  me. 

Syne  I  wad  get  plenty 

About  me  to  speer — 
Folk  wadna  be  fashions 

'Bout  beauty  or  gear. 
Hearts  broken  in  dozens 

Around  I  wad  see. 
If  a'  ither  bodie 

AVere  married  but  me. 

Ac  lover  would  ha'e 

A'  my  errands  to  rin; 
Anither  should  tend  me 

Baith  outby  an'  in; 
And  to  keep  me  gude-humour'd 

AVould  tak  twa  or  three. 
If  a'  ither  bodie 

AVere  married  but  me. 

Fond  wooers  in  dozens, 

AVhere  I  hae'na  ane. 
An'  worshippin'  hearts 

AVhere  I'm  langin'  alane: 
Frae  morning  to  e'enin'. 

How  bless'd  I  wad  be. 
If  a'  ither  bodie 

AVere  married  but  me! 

A  daft  dream  was  yon — 

It  has  faded  awa' ; 
Nae  bodie  in  passin' 

E'er  gies  me  a  ca' — 
Nae  sweetheart  adorin' 

I  ever  shall  see. 
Till  a'  ither  bodie 

Be  married  but  me! 


THE   HA'   BIBLE.  1 

Chief  of  the  household  gods 

Which  hallow  Scotland's  lowly  cottage  homes! 
While  looking  on  thy  signs 

That  sjieak,    though  dumb,   deeiJ   thought 
upon  me  comes — 
With  glad  yet  solemn  dreams  my  heart  is  stirred, 
Like  childhood's  when  it  hears  the  carol  of  a  bird ! 

The  mountains  old  and  hoar — 

The  chainless  winds — the  streams  so  pure 
and  free — 
The  God-enamell'd  flowers — 

The  waving  forest — the  eternal  sea — 

1  Wm.  Howitt  says: — "The  Ha'  Bible"  is  perliaps 
not  unworthy  to  take  equal  rank  witli  'The  Cotter's 
Saturday  Night'  of  Robert  Biuns." — Ed. 


374 


EOBEET   NICOLL. 


The  eagle  floating-  o'er  the  mountain's  brow — 
Ai-e  teachers  all ;  but  0 1  they  are  not  such  as  thou ! 

Oh !  I  could  worship  thee ! 

Thou  art  a  gift  a  God  of  love  might  give; 
For  love  and  hope  and  joy- 
In  thy  Almighty-written  pages  live!  — 
The  slave  who  reads  shall  never  crouch  again ! 
For,  mind-inspired  by  thee,  he  bursts  his  feeble 
chain ! 

God!  unto  Thee  I  kneel, 

And  thank  Thee!  thou  unto  my  native  land- 
Yea  to  the  outspread  earth — 

Hast  stretched  in  love  Thy  everlasting  hand, 
And  Thou  hast  given  earth  and  sea  and  air — 
Yea  all  that  heart  can  ask  of  good  and  pure  and 
fair! 

And,  Father,  Thou  hast  spread 

Before  men's  eyes  this  charter  of  the  free. 
That  ALL  thy  Book  might  read, 

And  justice  love,  and  ti-uth,  and  liberty. 
The  gift  was  unto  men — the  giver  God ! 
Thou  slave!  it  stamps  thee  man— go,  spurn  thy 
weary  load! 

Thou  doubly-precious  Book! 

Unto  thy  light  what  doth  not  Scotland  owe? — 
y  Thou  teachest  age  to  die. 

And  youth  and  truth  unsullied  up  to  grow! 
In  lowly  homes  a  comforter  art  thou — 
A  sunbeam  sent  from  God— an  everlasting  vow! 

O'er  thy  broad  ample  page 

How  many  dim  and  aged  eyes  have  pored  ? 
v^  How  many  hearts  o'er  thee 

In  silence  deep  and  holy  have  adored? 
How  many  mothers,  by  their  infants'  bed, 
Thy  holy,  blessed,  pure,  child-loving  words  have 
read? 

And  o'er  thee  soft  young  hands 

Have   oft    in   truthful   plighted    love   been 
join'd, 
And  thou  to  wedded  hearts 

Hast  been  a  bond — an  altar  of  the  mind! — 
Above  all  kingly  power  or  kingly  law 
May  Scotland  reverence  aye — the  Bible  of  the  Ha'! 


0RD6    BKAES. 

There's  nae  hame  like  the  hame  o'  youth - 

Nac  ithcr  spot  sac  fair: 
Nae  ilher  faces  look  sae  kind 

As  tlic  smilin'  faces  there. 
An'  I  ha'e  sat  by  mony  streams — 

Ila'e  travell'd  mony  way.s; 


But  the  fairest  spot  on  the  earth  to  me 
Js  on  bonnie  Ord6  Braes. 

An  ell  lang  wee  thing  then  I  ran 

Wi'  the  ither  neebor  bairns, 
To  pu'  the  hazel's  shining  nuts, 

An'  to  wander  'uiang  the  ferns; 
An'  to  feast  on  the  bramble-berries  brown. 

An'  gather  tlie  glossy  slaes, 
By  the  burnie's  side,  an'  aye  sinsyne 

I  ha'e  loved  sweet  Ordd  Braes. 

Tlie  memories  o'  my  father's  hame, 

An'  its  kindly  dwellers  a', 
0'  the  friends  I  loved  wi'  a  young  heart's  love, 

Ere  care  tliat  heart  could  tliraw, 
Arc  twined  wi'  tlie  stanes  o'  the  silver  burn, 

An'  its  fairy  crooks  an'  bays, 
That  onward  sang  'neath  the  gowden  broom 

Upon  bonnie  Ord6  Braes. 

Aince  in  a  day  there  were  happy  hames 

By  the  bonnie  Ord^'s  side; 
Nane  ken  how  meikle  peace  an'  love 

In  a  straw-roof'd  cot  can  bide. 
But  thae  hames  are  gane,  an'  the  hand  o'  time 

The  roofless  wa's  doth  raze; 
Laneness  an'  sweetness  hand  in  Iiand 

Gang  ower  the  Ordd  Braes. 

Oh!  an'  the  sun  were  shinin'  now. 

An'  oh!  an'  I  were  there, 
Wi'  tAva-three  friends  o'  auld  langsync, 

My  wanderin' joy  to  share. 
For  though  on  tlie  hearth  o'  my  bairnhood's 
hame 

The  flock  o'  the  hills  doth  graze. 
Some  kind  hearts  live  to  love  me  yet 

Upon  bonnie  Orde  Braes. 


WE  ARE   BRETHREN  A". 

A  bit  happy  hame  this  auld  world  would  be. 

If  men,  when  they're  here,  couUl  make  shift  to 

agree, 
An'  ilk  said  to  his  neighbour,  in  cottage  an'  ha', 
"Come,  gic  mo  your  hand — we  arc  brethren  a'." 

I  ken  na  why  ane  wi'  anithcr  should  fight. 
When  to  'gree  would  make  a'  Iwdy  cosie  an'  right, 
When  man  meets  wi'  man,  'tis  the  best  wayava. 
To  say,  "Gi'enie  your  hand — we  are  brethren  a'." 

My  coat  is  a  coarse  anc,  an'  yours  may  be  fine. 
And   I  maun  drink  water,  while  you  may  drink 

wine; 
But  wc  baith  ha'e  a  leal  her  rt,  unspotted  toshaw; 
Sae  gi'e  me  your  hand — we  are  brethren  a'. 


EOBEET  NICOLL. 


375 


The  knave  yc  would  scorn,  the  unfaithfu'  deride; 
Ye  would  stand  like  a  rock,  wi'  the  truth  on  your 

side; 
Sae  would  I,  an'  nought  else  would  I  value  a 

straw ; 
Then  gi'e  mo  your  hand — we  are  brethren  a'. 

Ye  would  scorn  to  do  fausely  by  woman  or  man; 
I  baud  by  the  right  aye,  as  weel  as  I  can; 
We  are  ane  in  our  joys,  our  affections,  an'  a'; 
Come,  gi'e  me  your  hand — we  are  brethren  a'. 

Your  niither  has  lo'ed  you  as  mithers  can  lo'e; 
An'  mine  has  done  for  me  what  mithers  can  do; 
We  are  ane  high  an'  laigh,  an'  we  shouldna  be  twa; 
Sae  gi'e  me  your  hand— we  are  brethren  a'. 

We  love  the  same  simmer  day,  sunny  and  fair! 
Hame! — oh,  how  we  love  it,  an'  a'  that  are  there! 
Frae  the   pure  air  o'  heaven  the  same   life  we 

draw — 
Come,  g^'e  me  your  hand — we  are  brethi-en  a'. 

Frail,  shakin'  auld  age,  will  soon  come  o'er  us 

baith. 
An'  creeping  alang  at  his  back  will  be  death; 
Syne  into  the  same  mither-jnrd  we  will  fa'; 
Come,  gi'e  me  your  hand— we  ake  brethren  a'. 


THE   HERD    LASSIE. 

I'm  fatherless  and  motlicrless, 

There's  nana  on  earth  to  care  for  me; 
And  sair  and  meikle  are  the  waes 

That  in  the  warld  I  maun  dree. 
For  I  maun  work  a  stranger's  wark. 

And  .sit  beside  a  stranger's  fire; 
And  cauld  and  hunger  I  maun  thole 

From  day  to  day,  and  never  tire! 

And  I  maun  herd  frae  morn  to  e'en, 

Thougli  sleety  rain  upon  me  fa', 
And  never  murmur  or  complein — 

And  be  at  ilka  body's  ca'. 
I  needna  deck  my  gowden  hair, 

Nor  mak'  mysel'  sae  fair  to  see. 
For  I'm  an  orphan  lassie  puir — 

And  wlio  would  look  or  care  for  me? 

The  lave  lia'e  mithers  guile  and  kind, 

And  joyful  is  ilk  daugliters  heart; 
The  lave  ha'e  brithers  steve  and  Strang, 

To  hand  ilk  loving  sister's  part. 
But  I'm  a  puir  man's  orphan  bairn, 

And  to  the  ground  I  laigh  must  bow, 
An'  were  it  nae  a  sinfu'  wish, 

Oh!   I  could  wish  the  warld  through! 


The  caller  summer  morning  brings 

Some  joy  to  this  wae  heart  o'  mine; 
But  I  the  joy  o'  life  wad  leave, 

If  I  could  wi'  it  .sorrow  tine. 
My  mother  .said,  in  Heaven's  bliss 

E'en  pair  herd  lassies  had  a  share; 
I  wish  I  were  where  mither  is — 

Her  orphan  then  would  greet  nae  mair! 


BE  STILL,  THOU   BEATING  HEART. 

Be  still,  be  still,  thou  beating  heart, — 

Oh  cease,  ye  tears,  that  fill  my  e'e; 
In  warldly  joys  I  ha'e  nae  part — 

Nae  blithesome  morning  dawns  for  me. 
I  ance  was  glad  as  summer  winds, 

Wiien  fondling  'mang  the  grass  sae  green; 
But  pleasure  now  hatli  left  my  breast — 

I  am  na'  like  what  I  ha'e  been. 

I  ance  was  loved, — I  lovetl  again 

The  sprecst  lad  in  a'  our  glen; 
I  kent  na'  then  o'  care  or  pain. 

Or  burning  brow,  or  tortured  brain. 
I  braided  then  my  flowing  hair, 

I  had  o'  love  and  peace  my  fill; 
Deep,  deep  I  drank — but  a'  has  gane — 

Oh,  cease  thy  beating; — heart,  be  still! 

Why  should  two  hearts  together  twined 

Be  sever'd  by  stern  fate's  decree? 
AVhy  doth  the  brightest  star  of  mind 

Oft  turn  its  darkest  cloud  to  be? 
My  Jamie  left  his  native  glen. 

My  silken  purse  wi'  gowd  to  fill; 
But  oh,  he  ne'er  came  back  again — 

Oh,  cease  thy  beating; — heart,  be  still ! 

Why  should  I  longer  watch  and  weep? 

Hame,  hame  to  yonder  glen  I'll  gac; 
There  in  my  bridal  bed  I'll  sleep. 

Made  i'  the  kirkyard  cauld  and  blac. 
I'll  soon,  soon  wi'  my  Jamie  meet. 

Where  sorrow  has  nae  power  to  kill ; 
Earth's  waes  are  past — and  my  poor  heart 

Will  .soon  have  peace — will  soon  be  still. 


THE  PLACE  THAT  I   LOVE  BEST. 

AVhere  the  purple  heather  blooms 

Amang  the  rocks  sae  gray — 
AVhere  the  moorcock's  wiiirring  flight 

Is  heard  at  break  of  day — 


376 


ROBERT   NICOLL. 


■\Vhere  Sootland's  bagpipes  ring 
Alang  the  mountain's  breast — 

AVliere  laverocks  lilting  sing, 
Is  the  place  that  I  love  best ! 

Where  the  lonely'  sliepherd  tends 

His  bleating  hill-side  flock — 
Where  the  raven  bigs  its  nest 

In  the  crevice  of  the  rock — 
AVhere  a  guardian  beacon-tower 

Seems  ilk  rugged  mountain's  crest, 
To  watch  aboon  auld  Scotland's  glens. 

Is  the  place  that  I  love  best ! 

Where  the  shepherd's  reeking  cot 

Peeps  from  tlie  broomy  glen — 
Where  tlie  aik-tree  throws  its  leaves 

O'er  the  lowly  but  an'  ben— 
AVhere  the  staunch  auld-warld  honesty 

Is  in  the  puir  man's  breast, 
And  truth  a  guest  within  his  hanie, 

Is  the  place  that  I  love  best ! 

Where  the  gray -haired  peasant  tells 

The  deeds  his  sires  have  done, 
Of  martyrs  slain  in  Scotland's  muirs, 

Of  battles  lost  and  won — 
Wherever  prayer  and  praise  arise 

Ere  toil-worn  men  can  rest, 
From  each  humble  cottage  fane, 

Is  the  place  that  I  love  best ! 

Where  my  ain  auld  mitlier  dwells. 

And  longs  ilk  day  for  me — • 
While  my  father  strokes  his  reverend  head, 

AVhilk  gray  eneuch  maun  be — 
Where  the  hearts  in  kirkyards  rest 

That  were  mine  when  youth  was  blest, 
As  we  rowe<l  amang  tlie  gowans, 

Is  the  place  that  I  love  best ! 

AVhere  the  plover  frae  the  sky 

Can  send  its  wailing  sang, 
Sweet  mingled  wi'  the  burnie's  gush 

That  saftiy  steals  alang — 
AVhcre  heaven  taught  to  Kobert  Burns 

Its  iiymns  in  language  drest — 
The  land  of  Doon — its  banks  and  braes — 

Is  the  place  that  I  love  best! 

AVhere  the  straths  are  fair  and  green, 

And  the  forests  waving  deep — 
AVIiere  the  iiilltop  seeks  the  clouds — 

AVlicrc  the  caller  tempests  sweep — 
AViierc  thoughts  of  freedom  come. 

To  me  a  welcome  guest — 
AA'here  tlie  free  of  soul  were  nursed, 

Is  the  place  that  I  love  best! 


THE  PUIR  FOLK. 

Some  grow  fu'  proud  o'er  bags  o'  gowd, 

And  some  are  proud  o'  learning: 
An  honest  poor  man's  worthy  name 

I  take  delight  in  earning. 
Slaves  needna  try  to  run  us  down  — 

To  knaves  we're  unco  dour  folk; 
AA'e're  aften  wrang'd,  but,  deil  may  care! 

AA'e're  honest  folk,  though  puir  folk! 

AA'i'  AA'allace  wight  we  fought  fu'  weel, 

AA'hen  lairds  and  lords  were  jinking; 
They  knelt  before  the  tyrant  loon— 

AVe  brak  his  crown,  I'm  thinking. 
The  muckle  men  he  bought  wi'  gowd — 

Syne  he  began  to  jeer  folk ; 
But  neither  swords,  nor  gowd,  nor  guile 

Coukl  turn  the  sturdy  puir  folk! 

AAMien  auld  King  Charlie  tried  to  bind 

AVi'  airn,  .saul  and  conscience. 
In  virtue  o'  his  right  divine, 

An'  ither  daft-like  non.sense; 
A\"ha  raised  at  Marston  such  a  stour. 

And  made  the  tyrants  fear  folk? 
AVha  prayed  and  fought  wi'  Pym  and  Koll? 

The  trusty,  truthfu'  puir  folk! 

AA'ha  ance  upon  auld  Scotland's  hills 

AA'ere  hunted  like  the  paitrick, 
And  hack'd  wi'  swords,  and  shot  wi'  guns, 

Frae  Tummel's  bank  to  Ettrick, — 
Because  they  wouldna  let  the  priest 

About  their  conscience  steer  folk? 
The  lairds  were  bloodhounds  to  tlie  clan — 

The  martyrs  were  the  puir  folk! 

AA'hen  Boston  boys  at  Bunker's  Iliil 

(iart  slavery's  minions  falter; 
AVhile  ilka  licartli  in  a'  tiic  bay 

AVas  made  fair  freedom's  altar; 
AA''ha  fought  the  fight,  and  gained  tlie  day? 

Gae  wa',  ye  knavcsl  'twas  our  folk: 
The  beaten  great  men  served  a  king — 

The  victors  a'  were  puir  folk! 

AVe  sow  the  corn  and  hand  the  plough — 

AVe  a'  work  for  our  living; 
AVe  gather  nougiit  but  wliat  we've  sown — 

A'  else  we  reckon  thieving: — 
And  for  the  loon  wha  fears  to  say 

He  comes  o'  lowly,  sma'  folk, 
A  wizen'd  saul  the  creature  lias — 

Disown  him  will  the  puir  folk! 

Great  sirs,  and  mifrhty  men  o'  earth, 
Ye  aften  sair  misca'  us; 


EOBEET   NICOLL. 


377 


And  hunger,  cauld,  and  poverty 

Come  after  ye  to  thraw  us. 
Yet  up  our  hearts  we  strive  to  heeze, 

In  spite  o'  you  and  your  folli; 
But  mind,  enough's  as  gude's  a  feast, 

Although  we  be  but  puir  folk! 

We  tliank  the  Powers  for  gude  and  ill, 

As  gratefu'  folk  should  do,  man; 
But  maist  o'  a'  because  our  sires 

Were  tailors,  smiths,  and  ploughmen. 
Good  men  they  were,  as  staunch  as  steel- 

They  didna  wrack  and  screw  folk: 
Wi'  empty  pouches — honest  hearts — 

Thank  God,  we  come  o'  poor  folk! 


MILTON.— A  SONNET. 

Blind,  glorious,  aged  martyr,  saint,  and  sage! 

The  poet's  mission  God  revealed  to  thee, 
To  lift  men's  souls  to  Him — to  make  them 

free; — 
AVith  tyranny  and  grossness  war  to  wage — 
A  worshipper  of  truth  and  love  to  be — 

To  reckon   all    things    nought    but    these 
alone; — 
To  nought   but  mind  and   truth  to  bow  the 
knee — 
To  make  the  soul  a  love-exalted  throne! 
JIan  of  the  noble  spirit! — Milton,  tiiou 

All  this  did'st  do!     A  living  type  thou  wert 
Of  what  the  soul  of  man  to  be  may  grow — ■ 

The  pure  perfection  of  the  love-fraught  heart! 
Milton!  from  God's  right  hand,  look  down  and 

see, 
For  these,  how  men  adore  and  honour  thee! 


DEATH.' 

The  dew  is  on  the  summer's  greenest  grass. 
Through  which  the  modest  daisy  blushing 
peeps, 
The  gentle  wind  that  like  a  ghost  doth  pass, 
A  waving  shadow  on  the  corn-field  keeps; 
But  I  who  love  them  all  shall  never  be 
Again  among  the  woods,  or  on  the  moorland 
lea! 

1  This  poein  is  believed  to  be  the  last,  or  iinioiig  the 
last,  written  by  Niooll.  A  lopg  jioeni,  wliith  he  said 
would  be  by  far  the  best  thing  he  hrid  ever  written, 
founded  on  the  story  of  Arnold  of  Biescia,  was  left 
unfinished,  but  the  world  would  be  glad  to  see  the  frag- 
meut,  as  yet  unpublished. — Ed. 


The  sun  shines  sweetly — sweeter  may  it  shine! 

Bless'd  is  the  brightness  of  a  summer  day; 
It  cheers  lone  hearts;  and  why  should  I  repine, 
Although  among  green  fields  I  cannot  stray? 
Woods!  I  have  grown,  since  last  1  heard  you 

wave, 
Familiar  with  death,   and  neighbour  to   the 
grave ! 

These  words   have    shaken    mighty  human 
souls — 
Like  a  sepulchre's  echo  drear  they  sound- 
E'en  as  the  owl's  wild  whoop  at  midnight  rolls 

The  ivied  remnants  of  old  ruins  round. 
Yet  wherefore  tremble  ?   Can  the  soul  decay  ? — 
Or  that  which  thinks  and  feels  in  aught  e'er 
fade  away"? 

Are  there  not  aspirations  in  each  heart 

After  a  better,  brighter  world  than  this? 
Longings  for  beings  nobler  in  each  part — - 
Things  more  exalted  —  steeped   in  deeper 
bliss? 

What  are  they?    Soul! 
in  thee 
The  bud  is  budding  now  for  immortality  ! 


Who  gave  us  these? 


Death  comes  to  take  me  where  I  long  to  be; 
One  pang,  and  bright  blooms  the  immortal 
flower; 
Death  comes  to  lead  me  from  mortality, 
To  lands   which   know   not    one    unhappy 
hour; — 
I  have  a  hope — a  faith; — from  sorrow  here 
I'm  led  by  death  away — why  should  I  start 
and  fear? 

If  I  have  loved  the  forest  and  the  field, 
Can  I  not  love  them  deeper,  better  there? 

If  all  that  power  hath  made,  to  me  doth  yield 
Something  of  good  and  beauty — something 
fair. 

Freed  from  the  grossness  of  mortality. 

May  I  not  love  them  all,  and  better,  all  enjoy? 

A  change   from  woe   to  joy — from  earth   to 

heaven. 
Death  gives  me  this — it  leads  me  calmly 

where 
The  souls  that  long  ago  from  mine  were  riven 
May  meet  again!     Death  answers  many  a 

prayer. 
Bright  day!  shine  on,  be  glad ;  days  brighter  far 
Are  stretched  before  my  eyes,  than  those  of 

mortal  are! 

I  would  be  laid  among  the  wildest  flowers, 
I  would  be    laid   where  happy  hearts  can 
come: — 


)78 


JAMES   HEDDERWICK. 


The  worthless  day  I  heed  not;  but  in  hours 
Of  guslung  noontide  joy,  it  may  be  some 
Will  dwell  upon  my  name;  and  I  will  be 
A  happy  spirit  there,  affection's  look,  to  see. 

Death  is  upon  me,  yet  I  fear  not  now; — 
Open  my  chamber-window — let  me  look 


Upon  the  silent  vales — the  sunny  glow 
That  fills  each  alley,  close,  and  copsewood 

nook; 
I  know  them — love  them — mourn  not  them 

to  leave. 
Existence  and    its  change  my  spirit  cannot 

grieve! 


JAMES    HEDDEEWICK 


Jakes  IIedderwick  was  born  in  Glasgow, 
January  18,  1814.^  At  an  early  age  he  was 
put  to  the  printing  business  in  his  father's 
establishment.  His  tastes,  however,  being 
more  literary  than  meclianical,  he  became  dis- 
satisfied with  his  position,  and  devoted  all  his 
leisure  hours  to  study  and  composition,  con- 
tributing in  prose  and  verse  to  various  news- 
papers and  periodicals.  In  his  sixteenth  year 
he  went  to  London.  AVhile  there  he  at- 
tended tlie  university,  and  gained  the  first 
prize  in  the  rhetoric  class.  Before  he  was 
twenty-three  he  became  sub-editor  of  the  Scots- 
man newspaper.  In  1842  he  returned  to  his 
native  city  and  established  the  Glasfjoiv  Citizen, 
a  weekly  newspaper  which  long  maintained 
a  respectable  position.  In  this  journal 
Alexander  Smith  made  his  first  appearance  as 
a  poet,  and  in  later  years  poor  David  Gray 
first  saw  his  beautiful  lines  in  its  columns, 
bearing  the  nom-de- plume  of  "  Will  Gurney." 
Among  others  who  made  their  iHbut  in  the 
Citizen  was  Mr.  William  Black,  who  has  since 
attained  great  popularity  as  a  journalist  and 
writer  of  fiction. 


Previous  to  leaving  Edinburgh  Jlr.  IIedder- 
wick was  entertained  at  a  public  dinner,  at 
which  the  late  Mr.  Charles  Maclaren,  editor  of 
the  Scotsman,  presided,  and  Mr.  John  Hill 
Burton,  advocate,  officiated  as  croupier,  while 
tlie  company  included  many  literary  men  and 
artists  of  distinction.  In  1844  he  collected  some 
of  his  poems  which  had  appeared  at  various 
times  in  different  periodicals,  and  published 
them  in  an  elegant  volume.  After  the  death  of 
the  gifted  David  Gray  Mr.  IIedderwick  prepared 
a  most  interesting  memoir  of  his  life,  which 
was  prefixed  to  his  poems,  together  with  an 
introductory  notice  written  by  Mr.  Eichard 
Monckton  Milnes  (now  Lord  Houghton).  In 
1859  Mr.  IIedderwick  published  another  vol- 
ume of  poems,  under  the  title  of  Lays  of  Middle 
Age.  From  this,  his  principal  work,  we  make 
the  subjoined  selections. 

In  1864  Mr.  Hedderwick  established  the 
Evenimj  Citizen,  one  of  the  first  Scottish  half- 
penny daily  newspapers,  which  under  his  con- 
trol maintains  a  high  character,  and  is  said  to 
have  the  largest  circulation  of  any  daily  paper 
in  Scotland. 


FIRST    GRIEF. 


They  tell  me  first  and  early  love 

Outlives  all  after  dreams; 
But  the  memory  of  a  first  great  grief 

To  mc  more  lasting  seems; 

'  "  When  I  was  eight  years  old,"  Mr.  Heilileiwick 
writes  to  tlie  Editor,  "I  was  in  America  for  a  few 
months,  my  father  having  eniig  ated  thither  with  his 


The  grief  that  marks  our  dawning  youth 

To  memory  ever  clings. 
And  o'er  the  path  of  future  years 

A  lengthen'd  shadow  flings. 

family.  Not  liking  the  country,  he  returned  somewhat 
abruptly,  so  that  I  narrowly  escaped  being  a  Yankee!" 
— Eu. 


JAMES   HEDDERWICK. 


379 


Oil,  oft  m\'  mind  recalls  the  hour 

Wiieu  to  my  father's  home 
Death  came — an  uninvited  guest — 

From  his  dwelling  in  the  tombl 
I  had  not  seen  his  face  before, 

I  shndder'd  at  the  sight, 
And  I  shudder  still  to  think,  upon 

The  anguish  of  that  nightl 

A  youthful  brow  and  ruddy  cheek 

Became  all  cold  and  wan ; 
An  eye  grew  dim  in  which  the  light 

Of  radiant  fancy  shone. 
Cold  was  the  cheek,  and  cold  the  brow, 

The  eye  was  fix'd  and  dim; 
And  one  tliere  mourn"d  a  brother  dead 

Who  would  have  died  for  him! 

I  know  not  if  'twas  summer  then, 

I  know  not  if  'twas  spring, 
But  if  the  birds  sang  on  the  trees 

I  did  not  hear  them  sing! 
If  flowers  came  forth  to  deck  the  earth, 

Their  bloom  I  did  not  see; 
I  look'd  upon  one  wither'd  flower, 

And  none  else  bloom'd  for  me! 

A  sad  and  silent  time  it  was 

Within  that  house  of  woe. 
All  eyes  were  dull  and  overcast. 

And  ever}'  voice  was  low! 
And  from  each  cheek  at  intervals 

The  blood  appear'd  to  start. 
As  if  recall'd  in  sudden  haste 

To  aid  the  sinking  heart! 

Softly  we  trod,  as  if  afraid 

To  mar  the  sleeper's  sleep, 
And  stole  last  looks  of  his  pale  face 

For  memorj'  to  keep! 
With  him  the  agony  was  o'er. 

And  now  the  pain  was  ours, 
As  thoughts  of  his  sweet  childhood  ros3 

Like  odour  from  dead  flowers! 

And  when  at  last  he  was  borne  afar 

From  the  world's  weary  strife, 
How  oft  in  thought  did  we  again 

Live  o'er  his  little  life! 
His  every  look — his  every  word — 

His  very  voice's  tone — 
Come  back  to  us  like  things  whose  worth 

Is  only  prized  when  gone! 

The  grief  has  pass'd  with  years  away. 

And  joy  has  been  my  lot; 
But  the  one  is  oft  remember'd 

And  the  other  soon  forgot. 
The  gayest  hours  trip  lightest  by, 

And  leave  the  faintest  trace; 


But  the  deep,  deep  track  that  sorrow  wears 
Time  never  can  eft'ace! 


THE  EMIGRANTS. 

The  daylight  was  dying,  the  twilight  was  dreary, 
And  eerio  the  face  of  the  fast-falling  night. 

But  closing  the  shutters,  we  made  ourselves  cheery 
With  gas-light  and  firelight,  and  young  faces 
bright. 

When,   hark!    came   a   chonis   of  wailing  and 
anguish ! 
We  ran  to  the  door  and  Lok'd  cut  through  the 
dark; 
Till-  gazing,  at  length  we  began  to  distinguish 
The  slow-moving  masts  of  an  ocean-bound  bark. 

Alas!  'twas  the  emigrants  lea^•ing  the  river, 
Their  homes  in  the  city,  their  haunts  in  the  dell ; 

From  kindred  and  friends  they  had  parted  for 
ever, 
But  their  voices  still  blended  in  cries  of  farewell. 

We  saw  not  the  eyes  that  their  last  looks  were 
taking; 
We  heard  but  the  shouts  that  were  meant  to 
be  cheers. 
But  which  told  of  the  aching  of  heai-ts  that  were 
breaking, 
A  past  of  delight  and  a  futurs  of  tears. 

And  long  as  we  hsten'd,  in  lulls  of  the  night 
breeze. 
On  our  ears  the  sad  shouting  in  faint  music  fell. 
Till  methought  it  seem'd  lost  in  the  roll  of  the 
white  seas, 
x\nd  the  rocks  and   the   winds   only  echoed 
farewell. 

IMore  bright  was  our  home-hearth,  more  bright 

and  more  cosy, 

As  we  shut  out  the  night  and  its  darkness  once 

more; 

But  pale  were  the  cheeks,  that  so  radiant  and  rosy. 

Were  flush'd  with  delight  a  few  moments  before. 

So  I  told  how  the  morning,  all  lovely  and  tender. 
Sweet  dew  on  the  hills,  and  soft  light  on  the 
sea, 
Would  follow  the  exiles  and  float  with  its  splen- 
dour, 
To  gild  the  far  land  where  their  homes  were 
to  be. 

In  the  eyes  of  my  childi-en  were  gladness  and 
gleaming, 
Their  little  prayer  utter'd,  how  calm  was  their 
sleep ! 


380 


JAMES   HEDDEKWICK. 


But   I   in  my   di-eaming  could   hear   the  wind 
screaming, 
And  fancy  I  heard  hoarse  replies  from  the  deep. 

And  often,  when  slumber  had  cool'd  my  brow's 
fever, 
A  cb-eam-utter'd  shriek  of  despair  brolce  the 
spell; 
'Twas  the  voice  of  the  emigrants  leaving  the  river, 
And  startling   the  night  with  their  cries  of 
farewell. 


SORROW  AND  SONG. 

"Weep  not  over  poet's  wrong, 

Mourn  not  his  mischances; 
Sorrow  is  the  source  of  song, 

And  of  gentle  fancies. 

Rills  o'er  rocky  beds  are  borne, 

Ere  they  gush  in  whiteness; 
Pebbles  are  wave-chafed  and  worn 

Ere  they  show  their  brightness. 

Sweetest  gleam  the  morning  flowers 

AVhen  in  tears  they  waken; 
Earth  enjoys  refreshing  showers 

AVhen  the  boughs  are  shaken. 

Ceylon''s  glistening  pearls  are  sought 

In  its  deepest  waters; 
From  the  darkest  mines  are  brought 

Gems  for  beauty's  daughters. 

Through  the  rent  and  shiver'd  rock 

Limpid  water  bi-eaketh; 
'Tis  but  when  the  chords  are  struck 

That  their  music  waketh. 

Flowers,  by  heedless  footstep  press'd. 

All  their  sweets  surrender; 
Gold  must  brook  the  fiery  test 

Ere  it  show  its  splendour. 

When  the  twilight,  cold  and  damp, 
Gloom  and  silence  bringeth. 

Then  the  glow-worm  lights  its  lamp, 
And  liie  l)ull)ul  singeth. 

Stars  come  forth  when  night  her  shroud 
Draws  as  daylight  fainteth; 

Only  on  the  tearful  cloud 
God  his  rainbow  jiaintcth. 

Weep  not,  then,  o'er  pocfs  wrong, 

Jlourn  not  his  mischances; 
Sorrow  is  the  source  of  song. 

And  of  gentle  fancies. 


THE  LAND  FOR  ME. 

I've  been  upon  the  moonlit  deep 

When  the  wind  had  died  away, 
And  like  an  ocean-god  asleep 

The  bark  majestic  lay; 
But  lovelier  is  the  varied  scene, 

The  hill,  the  lake,  the  tree, 
AVhen  bathed  in  light  of  midnight's  queen; 

The  land  I  the  land!  for  mc. 

The  glancing  waves  I've  glided  o'er 

AVhen  gently  blew  the  breeze; 
But  sweeter  was  the  distant  shore. 

The  zephyr  'mong  the  trees. 
The  murmur  of  the  mountain  rill, 

The  blossoms  waving  free. 
The  song  of  birds  on  every  hill, 

The  land!   the  land!  for  me. 

The  billows  1  have  been  among 

When  they  roU'd  in  mountains  dark, 
And  night  her  blackest  curtain  hung 

Around  our  heaving  bark; 
But  give  me,  when  the  storm  is  fierce. 

My  home  and  fireside  glee, 
Where  winds  may  howl,  but  dare  not  pierce, 

The  land!  the  land!  for  me. 

And  when  around  the  lightning  flash'd, 

I've  been  upon  the  deep. 
And  to  the  gulf  beneath  I've  dasli'd 

Adown  the  liquid  steep; 
But  now  that  I  am  safe  on  shore. 

There  let  me  ever  be; 
The  sea  let  others  wander  o'er, 

The  land!  the  land!  forme. 


MIDDLE  AGE. 

Fair  time  of  calm  resolve— of  sober  thought! 
Quiet  half-way  hostelry  on  life's  long  road, 
In  which  to  rest  and  re-adjust  our  load! 
High  table-land  to  which  we  have  been  brought 
By  stumbling  stops  of  ill-directed  toil ! 
Season  when  not  to  achieve  is  to  despair! 
Last  field  for  us  of  a  full  fruitful  soil! 
Only  spring-tide  our  freighted  aims  to  bear 
Onward  to  all  our  yearning  dreams  have  sought! 

How  art  thou  changed!     Onco  to  our  youthful 

eyes 
Thin  silvering  locks  and  thought's  imprinted  lines 
Of  sloping  ago  gave  weird  and  wintry  signs; 
But  now  these  trophies  ours,  we  recognize 
Only  a  voice  faint-rippling  to  its  shore. 
And  a  weak  tottering  step  as  marks  of  eld, 
None  are  so  far  but  some  are  on  before; 


CHAELES   MACKAY. 


381 


Thus  still  at  distance  is  the  goal  beheld, 
And  to  improve  the  way  is  truly  wise. 

Farewell,  ye  blossomed  hedges!  and  the  deep 
Thick  green  of  summer  on  the  matted  bough! 
The  languid  autumn  mellows  round  us  now; 
Yet  fancy  may  its  vernal  beauties  keep, 
Like  holly  leaves  for  a  December  wreath. 
To  take  this  gift  of  life  with  ti-usting  hands, 
And  star  with  heavenly  hopes  the  night  of  death, 
Is  all  that  poor  humanity  demands 
To  lull  its  meaner  fears  in  easy  sleep. 


WAITING   FOR   THE   SHIP. 

Now  he  stroll'd  along  the  pebbles,   now  he 
saunter'd  on  the  pier. 
Now  the  summit  of  the  nearest  hill  he  clomb; 
His  looks  were  full  of  straining,  through  all 
weathers  foul  and  clear, 
For  the  ship  that  he  was  Aveary  wishing  home. 
On  the  white  wings  of  the  dawn,  far  as  human 
eye  could  reach. 
Went  his  vision  like  a  sea-gulTs  o"er  the  deep; 
While  the  fishers'  boats  lay  silent  in  the  bay 
and  on  the  beach. 
And   the  houses  and  the  mountains  were 
asleep. 

'Mid  the  chat  of  boys  and  men,  and  the  laugh 
from  women's  lips. 
When  the  laboursof  the  morning  were  begun, 
On  the  far  liorizon's  dreary  edge  his  soul  was 
with  the  ships. 
As  they  caught  a  gleam  of  welcome  from 
the  sun. 
Through  the  gray  of  eve  lie  peer'd  when  the 

'  stars  were  in  the  sky — 
•    They  were  watchers  Avhich  the  angels  seem'd 

to  .send ; 
And  he  bless'd  the  faithful  lighthouse,  with  its 
large  and  ruddy  eye. 
For  it  cheer"d  him  like  the  bright  eye  of  a  friend. 

The  gentle  waves  came  lisping  things  of  pro- 
mise at  his  feet, 
Then  they  ebb'd  as  if  to  vex  him  with  delay; 


The   .soothing   winds   against   his  face   came 
blowing  strong  and  sweet, 
Then  they  blew  as  blowing  all  his  hope  away. 
One  day  a  wiseling  argued  how  the  ship  might 
be  delay'd — • 
"  'Twas  odd,"  quoth  he,  "  I  thouglit  so  from 
the  first;" 
But  a  man  of  many  voyages  was  standing  ly 
and  said — 
"It  is  best  tobepreparedagainst  the  worst." 

A  keen-eyed  old  coast-guardsman,   with  h!s 
telescope  in  hand. 
And  his  cheeks  in  countless  puckers  'gainst 
the  rain. 
Here  shook  his  large  and  grizzled  head,  that 
all  might  understand 
How  he  knew  that  hoping  longer  was  in  vain. 
Then  silent  thought  the  stranger  of  his  wife 
and  children  five. 
As  he  slowly  turn'd  with  trembling  lip  aside; 
Yet  with  his  heart  to  feed  upon  his  hopes  were 
kept  alive. 
So  for  months  he  watch'd  and  wander'd  by 
the  tide. 

'•Lo!  what  wretched  man  is  that,"  asked  an 
idler  at  the  coast, 
"Who  looks  as  if  he  something  seem'd  to 
lack  ]  " 
Then  answer  made  a  villager — "  His  wife  and 
babes  are  lost, 
Yet  he  thinks  that  ere  to-morrow  they'll  be 
back." 

Oh!  a  fresh   liale   man   he  flourish'd   in   the 
spring-time  of  the  year, 
But  before  the  wintry  rains  began  to  drip — • 
Xo  more  he  climb'd  the  headland,    but  .sat 
sickly  on  the  pier. 
Saying  sadly — "  I  am  waiting  for  the  ship." 
On  a  morn,  of  all  the  blackest,  only  whiten'd 
by  the  spray 
Of  the  billows  wild  for  shelter  of  the  shore. 
He  came  not  in  the  dawning  forth,  he  came 
not  all  the  day; 
And  the  morrow  came — but  never  came  he 
more. 


CHARLES    MACKAY. 


Charle.s  Mackay,  LL.D.,  one  of  the  most 
popular  poets  of  the  day,  is  of  honourable 
extraction,   his  paternal   ancestors  being  the 


Mackaj-s  of  Strathnaver  in  Sutherlandshire, 
while,  on  his  mother's  side,  lie  is  descended 
from  the  Eoses  of  Kilravock,  near  Inverness. 


382 


CHAELES   MACKAY. 


He  was  born  at  Perth  in  1S14,  but  his  early 
years  were  spent  in  London,  his  parents  having 
removed  there  during  his  infancy,  and  he  re- 
ceived theriidimentsofhiseducationin  London, 
wliicli  was  afterwards  completed  in  the  schools 
of  Belgium  and  Germany.  Young  Mackay 
early  manifested  poetic  genius,  and  in  1836  he 
gave  his  first  volume  of  poems  to  the  public. 
It  attracted  the  attention  of  the  editor  of  the 
Mornlny  Chronicle,  who  at  once  offered  him  a 
place  on  the  paper,  which  was  accepted,  and 
filled  with  such  ability  that  he  was  rapidly 
promoted  to  the  responsible  position  of  sub- 
editor. He  soon  became  well  known  in  London 
literary  society.  In  1839  a  second  volume 
appeared  from  his  pen,  entitled  the  Hope  of 
the  World,  a  poem  in  heroic  verss.  Soon  after- 
wards he  published  Tlie  Thames  and  its  Tribu- 
taries, a  pleasant  gossiping  work;  followed  in 
1841  by  his  History  of  Popular  Delusions, 
a  very  entertaining  and  successful  book. 

In  18i2  Mr.  Mackay  published  his  romance 
of  Lon^beard,  Lord  of  London.  His  ne.\:t 
publication  was  Tlte  Salamandrine,  or  Love 
and  Iinmortaliti],  which  appeared  in  1842,  and 
gave  him  an  honourable  position  in  the  front 
rank  of  contemporary  poets.^  In  1844  he 
became  editor  of  the  Glasgow  A  njus,  a  journal 
devoted  to  the  advocacy  of  advanced  liberal 
opinions.  His  residence  in  Scotland  enabled 
him  to  visit  many  places  famous  in  Scottish 
history,  the  results  of  which  were  his  Legends 
of  the  Isles,  published  in  1845,  his  Voices 
from  the  Crowd  in  1846,  and  his  Voices  from 
the  Mountains  in  1847.  A  few  months  before 
the  publication  of  the  last-named  volume  the 
University  of  Glasgow  conferred  upon  him 
the  degree  of  LL.D.  After  conducting  the 
Argus  with  ability  and  success  for  a  period  of 
three  years,  he  received  the  appointment  of 
editor  of  the  Illustrated  Jjondoa  Neujs,  and 
returned  to  the  metropolis.  The  same  year 
appeared  his  Town  Lyrics,  a  series  of  ballads 
exhibiting  the  lights  and  sliadows  of  the  town. 
In  18.'<0  Avas  published  his  poem  of  "Egcria," 
probably  the  most  artistic  of  his  productions; 
and  in  1856  he  gave  to  the  world  two  more 
volumes  of  poetry  with   the   respective  titles 

I  Hugh  Miller  remarks  of  tliis  work  tliat  "it  was 
written  wliile  the  autlior  was  conducting  the  sub-edi- 
torial department  of  a  daily  London  paper,  nor  did  he 
ever  write  anything  superior  to  it."—  Ed. 


of    Tlie  Lump   of   Gold  and    Under   Green 
Leaves. 

In  1857  Dr.  Mackay  visited  the  United 
States,  delivering  lectures  there  upon  a  theme 
which  few  have  so  well  illustrated  by  their 
own  genius — Songs  National,  Historical,  and 
Popular.  On  his  return  to  England  he  pub- 
lished Lfe  and  Liberty  in  America,  one  of 
his  most  popular  works.  In  1860  he  issued 
another  poetical  volume  entitled  A  Man's 
Heart,  llis  Studies  from  the  Antique,  uni- 
versally recognized  as  his  noblest  poetical 
work,  appeared  in  1863  during  his  absence  in 
America.  Dr.  Mackay  resided  in  New  York 
from  1862  to  1865.  In  1869  his  poem  The  Souls 
of  tlie  Children,  which  originally  appeared 
in  1856,  and  was  distributed  gratuitously  all 
over  the  country  in  aid  of  the  cause  of  popular 
education,  was  reproduced  to  stimulate  the 
efforts  of  Mr.  Gladstone's  administration.  In 
1871  he  published  Under  the  Blue  Sky,  a 
collection  of  his  contributions  to  All  the 
Year  Round  and  other  periodicals.  ' '  The  Lost 
Beauties  of  the  English  Lavf/vage:  an  Appeal 
to  Authors,  Poets,  Clergymen,  and  Public 
Speakers,"  appeared  in  1874.  Dr.  Mackay,  who 
enjoys  a  pension  on  the  civil  list,  has  edited 
various  works,  including  The  Book  of  Eng- 
lish Songs,  The  Songs  of  Scotland,  The  Home 
Affections  Portrayed  by  the  Poets,  and  Allan 
Ramsay  and  the  Scottish  Poets  before  Burns. 

A  critic  awards  high  praise  to  Charles  Mackay 
as  a  poet,  and  remarks:  "  His  verse  is  exceed- 
ingly sweet,  flowing,  and  melodious;  and  his 
skill  in  the  musical  art  has  given  him  a  com- 
mand over  the  resources  of  rhythm  which  few 
English  song-writers  possess.  In  his  happiest 
effasions  he  has  combined  the  force  of  IJuriis 
with  tlie  elegance  and  poli.sh  of  Jloore."  AVc 
may  add  that  in  all  of  Dr.  Slackay's  poetical 
writings  is  discernii)le  the  same  high  estimate 
of  his  calling  and  the  objects  to  wiiich  he  has 
dedicated  his  talent.  The  purification  of  litera- 
ture and  the  advancement  of  mankind  are 
both  marked  objects  of  his  life.  He  has 
successfully  achieved  the  dignified  and  proud 
position  of  the  poet  of  the  people,  and  is  richly 
entitled  to  the  compliment  it  is  proposed  to  pay 
to  him  as  such  by  the  presentation  of  a  sub- 
I  stantial  testimonial,  to  which  his  countrymen 
'  in  all  (juartersof  the  glol)C  where  his  songs  and 
j  poems  are  known  will  be  proud  to  contribute. 


CHAELES  MACKAY. 


383 


THE   CHILD   AND   THE  MOUEXEKS. 

A  little  child,  beneath  a  tree, 
Sat  and  chanted  cheerily 
A  little  song,  a  pleasant  song, 
AVhich  was — she  sang  it  all  day  long — 
"When  the  wind  blows  the  blossoms  fall, 
But  a  good  God  reigns  over  all." 

There  passed  a  lady  by  the  way. 
Moaning  in  the  face  of  day: 
There  were  tears  upon  her  cheek, 
Grief  in  her  heart  too  great  to  speak; 
Her  husband  died  but  yester-morn, 
And  left  her  in  the  world  forlorn. 

She  stopped  and  listened  to  the  child 

That  looked  to  heaven,  and  singing,  smiled, 

And  saw  not,  for  her  own  despair, 

Another  lady,  young  and  fair, 

AVho  also  passing,  stopped  to  hear 

The  infant's  antiiem  ringing  clear. 

For  she  but  few  sad  days  before 

Had  lost  the  little  babe  she  bore; 

And  grief  was  heavy  at  her  soul 

As  that  sweet  memory  o'er  her  stole. 

And  showed  how  bright  had  been  the  past, 

The  present  drear  and  overcast. 

And  as  they  stood  beneatli  the  tree 
Listening,  soothed  and  placidly, 
A  youth  came  b}',  whose  sunken  eyes 
Spake  of  a  load  of  miseries; 
And  he,  arrested  like  the  twain, 
Stopped  to  listen  to  the  strain. 

Death  had  bowed  the  youthful  head 
Of  his  bride  beloved,  his  liride  unwed; 
Her  marriage  robes  were  fitted  on, 
Her  fair  young  face  with  blushes  shone, 
'When  the  destroyer  smote  her  low. 
And  changed  the  lover's  bliss  to  woe. 

And  these  three  listened  to  the  song. 
Silver-toned,  and  sweet,  and  strong, 
AVhich  that  child,  the  livelong  day, 
Chanted  to  itself  in  play: 
"■\Vhen  the  wind  blows  the  blossoms  fall, 
But  a  good  God  reigns  over  all." 

The  widow's  lips  impulsive  moved; 
The  mother's  grief,  though  unreproved, 
Softened,  as  her  trembling  tongue 
Kepeated  what  the  infant  sung; 
And  the  sad  lover,  with  a  start. 
Conned  it  over  to  his  heart. 


And  though  the  child — if  child  it  were, 
And  not  a  seraph  sitting  there — 
AVas  seen  no  more,  the  sorrowing  three 
Went  on  their  way  resignedly, 
'J'he  song  still  ringing  in  tiieir  ears — 
AVas  it  the  music  of  the  spheres? 

AVho  shall  tell?     They  did  not  know. 
But  in  the  midst  of  deepest  woe. 
The  strain  recurred,  when  sorrow  grew. 
To  warn  them,  and  console  them  too: 
"AVhen  the  wind  blows  the  blossoms  fall. 
But  a  good  God  reigns  over  all." 


THE   GOOD  TIME  COMING. 

There's  a  good  time  coming,  boys, 

A  good  time  coming: 
AA'e  may  not  live  to  see  the  day. 
But  earth  shall  glisten  in  the  ray 

Of  the  good  time  coming. 
Cannon  balls  may  aid  the  truth. 

But  thought's  a  weapon  stronger, 
AVe'U  win  our  battle  by  its  aid; — 

AVait  a  little  longer. 

Thei"e's  a  good  time  coming,  boys, 

A  good  time  coming: 
The  pen  shall  supersede  the  sword; 
And  Right,  not  Might,  shall  be  the  lord 

In  the  good  time  coming. 
AA'ortl),  not  Birth,  shall  rule  mankind. 

And  be  acknowledged  stronger; 
The  proper  impulse  has  been  given; — 

AVait  a  little  longer. 

There's  a  good  time  coming,  boys, 

A  good  time  coming: 
AVar  in  all  men's  eyes  shall  be 
A  monster  of  iniquity 

In  the  good  time  coming. 
Nations  shall  not  quarrel  then. 

To  prove  which  is  the  stronger; 
Nor  slaughter  men  for  glory's  sake; — 

AVait  a  little  longer. 

There's  a  good  time  coming,  boys, 

A  good  time  coming: 
Hateful  rivalries  of  creed 
Shall  not  make  their  martyrs  bleed 

In  the  good  time  coming. 
Religion  shall  be  shorn  of  pride, 
And  flourish  all  the  stronger; 
And  charity  shall  trim  her  lamp; — 

AVait  a  little  longer. 


384 


CHARLES   MACKAY. 


There's  a  good  time  coining,  boys, 

A  good  time  coming: 
And  a  poor  man"s  family 
Shall  not  be  his  misery 

In  the  good  time  coming. 
Every  child  shall  be  a  lielp 

To  make  his  right  arm  stronger; 
The  happier  he  the  more  he  has; — 

Wait  a  little  longer. 

There's  a  good  time  coming,  boys, 

A  good  time  coming: 
Little  children  shall  not  toil 
Under,  or  above,  the  soil 

In  the  good  time  coming; 
But  shall  play  in  healthful  fields 

Till  limbs  and  mind  grow  stronger; 
And  every  one  shall  read  and  write; — 

Wait  a  little  longer. 

There's  a  good  time  coming,  boys, 

A  good  time  coming: 

The  people  shall  be  temperate. 

And  sliall  love  instead  of  hate, 

In  the  good  time  coming. 

They  shall  use,  and  not  abuse, 

And  make  all  virtue  stronger. 
The  reformation  has  begun; — 
Wait  a  little  longer. 

There's  a  good  time  coming,  boys, 

A  good  time  coming; 
Let  us  aid  it  all  we  can. 
Every  woman,  every  man. 

The  good  time  coming. 
Smallest  helps,  if  rightly  given, 

Make  the  impulse  stronger; 
'Twill  be  strong  enough  one  day; — 

Wait  a  little  longer. 


I  remember  the  time,  ye  suns  and  stars, 
When  ye  raised  my  soul  from  its  mortal  bars 
And  bore  it  through  heaven  on  your  golden  cars. 

And  has  it  then  vanisb'd,  that  happy  time? 
Are  the  winds,  and  the  seas,  and  the  stars  sublime 
Deaf  to  thy  soul  in  its  manly  prime? 

Ah,  no!  ah,  no!  amid  sorrow  and  pain, 

When  the  world  and  its  facts  oppress  my  brain, 

In  the  world  of  spirit  I  rove— I  reign. 

I  feel  a  deep  and  a  pure  delight 

In  the  luxuries  of  sound  and  sight — 

In  the  opening  day,  hi  the  closing  night. 

The  voices  of  youth  go  with  me  still, 

Through  the  field  and  the  wood,  o'er  the  plain 

and  the  hill. 
In  the  roar  of  the  sea,  in  the  laugh  of  the  rill. 

Every  flower  is  a  lover  of  mine, 

Every  star  is  a  friend  divine; 

For  me  they  blossom,  for  me  they  shine. 

To  give  me  joy  the  oceans  roll. 

They  breathe  their  secrets  to  my  soul, 

With  me  they  sing,  with  me  condole. 

Man  cannot  harm  me  if  he  would, 

I  have  such  friends  for  my  every  mood 

In  the  overflowing  solitude. 

Fate  cannot  touch  me:  nothing  can  stu- 
To  put  disunion  or  hate  of  her 
'Twixt  nature  and  her  worshipper. 

Sing  to  me,  flowers!  preach  to  me,  skies! 
Ye  landscapes,  glitter  in  mine  eyes ! 
Whisper,  ye  deeps,  your  mysteries! 

Sigh  to  me,  wind!  ye  forests,  nod! 

Speak  to  me  ever,  thou  flowery  sod! 

Ye  are  mine— all  mine— in  the  peace  of  God. 


EEMEMBrv.\.NCES  OF  KATURE. 

I  remember  the  time,  thou  roaring  sea, 
When  thy  voice  was  the  voice  of  infinity — 
A  joy,  and  a  dread,  and  a  mystery. 

I  remember  the  time,  ye  young  May  flowers. 
When  your  odours  and  hues  in  the  fields  and 

bowers 
Fell  on  my  soul  as  on  grass  the  showers. 

I  remember  the  time,  thou  blustering  wind. 
When  thy  voice  in  the  woods,  to  my  youtliful 

mind, 
Seem'd  the  sigh  of  the  earth  for  human  kind. 


0   YE   TEARS! 

0  ye  tears!  0  yc  tears!  that  have  long  refused 

to  flow, 
Ye  are  welcome  to  my  heart— thawing,  thaw- 
ing like  the  snow, 

1  feci  the  hard  clod  soften,  and  the  early  snow- 

drops spring. 
And  the  healing  fountains  gush,  and  the  wil- 
dernesses sing. 

0  ye  tears!  0  yc  tears!  I  am  thankful  that  yc 

run; 
Though  ye  trickle  in  the  darkness,  yc  shall 

glitter  in  the  sun; 


CHARLES   MACKAY, 


385 


The  rainbow  cannot  shine  if  the  rain  refuse  to 

fall, 
And  the  eyes  that  cannot  weep  are  the  saddest 

eyes  of  all. 

0  ye  tears!  0  ye  tears!  till  I  felt  you  on  my 

cheek, 

1  was  selfish  in  my  sorrow,  I  was  stubborn,  1 

was  weak. 
Ye  have  given  me  strength  to  conquer,  and  I 

stand  erect  and  free, 
And  know  that  I  am  human  by  the  light  of 

sympathy. 

0  ye  tears!  0  ye  tears!  ye  relieve  me  of  my 

pain; 
The  barren  rock  of  pride  has  been  stricken  once 

again; 
Like  the  rock  that  Moses  smote,  amid  Horeb's 

burning  sand, 
It  yields  the  flowing  water  to  make  gladness 

in  the  land. 

There  is  a  light  upon  my  patli,  there  is  sun- 
shine in  my  heart, 

And  the  leaf  and  fruit  of  life  shall  not  utterly 
depart. 

Ye  restore  to  me  the  freshness  and  the  bloom 
of  long  ago — 

0  ye  tears!  happy  tears!  I  am  thankful  that 
ve  flow. 


UXDEK  THE  HOLLY  BOUGH. 

Y'e  wlio  have  scorned  each  other, 
Or  injured  friend  or  brother, 
In  this  fast-fading  year; 
Ye  who,  by  word  or  deed. 
Have  made  a  kind  heart  bleed, 
Come  gather  here! 
Let  sinned  against,  and  sinning, 
Forget  their  strife's  beginning, 
And  join  in  friendship  now — 
Be  links  no  longer  broken; — 
Be  sweet  forgiveness  spoken 
Under  the  holly  bough. 

Ye  who  have  loved  each  other, 
Sister,  and  friend,  and  brother. 
In  this  fast-fading  year; 
Mother,  and  sire,  and  child, 
Young  man,  and  maiden  mild, 
Come  gather  here; 
And  let  your  hearts  grow  fonder. 
As  memory  shall  ponder 
Each  past  unbroken  vow. 
Old  loves  and  younger  wooing 

Vol.  II.— B  b 


Are  sweet  in  the  renewing, 
Under  the  holly  bough. 

Ye  who  have  nourished  sadness. 
Estranged  from  hope  and  gladness, 
In  this  fast-fading  year; 
Ye  with  o'erburden'd  mind. 
Made  aliens  from  your  kind. 
Come  gather  here. 
Let  not  the  useless  sorrow 
Pursue  you  night  and  morrow. 
If  e'er  you  hoped,  hope  now — 
Take  heart;^ — uncloud  your  faces. 
And  join  in  our  embraces 
Under  the  holly  bough. 


"\YHAT   MIGHT   BE  DOXE. 

"What  might  be  done  if  men  were  wise— 
AVhat  glorious  deeds,  my  suffering  brother. 

Would  they  unite 

In  love  and  right. 
And  cease  their  soora  of  one  another? 

Oppression's  heart  might  be  imbued 

AVith  kindling  drops  of  loving-kindness; 

And  knowledge  pour. 

From  shore  to  shore. 
Light  on  the  eyes  of  mental  blindness. 

All  slavery,  warfare,  lies,  and  wrongs. 
All  vice  and  crime,  might  die  together; 

And  wine  and  corn. 

To  each  man  born, 
Be  free  as  warmth  in  summer  weather. 

The  meanest  wretch  that  ever  trod. 
The  deepest  sunk  in  guilt  and  sorrow. 
Might  stand  erect 
In  self-respect. 
And  sliare  the  teeming  world  to-morrow. 

What  might  be  done?     This  might  be  done, 
And  more  than  this,  my  suffering  brother — 

More  than  the  tongue 

E'er  said  or  sung, 
If  men  were  wise  and  loved  each  other. 


A   CANDID   WOOING. 

I  cannot  give  thee  all  my  heart. 

Lady,  lady, 
5Iy  faith  and  countrj'  claim  a  part. 

My  sweet  lady; 


386 


CHAELES  MACKAY. 


But  yet  I'll  pledge  thee  word  of  mine 
That  all  the  rest  is  truly  thine;— 
The  raving  passion  of  a  boy, 
Warm  though  it  be,  will  quickly  cloy— 
Confide  thou  rather  in  the  man 
^Vho  vows  to  love  thee  all  he  can, 
My  sweet  lady. 

Affection,  founded  on  respect, 

Lady, lady, 
Can  never  dwindle  to  neglect. 

My  sweet  lady; 
And,  Avhile  thy  gentle  virtues  live. 
Such  is  the  love  that  I  will  give. 
The  torrent  leaves  its  channel  dry, 
The  brook  runs  on  incessantly; 
The  storm  of  passion  lasts  a  day; 
But  deep,  true  love  endures  alway, 

My  sweet  lady. 

Accept  then  a  divided  heart, 

Lady,  lady, 
Faith,  friendship,  honour,  each  have  part, 

My  sweet  lady. 
While  at  one  altar  we  adore, 
Faith  shall  but  make  us  love  the  more; 
And  friendship,  true  to  all  beside, 
Will  ne'er  be  fickle  to  a  bride; 
And  honour,  based  on  manly  truth. 
Shall  live  in  age  as  well  as  youth. 

My  sweet  lady. 


LITTLE  AND   GREAT. 

A  traveller,  through  a  dusty  road, 

Strewed  acorns  on  the  lea; 
And  one  took  root  and  sprouted  up. 

And  grew  into  a  tree. 
Love  sought  its  shade  at  evening  time. 

To  breathe  its  early  vows ; 
And  age  was  pleased,  in  heats  of  noon. 

To  bask  beneath  its  boughs. 
The  dormouse  loved  its  dangling  twigs, 

The  birds  sweet  music  bore; 
It  stood  a  glory  in  its  place, 

A  blessing  evermore. 

A  little  spring  had  lost  its  way 

Amid  the  grass  and  fern; 
A  passing  stranger  scoop'd  a  well. 

Where  weary  men  miglit  turn. 
He  wall'd  it  in,  and  hung  with  care 

A  ladle  at  the  brink; 
lie  thought  not  of  the  deed  he  did, 

But  judged  that  toil  might  drink. 
lie  pass'd  iigain — and  lol  the  well, 

By  summers  never  dried, 


Had  cooled  ten  thousand  parching  tongues, 
And  saved  a  life  beside. 

A  dreamer  dropp'd  a  random  thought; 

'Twas  old — and  yet  'twas  new; 
A  simple  fancy  of  the  brain. 

But  strong  in  being  true. 
It  shone  upon  a  genial  mind. 

And  lo!  its  light  became 
A  lamp  of  life,  a  beacon  ray, 

A  monitory  flame. 
The  thought  was  small— its  issue  great; 

A  watch-fire  on  the  hill. 
It  sheds  its  radiance  far  adown, 

And  cheers  the  valley  still. 

A  nameless  man,  amid  a  crowd 

That  throng'd  the  daily  mart. 
Let  fall  a  word  of  hope  and  love. 

Unstudied,  from  the  heart. 
A  whisper  on  the  tumult  thrown, 

A  transitory  breath, 
It  raised  a  brother  from  the  dust. 

It  saved  a  soul  from  death. 
0  germ!  0  fount!  0  word  of  love! 

0  thought  at  random  cast! 
Ye  were  but  little  at  the  first. 

But  mighty  at  the  last! 


A  LOVERS  DREAMS. 

I  dream'd  thou  wert  a  fairy  harp 

Untouch'd  by  mortal  hand. 
And  I  the  voiceless,  sweet  west  wind, 

A  roamer  through  the  land. 
I  touch'd,  I  kiss'd  thy  trembling  strings. 

And  lo!  my  common  air 
Throbbd  with  emotion  caught  from  thee, 

And  turn'd  to  music  rare. 

I  dream'd  thou  wert  a  rose  in  bloom. 

And  I  the  gale  of  spring. 
That  sought  the  odours  of  thy  breath. 

And  bore  them  on  my  wing. 
No  poorer  thou,  but  riclier  I — 

So  rich  that  far  at  sea 
The  grateful  mariners  were  glad. 

And  bless'd  both  thee  and  me. 

I  dream'd  thou  wert  the  evening  star, 

And  I  a  lake  at  rest. 
That  saw  thine  image  all  the  night 

Reflected  on  my  breast. 
Too  far! — too  far!— come  dwell  on  earth! 

Be  harp  and  rose  of  Jlay; — 
I  need  thy  music  in  my  heart. 

Thy  fragrance  on  my  way. 


CHAELES   MACKAY. 


387 


TO  THE  WEST. 

To  the  West!  to  the  West!  to  the  land  of  the  free, 
Where  miglity  Missouri  rolls  down  to  the  sea, 
Where  a  man  is  a  man,  if  he's  willing  to  toil, 
And  the  humblest  may  gather  the  fruits  of  the 

soil! 
Where  children  are  blessings,  and  he  who  hath 

most 
Hath  aid  for  his  fortune  and  riches  to  boast! 
Where  the  young  may  exult  and  the  aged  may 

rest. 
Away,  far  away,  to  the  land  of  the.  West! 

To  the  West!  to  the  West!  where  the  rivers  that 

flow 
Run  thousands  of  miles,  spreading  out  as  they  go! 
Where  the  green  waving  forests  that  echo  our  call 
Are  wide  as  old  England,  and  free  to  us  all! 
Where  the  prairies,  like  seas  where  the  billows 

have  rolled,  " 

Are  broad  as  the  kingdoms  and  empires  of  old! 
And  the  lakes  are  like  oceans  in  storm  or  in  rest, 
Away,  far  away,  to  the  land  of  the  West ! 

To  the  West!  to  the  West!  there  is  wealth  to  be 

won, 
The  forest  to  clear  is  the  work  to  be  done; 
We'll  tiy  it,  we'll  do  it,  and  never  despair. 
While  there's  light  in  the  sunshine  and  breath  in 

the  air. 
The  bold  independence  that  labour  shall  buy 
Shall  strengthen  our  hands,  and  forbid  us  to  sigh. 
Away,  far  away!  let  us  hope  for  the  best. 
And  build  up  a  home  in  the  land  of  the  West ! 


APOLOGUE   FROM   "EGERIA." 

In  ancient  time,  two  acorns,  in  their  cups, 
Shaken  by  winds  and  ripeness  from  the  tree, 
Dropped  side  by  side  into  the  fei'ns  and  grass; 
"  Where    have  I  fallen — to   what   base  region 

come?" 
Exclaimed  the  one.    "  The  joyous  breeze  no  more 
Rocks  me  to  slumber  on  the  sheltering  bough; 
The  sunlight  streams  no  longer  on  my  face; 
I  look  no  more  from  attitudes  serene 
Upon  the  world  reposing  far  below; 
Its  plains,  its  hills,  its  rivers,  and  its  woods. 
To  me  the  nightingale  sings  hymns  no  more; 
But  I  am  made  companion  of  the  worm. 
And  rot  on  the  chill  earth.     Around  me  grow 
Nothing  but  useless  weeds,  and  grass,  and  fern, 
Unfit  to  hold  companionship  with  me. 
Ah,  me !  most  wretched  I  rain,  and  frost,  and  dew, 
And  all  the  pangs  and  penalties  of  earth, 
Corrupt  me  where  I  lie — degenerate." 


And  thus  the  acorn  made  its  daily  moan. 
The  other  raised  no  murmur  of  complaint, 
And  looked  with  no  contempt  upon  the  grass. 
Nor  called  the  branching  fern  a  worthless  weed. 
Nor  scorned  the  woodland  flowers  that  round  it 

blew. 
All  silently  and  piously  it  lay 
Upon  the  kindlj'  bosom  of  the  earth. 
It  blessed  the  warmth  with  which  the  noonday 

sun 
Made  fruitful  all  the  ground ;  it  loved  the  dews. 
The  moonlight  and  the  snow,  the  frost  and  rain. 
And  all  the  change  of  seasons  as  they  passed. 
It  sank  into  the  bosom  of  the  soil; 
The  bursting  life,  inclosed  within  its  husk. 
Broke  through  its  fetters;  it  extended  roots, 
And  twined  them  freely  in  the  grateful  ground; 
It  sprouted  up,  and  looked  upon  the  light; 
The  sunshine  fed  it;  the  embracing  air 
Endowed  it  with  vitality  and  strength; 
The  rains  of  heaven  supplied  it  nourishment, 
And  so  from  month  to  month,  and  year  to  year, 
It  grew  in  beauty  and  in  usefulness. 
Until  its  large  circumference  inclosed 
Shelter  for  flocks  and  herds;  until  its  boughs 
Afforded  homes  for  happy  multitudes. 
The  dormouse,  and  the  chaffinch,  and  the  jay. 
And  countless  myriads  of  minuter  life; 
Until  its  bole,  too  vast  for  the  embrace 
Of  human  arms,  stood  in  the  forest  depths. 
The  model  and  the  glory  of  the  wood: 
Its  sister  acorn  perished  in  its  pride. 


LAMENT   OF   CONA  FOR  THE  UN- 
PEOPLING OF   SCOTLAND.! 

Low  o'er  Ben  Nevis  the  mists  of  the  sunrise  are 
trailing, 
Dimly  he  stands,  by  the  tcmjDcsts  of  centuries 
worn; 
Lonely  Lochaber  and  gray  Ballachulish  are  veiling 
Their  cold  jagged  peaks  in  the  thick  drooping 
vapours  of  morn; 

Red  gleams  the  sun  o'er  the  ocean, 
Lochlin  with  angry  commotion 
Batters  the  shore,  making  moan  in  its  innermost 
caves; 

While  from  each  mountain  height. 
Fed  by  the  rains  of  night. 
Torrents  come  bounding  to  mingle  then-  voice 
with  the  waves. 

On  through  Glen  Cona,  the  valley  of  murder  and 
rapine. 
Dark  with  the  crimes  and  the  sorrows  of  days 
that  are  past; 

1  Cona  is  the  name  given  by  Ossian  to  the  river  Coe, 
and  cue  that  ought  to  supersede  the  modern  word. 


388 


CHARLES   MACKAY. 


On  by  the  track  where  the  three  giant  sphinxes 
of  Appin 
Loom  through  the  moorland,  unsliapely,  ma- 
jestic, and  vast; 

On  by  the  turbulent  river. 
Darting  the  spray  from  her  quiver, 
Bounding  and  rolling  in  glory  and  beauty  along; 
On  by  the  rocky  path, 
Far-  through  the  gloomy  strath, 
Lonely  I  wander  by  Cona,  the  river  of  song. 

Cona!  sad  Cona!  I  hear  the  loud  psalm  of  thy 
sorrow; 
^Yeird  are  thy  melodies,  filling  with  music  the 
glen; 
Dark  is  the  day  of  the  people,  and  shall  no  to- 
morrow 
Gleaming  \vith  brightness  bring  joy  to  these 
tiTie-hearted  men  ? 

Not  for  the  past  and  its  sadness. 
Not  for  its  guilt  and  its  madness, 
Mom-n  we,  oh  Cona!  To-day  has  a  grief  of  its  own. 
Forth  go  the  young  and  old. 
Forth  go  the  free  and  bold, 
Alb jm  is  desolate!    Kachel  of  nations!     Alone! 

Roll  on,  ye  dark  mists,  and  take  shape  as  ye  mar- 
shal before  me. 
One  is  among  you — I  see  her,  dejected  and  pale ! 
ilournful  she  glides;  it  is  Cona,  who  hov'i-ing 
over  me, 
Chants  in  the  roar  of  the  stream  her  lament 
for  the  Gael. 

Words  from  her  echoes  are  fashioned 
Surging  like  pibrochs  impassioned; 
ilouming  for  Scotland,  and  sobbing  her  useless 
appeals; 

Sprite  of  the  moimtain  stream, 
Telling  a  truth — or  dream  I — 
Ptoason  is  in   it; — come,   hear  what   the   spirit 
reveals! 

"Weep,  Albyn,  weep!"  she  exclaims,  "for  this 
dark  desolation, 
Green   are   thy  mountains  and   blue  are  thy 
streams  as  of  yore; 
Broad  are  thy  valleys  to  feed  and  to  nurture  a 
nation, 
Mother  of  nations,  but  nation  thyself  never 
more! 

Men  of  strong  heart  and  endeavour 
Sigh  as  they  leave  thee  for  ever; 
Those  who  remain  are  down  stricken,  and  weary, 
and  few; 

Low  in  the  dust  they  lie, 
Careless  to  live  or  die ; 
Misery  conquers  them  foemcn  could  never  subchic. 

"  Once  thou  wort  home  of  a  people  of  heroes  and 
sages; 
Strong  in  the  battle  and  wise  in  the  counsel 
wcro  they. 


Firm  in  all  duty,  as  rocks  in  the  tempests  of  ages. 
Loving  and  loyal,  and  honest  and  open  as  day. 
Pure  were  their  actions  in  story, 
Clear  was  the  light  of  their  glory, 
Proud  were  the  chiefs  of  the  clansmen  who  cama 
to  their  call. 

Proud  of  their  race  and  laws, 
Proud  of  their  country's  cause, 
Proud  of  their  faith,  of   their  hberty  prouder 
than  all. 

' '  Each  Highland  hut  was  the  home  of  domestic 
affection ; 
Honour  and  Industry  sat  at  the  hearth  of  the 
poor; 
Piety  prompted  the  day's  and  the  night's  genu- 
flexion; 
Those  who  felt  sorrow  could  still  be  erect  and 
endure. 

Born  in  no  bright  summer  bowers. 
Sweet  were  the  fair  human  flowers — 
ILaids  of  the  Highlands,  array'd  in  their  glory  of 
smiles; 

Blessings  of  good  men's  lives. 
Thrifty  and  sober  wives. 
Mothers  of  heroes,  the  charm  and  the  pride  of 
the  Isles. 

"Where  are  they  now?    Tell  us  where  are  thy 
sons  and  daughters? 
Albyn!  sad  mother  I  no  more  in  thy  bosom  they 
dwell! 
Far,  far  away,  they  have  found  a  new  home  o'er 
the  waters. 
Yearning  for  thee  with  a  love  that  no  language 
can  tell. 

Cold  are  the  hearths  of  their  childhood, 
Roofless  their  huts  in  the  wild  wood. 
Bends  the  red  heather  no  more  to  the  feet  of  the 
clan ; 

Where  once  the  clachan  stood, 
Come  the  shy  grouse  and  brood. 
Fearing  no  danger  so  far  from  the  presence  of 
man. 

"  Where  the  fair-headed,  blue-eyed  rosy  babes  of 
the  Norland 
Bathed  in  the  burn,  making  merry  the  long 
summer  noon. 
Comes  the  red-deer  undismay'd  from  his  haunts 
in  the  moorland. 
Slaking  his  thirst,  where  the  pool  shows  its 
breast  to  the  moon. 

Where  in  the  days  long  departed, 
Maidens  sat  singing,  liglit-hearted. 
Sounds  but  the  roar  of  the  flood,  or  the  whisper 
of  rills; 

Voices  of  human  kind, 
Freight  not  the  vacant  wind. 
Music  ami  laugliter  are  mute  on  the  tenantless 
hills. 


MARION   PAUL  AIRD. 


389 


"  Nimrods  and  hunters  are  lords  of  the  mount 
and  the  forest, 
Men  hut  encumber  the  soil  where  their  fore- 
fathers trod; 
Tho'  for  their  country  they  fought  when  its  need 
was  the  sorest, 
Forth  they  must  wander,  their  hope  not  in  man 
but  in  God. 

Roaming  alone  o'er  the  heather, 
Naught  but  the  bleat  of  the  wether, 
The  bark  of  the  collie,  or  crack  of  the  grouse- 
slayer's  gun. 

Breaks  on  the  lonely  ear, 
Land  of  the  sheep  and  deer! 
Albyn  of  heroes!  the  day  of  thy  glory  is  done!" 


Cona!  sad  Cona!  I  hear  the  loud  psalm  of  thy 
'sorrow; 
Weird  are  thymelodies  fillingwith  music  the  glen ; 
Dark  is  tho  day  of  the  people,  and  shall  no  to- 
morrow 
Gleaming  with  brightness  bring  joy  to  these 
desolate  men? 

Yes;  but  not  here  shall  they  find  it; 
Darkness  has  darkness  behind  it; 
Far  o'er  the  rolUng  Atlantic  the  day-star  shall 
shine; 

Young  o'er  the  western  main 
Albjni  shall  bloom  again. 
Rearing  new  blossoms,  old  laud!  as  majestic  as 
thine. 


MAEION    PAUL    AIED. 


Miss  Maeion  Paul  Aird,  the  authoress  of 
many  sweet  songs  and  sacred  verses,  is  a  native 
of  Glasgow,  where  she  was  born  in  1815.  Her 
mother,  a  niece  of  the  poet  Hamilton  Paul, 
was. descended  from  an  ancient  family  in  the 
district  of  Cunningham,  Ayrshire^  Miss  .\ird 
was  educated  at  Glasgow,  and  in  early  life 
resided  in  the  vicinity  of  that  city;  but  for  a 
number  of  years  past  she  has  lived  at  Kilmar- 
nock. In  1846  appeared  her  first  work.  The 
Home  of  the  Heart,  and  other  Poems;  followed 
in  1853  by  a  volume  of  prose  and  verse,  entitled 
Heart  Histories.  She  has  also  issued  a  large 
volume  of  poetry  entitled  Siui  and  Shade,  and 
she  received  a  grant  from  tlie  royal  bounty 


fund  for  her  ''Immortelle"  on  the  late  Prince 
Consort.  At  present  (May,  1876)  she  is  en- 
gaged in  preparing  for  the  press  a  new  volume 
of  Sacred  Songs  and  Leaflets,  and  a  series  of 
articles  entitled  7Vie  Poets  Garland. 

Miss  Aird's  beautiful  hymn  beginning  "  Had 
I  the  wings  of  a  dove,  I  would  fly,"  is  sung 
in  almost  every  Sunday-school  in  Scotland. 
It  has  been  said,  "Burns  would  have  owned 
her  as  a  sister — as  animated  by  the  spirit, 
clothed  in  the  true  mantle,  and  speaking  the 
genuine  language  of  poesj'.  She  has  a  thou- 
sand-fold more  of  the  poetical  temperament 
than  many  he  lauded  as  '  brithers' — far  above 
the  common  grade  of  newspaper  poetry." 


HOPE. 


Hope  on,  though  happiness  the  heart  may  leave. 
And  beauty  all  around  thee  fade  and  die — 

Let  Hope  her  roses  o'er  thy  future  weave. 

And  paint  her  rainlww  o'er  the  darkest  sky; — 

Hope,  like  a  prisoned  bird  of  promise,  sings 
Amid  the  storm,  and  beats  her  gilded  bar — 

*  The  venerable  poet  AiiisHe,  writing  to  the  Editor 
(Fob.  23,  1875),  says—"  Miss  Ainl  is,  I  can  see  of  verity, 
the  child  of  my  '  Margaret,'  and  her  uncle  Hamilton 
Paul  used  to  make  our  house  his  liome  when  he  came  to 
Bargeny;  and  though  I  was  a  wee  boy  tlieUj  I  can  re- 
collect liow  he  would  set  the  table  in  a  roar  bj-  his  wit 
and  humour." — Ed. 


Bright  o'er  the  billow  spreads  her  silver  wings, 
And  points  to  lands  of  "living  green"  afar; 
The  dawn  of  glory  in  the  heart  that's  riven, 
Where  faith  gets  gUmpses  of  an  opening  heaven. 

A  purple  glory,  bright  as  Sharon's  rose, 

Glowed  o'er  the  vine-clad  hills  of  Galilee, 
But  clouds  soon  gathered  o'er  that  eve's  repose, 

Fretting  with  silver  waves  the  deep  blue  sea: 
A  little  bark  was  toiling  o'er  tho  wave. 

All  tempest-torn,  when,  lo!  a  radiant  form 
Rose  like  the  star  of  Hope  above  the  grave. 

And  smoothed  the  raffled  spirit  of  the  storm ; 


390 


MARION   PAUL  AIRD. 


Peace  o'er  the  night  Hke  dewy  morning  shone — 
To  the  green  shore  the  barque  came  floating  on. 

Hope  on — though  far,  Hke  Hagar  in  the  wild, 

From    love    and    home  —  athirst  —  the    water 
spent — 
Alone — an  empty  cup — a  dying  child — 

Cast  off —her  broken  heart  with  anguish  rent; 
Far  o'er  the  desert  strains  her  weary  eye — 

No  friend — no  help  of  man  can  comfort  bring; 
"My  child!  my  child!  let  me  not  see  him  die," 

The  lone  one  cried,  when,  lo!  a  crystal  spring. 
Though  love,  and  hope,  and  all  but  life  be  gone, 
Think  of  the  desert-well — and  still  hope  on. 

In  yon  green  vale  bereaved  ones  are  weeping — 

Two  loving  sisters  mourn  a  brother  dead — 
Their  cherished  one  beneath  the  olive  sleeping. 

With  him  all  beauty  dies,  all  joy  is  fled; 
Dark  is  the  cloud  that  gathers  o'er  their  home, 

The  sun  of  Hojie  upon  the  heart  is  set, — 
Had  He  been  here,  they  might  not  weej)  alone — 

Can  Jesus  leave  them  ? — can  He  e'er  forget  ? 
They  see  not  yd  the  glory  in  the  cloud! 
He  comes!  the  Comforter!  and  rends  the  slu'oud! 

What  though  the  tree,  cut  down,  moss-slnrouded 
lie. 

And  long  beneath  the  tangled  grass  it  sleep  ? 
Like  fountain  waters,  though  the  stream  be  dry. 

The  trampled  root  its  golden  sap  may  keep; 
While  round  its  withered  heart  a  silver  vein 

Of  fresh'ning  waters  like  a  sunbeam  stray, 
The  tender  branch  may  bud  and  bloom  again. 

And  flowery  verdure  spring  from  dark  decay; 
Hope! — though  the  greenness  of  the  bough  be 

gone. 
The  life  is  in  its  heart — then  still  hope  on. 


THE  FA'   0'   THE   LEAF. 

'Tis  the  fa'  o'  the  leaf,  and  the  cauld  winds  are 
blawin', 

The  wee  birds,  a'  sangless,  are  dovvie  and  wae; 
The  green  leaf  is  sear,  an'  the  brown  leaf  is  fa'iu'. 

Wan  Nature  lamentin'  o'er  simmer's  decay. 

Noo  drumlie  an'  dark  row  the  siller-like  waters. 
No  a  gowden-e'ed  gowan  on  a'  the  green  lea; 
Her  snell  breath,  wi'  anger,  in  darkness  noo  scat- 
ters 
The  wee  flowers,  that  danced  to  the  sang  o'  the 
bee. 

The  green  leaves  o'  simmer  sing  hopef  u'  an '  cheerie , 

When  bonnie  they  smile  in  the  sun's  gowden 

ray; 

Cut  dowie  when  sear  loaves  in  autumn  winds  eerie 

Sigh,  "Life,  love,  and  beauty,  as  flowers  yo 

decay." 


How  waefu'  the  heart  where  young  hopes  that 
gather. 
Like  spring-flowers  in  simmer,   "are  a'  wcde 
awa';" 
An'  the  rose-bloom  o'  beauty,  e'er  autumn  winds 
wither. 
Like  green  leaves  unfaded,  lie  cauld  in  the  snaw. 

But  waefu'  to  see,  as  a  naked  tree  lanely, 

Man  .shake  like  a  wan  leaf  in  poortith's  cauld 
blast, 

The  last  o'  his  kin,  sighin',  "Autumn  is  gane  by," 
An'  the  wrinkles  o'  eild  tell ' '  his  sinmier  is  past. " 

The  fire  that's  blawn  out,  ancemair  may  be  lighted, 
An'  a  wee  spark  o'  hope  in  the  cauld  heart  may 
burn; 
An'  the  "morning-star"  break  on  the  traveller 
benighted, 
An'  day,  wi'  its  fresh  gushing  glories,  return. 

But  dool,  dool  the  fa',  when  shakes  the  clay  shielin'. 

An'  the  last  keek  o'  day  sets  for  ever  in  night! 

When  no  ae  wee  star  through  the  dark  clud  is 

stealin', 

Tlirough  the  cauld  wave  o'  death  his  dark  spirit 

to  light. 

The  spring-flowers  o'  life,  a'  sae  blythesome  and 
bonnie, 
Though  withei''d  and  torn  f  i-ae  the  heart  far  awa', 
An'  the  flower  we  thought  fadeless,  the  fairest  o' 
onie. 
May  spring  up  again  whar  uae  freezin'  winds 
blaw. 

Kin'  spring  '11  woo  back  the  green  "bud  to  the 
timmer," 
Its  heart  burst  in  blossom  "neath  simmer's  warm 
breath ; 
But  when  shall  the  warm  blush  o'  life's  faded 
simmer 
Bring  back  the  rose-bloom  frae  the  winter  o' 
death? 

How  kin'  should  the  heart  be,  aye  warm  an'  for- 
gi'en. 
When  sime,  like  a  leaf,  we  maun  a'  fade  awa'; 
When  life's  winter  day  as  a  shadow  is  fleein' — 
But  simmer  aye  shines  whar  nae  autumn  leaves 
fa'! 


FAU,  FAU   AWAY. 

Had  I  the  wings  of  a  dove,  I  woulil  fly 

Far,  far  away;  far,  far  away; 
Where  not  a  cloud  ever  darkens  the  sk}-. 

Far,  far  away;  far,  far  awny; 
Fadeless  the  flowers  in  yon  Eden  that  blow. 
Green,  green  the  bowers  where  the  still  w.-iters 
flow, 


MARION  PAUL  AIRD. 


391 


Hearts,  like  their  g'arments,  as  j)ure  as  the  snow, 
Far,  far  away;  far  away. 

There  never  trembles  a  sigh  of  regret, 

Far,  far  away;  far,  far  away; 
Stars  of  the  morning  in  glory  ne'er  set. 

Far,  far  away;  far,  far  away; 
There  I  from  sorrow  for  ever  would  rest, 
Leaning  in  joy  on  Immanuel's  breast; 
Tears  never  fall  in  the  homes  of  the  blest, 

Far,  far  away;  far  away. 

Friends,  there  united  in  glory,  ne'er  part. 

Far,  far  away;  far,  far  away; 
One  is  their  temple,  their  home,  and  their  heart. 

Far,  faraway;  far,  faraway; 
The  river  of  crystal,  the  city  of  gold, 
The  portals  of  pearl,  such  glory  unfold, 
Thought  cannot  image,  and  tongue  hath  not  told. 

Far,  far  away;  far  away. 

List!  what  yon  harpers  on  golden  harps  play; 

Come,  come  away;  come,  come  away; 
Falling  and  frail  is  your  cottage  of  clay; 

Come,  come  away;  come,  come  awaj'; 
Come  to  these  mansions,  there's  room  yet  for  you. 
Dwell  with  the  Friend  ever  faithful  and  true; 
Sing  ye  the  song,  ever  old,  ever  new; 

Come,  come  away;  come  away. 


THE  AULD  KIRK- YARD. 

Calm  sleep  the  village  dead 

In  the  auld  kirk-yard; 
But  soft!}',  slowly  tread 

In  the  auld  kirk-yard. 
For  the  weary,  weary  rest, 
Wi'  the  green  turf  on  tlieir  breast, 
And  the  ashes  o'  the  blest 

Flower  the  auld  kirk-yard. 

Oh!  many  a  tale  it  hath 

The  auld  kirk-yai'd. 
Of  life's  crooked,  thorny  path 

To  the  auld  kirk-yard. 
But  mortality's  thick  gloom 
Clouds  the  sunny  world's  bloom, 
A'eils  the  mystery  of  doom 

In  the  auld  kirk-yard. 

A  thousand  memories  spring 

In  the  auld  kirkyard. 
Though  time's  death-brooding  wing 

Shade  the  auld  kirk-yard. 
The  light  of  many  a  hearth, 
Its  music  and  its  mirth. 
Sleep  in  the  deep,  dark  earth 

Of  tiie  auld  kirk-yard. 


Nac  dreams  disturb  their  sleep 

In  tiie  auld  kirk  yard; 
They  Iiear  nae  kindred  weep 

In  tiie  auld  kirk-yard. 
The  sire,  with  silver  hair. 
The  mother's  heart  of  care. 
The  young,  the  gay,  the  fair, 
Crowd  the  auld  kirk-yard. 

So  live  that  ye  may  lie 

In  the  auld  kirk-yard, 
Wi'  a  passport  to  the  sky 

Frae  the  auld  kirk-yard; 
Tliat  wiien  thy  sand  is  run, 
And  life's  weary  warfare  done. 
Ye  may  sing  o'  victory  won 
Where  there's  nae  kirk-yard. 


THE  MINISTRY  OF  AXGELS. 

Like  an  arrow  through  the  air. 

Or  the  fountain-flow  of  light. 
Ministering  angels  fair. 

Cleave  the  deep  of  night: 
Quick  as  thought's  electric  glow, 

Down  into  earth's  chambers  dark, 
Fire-wheels  running  to  and  fro, 

Like  the  eye  of  God,  they  dart; 
Watching  o'er  the  earth's  green  bound, 

Searching  all  in  cities  round. 

Flitting,  flitting,  ever  near  thee, 

Sitting,  sitting,  by  thy  side. 
Like  your  shadow,  all  unweary. 

Angel  legions  guard  and  guide — 
Mantle,  with  their  wing,  your  heart, 

As  a  mother  folds  her  child; 
Light,  in  cloud  pavilions  dark. 

Shielding  from  the  tempest  wild; 
Silent,  as  the  moonlight  creeping, 

Viewless  as  the  ether  breath. 
Round  the  weary  head  when  weeping, 

Soothing  with  the  peace  of  death. 
Star-like  shoots  each  holy  one, 

With  sword  of  temper  bright, 
Casting  the  Almighty  shield 

Round  the  heir  of  light. 


THE  HERD  LADDIE. 

A  herd  laddie  sat,  in  his  plaidie  o'  gra.y, 
Neath  the  beild  o'  a  bush  in  the  howe  o'  a  brae. 
On  the  moss-theekit  stump  o'  an  auld  aikcu 
tree, 


392 


THEODORE   MARTIN. 


By  a  wee  wimplin'  burnie  that  sang  to  the  sea, 
And  silvered  the  hem  o'  a  bonnie  green  knowe, 
Whare  the  broom-bush,  and  breckan,  and  prim- 
roses grow: 
As  wee  stars  that  glimmer  like  sprinklins  o' 

gowd, 
As  they  blink  through  the  blue  o'  the  gray 

e'ening  cloud, 
His  sheep  lay  besprent  on  the  green  mountain's 

breast, 
As  white   as   the   snaw-cleeded    gowan   they 

prest — 
Where  the  lammies  were  bleatin',  an' jumpin 

wi'  glee, 
An'  nibblin'  the  gowan  that  spangled  the  lea: 
Noo  laughin'  and  dancin'  like  youth's  niornin' 

wave, 
Ere  it  wanders  an'  yaummers  awa  to  the  grave. 
The  herd  laddie  doffed  his  wee  bonnet,  an' 

smiled, 
But  a  tear  in  his  dark  ee  my  heart  near  him 

wyled, 
Like  an  amber  bead  trickled  adown  his  brown 

cheek, 
Clear  as  pearlins  o'  dew-draps  that  glanced  at 

his  feet: 
I  said,  "Wee  herd  laddie,  what  maks  you  sae 

wae, 
A'  nature  around  you  is  smilin'  an'  gay — 
Come,  tell  me  your  story,  I'll  sit  by  your  side— 
What  book's  that  you're  hidin'  aneath  the  gray 

plaid  ? 
Are  ye  cauld,  are  ye  hungry]  is't  far  frae  your 

hame? 
Hae  ye  faither  or  mither?"     He  sighed — "I 

hae  nane. 
Yon  bonnie  cot  house  in  the  lap  o'  the  glen, 
When  a  bairnie,  I  toddled  its  but  an'  its  ben; 
When  I  leuk  till't  I  greet — for  that  ance  was 

my  hame — - 
Noo  faither,  and  mither,  an'  help  I  hae  nane; 
Syne  the  nicht  faither  dee't  gushes  back  to  my 

mind, 
Though  maister  and  mistress  to  me  are  fu'  kind ; 
An'  there  is  the  psalm  round  his  bed  that  we 

sung — 
I  hear  his  last  words  drappin'  yet  frae  his  tongue : 


0,  the  tears  happit  fast  frae  his  dim  closin'  e'e! 
When  he  blest  us,  an'  tauld  us  his  bairns  he 

maun  lea'e; 
An'  that  is  his  Bible  he  gied  me,  an'  said, 
'  Mind  your  Father  in  heaven,  my  bairns,  when 

I'm  dead;' 
When  my  wee  brithers  grat  round  the  auKl 

elbow  chair — 
For  he  learned  us  the  psalms  on  the  Sabbath 

e'en  there; 
And  we  kneeled  on  that  hearth-stane  where 

uncos  noo  meet; 
When  I  think  Fve  nae  hame,  oh  I  what  wonder 

I  greet; 
But  I  leuk  to  the  skies,  an'  I  ken  there  is  ane 
Wha  lo'es  me  an'  guides  me,  tho'  on  earth  I 

ha'e  nane." 
Oh!   the   heart   tliat   ne'er   warms   for   the 

faithei'less  bairn 
I>^  hard  as  the  millstane,  an'  cauld  as  the  airn; 
Oh!  daut  them  and  deed  them,  wi'  mitherly 

care— 
They  are  nurslings  o'  heaven— oh!  nur-^e  them 

wi'  prayer. 


A  MEMORY  DEAR. 

FOR     THE     NEW     YEAR     ISTG.^ 

0  sing  me  the  song 
Of  years  long  agone, 
When  we  met  in  gloamins 
So  cheery. 

For  my  heart  oft  is  sore 
For  the  loved  ones  of  yore, 
Who  come  nae  mair  back. 
When  I  am  eerie; 

Wherever  ye  be. 
By  shore  or  by  sea. 
Ye  still  sing  to  me 
When  aweary! 

There's  a  throne  wi'  nae  sea, 
Tho'  friends  parted  be. 
Where  we'll  rest  in  the  lea 
When  life- weary. 


THEODORE    MAETIN. 


Theodore  SIartix,  who  has  earned  high 
repute  as  a  translator  from  the  Danish,  French, 
German,  Italian,  and  Latin,  and  as  the  literary 


partner  of  Professor  Aytoun,  is  a  native  of 

'  Miss  Aird  writes:  "  I  have  lost  many  friends  of  late: 
you  niight  insert  this,  as  it  is  a  pet  piece."— Ed. 


THEODORE   MARTIN. 


393 


Edinburgh,  wliere  he  was  born,  September  16, 
1816.  He  is  a  son  of  Mr.  James  Martin,  soli- 
citor in  the  supreme  court  of  Scotland,  and 
afterwards  one  of  the  depute  clerks  of  Session. 
Young  Martin,  on  the  completion  of  his  studies 
in  Edinburgh,  adopted  the  profession  of  a  soli- 
citor, and  thereafter  formed  a  partnership  with 
Mr.  Robert  Eoy,  W.S.  At  this  period  he,  in  con- 
nection with  his  friend  Aytoun,  wrote  the  comic 
ballads  published  under  the  pseudonym  of  Bon 
Gaidtler,^  the  portion  of  the  collection  referring 
to  American  matters  being  attributed  to  Mar- 
tin. In  his  memoir  of  Aytoun  he  says  on  this 
subject:  "  Some  papers  of  a  humorous  kind 
which  I  had  published  under  the  nom-de- 
plume  of  'Bon  Gaultier,'  had  hit  Aytoun's 
fancy;  and  when  I  proposed  to  go  on  with 
others  in  a  similar  vein  he  fell  readily  into  the 
plan,  and  agreed  to  assist  in  it.  In  this  way 
a  kind  of  Beaumont-and-FIetcher  partnership 
commenced  in  a  series  of  humorous  papers 
which  appeared  in  Ta'iCs  and  Fraser's  Ma(;a- 
ziiies  during  the  years  1842,  1843,  and  1844." 
In  1846  Mr.  Martin  established  himself  in 
London  as  a  parliamentary  agent  and  solicitor, 
and  some  years  afterwards  (1857)  was  married 
to  the  distinguished  actress  Miss  Helen  Faucit. 
He  has  always  been  actively  engaged  in  his  pro- 
fession, in  which  he  occupies  a  prominent  place; 
but  during  his  thirty  years'  residence  in  the 
metropolis  he  has  found  or  made  leisure  for 
much  literary  labour.      In   conjunction   with 


Professor  Aytoun  he  translated  a  number  of 
Goethe's  poems  and  ballads,  which  were  pub- 
lished in  1858;  and  after  his  friend's  death  lie 
wrote  an  admirable  memoir  of  his  life.  Their 
joint  work,  theBon  Gaidller  Bcdlads,  haspassed 
through  twelve  editions.  In  1860  Mr.  Martin 
delighted  the  public  with  a  volume  of  Horace's 
Odes,  which  is  allowed  to  be  the  best  transla- 
tion of  that  author  that  has  yet  been  published 
— the  Horatian  manner  and  curiosa  fdicllas 
being  preserved  in  a  way  deemed  impossible  in 
the  earlier  stages  of  our  literature.  This  work 
has  passed  through  several  editions.  Among 
Mr.  Martin's  other  works  may  be  mentioned 
an  edition  of  Sir  Thomas  Urquhart's  transla- 
tion of  Rabeiais's  Romance  of  Gargantua  and 
Pantagruel;  translations  of  the  "YitaXuova" 
of  Dante;  Oehlenschlaeger's  Danish  dramas 
of  "Aladdin"  and  "Correggio;"  Goethe's 
"Faust;  '  ''King  Rene's  Daughter,"  by  Henrik 
Hertz;  and  "Catullus;"  "Essays  on  the 
Drama;"  a  "  Memoir  of  the  Prince  Consort," 
prepared  by  authority  of  the  Queen,  of  which 
the  first  volume  was  published  in  1875;  and  a 
handsome  volume  of  miscellaneous  poems,  from 
which  the  following  pieces  have  been  selected. 
This  volume  is  entitled  '"Poems,  Original  and 
Translated,  by  Theodore  JIartin :  London, 
printed  for  Private  Circulation,  1863. "  Several 
of  his  works  have  been  republished  in  the 
United  States,  where  they  enjoy  a  wide  popu- 
laritv. 


THE  INTERMENT  OF  THOMAS   CAMPBELL. 


See,  where  eager  throngs  are  pouring  inwards 

from  the  busy  street! 
Lo,  the  Abbey's  hush  is  broken  with  the  stir 

of  many  feet! 
Hark!  St.  Margaret's  bell  is  tolling,  but  it  is 

no  common  clay 
To  that  dull  and  rueful  anthem  shall  be  laid 

in  dust  to-day! 
In  yon  minster's  hallow'd  corner,  where  the 

bards  and  sages  rest. 
Is  a  silent  chamber  waiting  to  receive  another 

guest. 
There  is  sadness  in  the  heavens,  and  a  veil 

against  the  sun, — 

1  The  name  is  taken  from  the  prologue  to  the  fi.st 
book  of  RabeUiis. — Ed. 


Who  shall  mourn  so  well  as  Nature  when  a 

poet's  course  is  run? 
Let  us  in  and  join  the  gazers,  meek  of  heart 

and  bare  of  brow. 
For  the  shadows  of  the  mighty  dead  are  hover- 
ing o'er  us  now! 
Souls  that  kept  their  trust  immortal,  dwelling 

from  the  herd  apart, 
Souls  that  wrote  their  noble  being  deep  into  a 

nation's  heart. 
Names  that  on  great  England's  forehead  are 

the  jewels  of  her  pride, 
Brother  Scot,  be  proud,  a  brother  soon  sliail 

slumber  by  their  side! 

2  Written  currente  calariw  just  after  the  author  had 
witnessed  that  very  irupiessive  ceremony  in  July,  1S44. 


394 


THEODORE   MARTIN. 


Ay,  thy  cheek  is  flushing  redly,  tears  are  crowd- 
ing to  thine  eyes, 
And  thy  heart,   like  mine,  is  rushing  back 

where  Scotland's  mountains  rise. 
Thou,  like  me,  hast  seen  another  grave  would 

suit  our  poet  well. 
Greenly  braided  by  the  breckan  in  a  lonely 

Highland  dell. 
Looking  on  the  solemn  waters  of  a  mighty 

inland  sea. 
In  the  shadow  of  a  mountain  where  the  lonely 

eagles  be ; 
Thou    hast   seen   the   kindly   heather   bloom 

around  his  simple  bed, 
Heard  the  loch  and  torrent  mingle  dirges  for 

the  poet  dead. 
Brother,  thou  hast  seen  him  lying,  as  it  is  thy 

hope  to  lie, 
Looking  from  the  soil  of  Scotland  up  into  a 

Scottish  sky. 
It  may  be  such  "gi-ave  were  better— better  rain 

and  dew  should  fall, 
Tears  of  hopeful  love  to  freshen  Nature's  ever- 
verdant  pall; 
Better  that  the  sun  should  kindle  on  his  grave 

in  golden  smiles. 
Better,  than  in  palsied  glimmer  stray  along 

these  sculptured  aisles, 
Better  aftertimes  should  find  him— to  his  rest 

in  homage  bound, — 
Lying  in  the  land  that  bore  him,   with  its 

glories  piled  around. 
Such,  at  least,  must  be  the  fancy  that  in  such 

a  time  must  start — 
For  we  love  our  country  dearly— in  each  burn- 
ing Scottish  heart; 
Yet  a  rest  so  great,  so  noble,  as  awaits  the 

minstrel  here, 
':\Iong  the  best  of  England's  children,  can  be 

no  unworthy  bier. 
Hark!  a  rush  of  feet!     They  bear  him,  him 

the  singer  to  his  tomb; 
Yonder  what  of  him  is  mortal  rests  beneath 

yon  sable  plume; 
Tears  along  mine  eyes  are  rushing,  but  the 

proudest  tears  they  be. 
Which  on  manly  eyes  may  gather— tears  'twere 

never  shame  to  see. 
Tears  tiiat  water  lofty  purpose,  tears  of  welcome 

to  the  fame 
Of  the  bard  that  hath  ennobled  Scotland's  dear 

and  noble  name. 
Sadder,  sadder  let  the  anthem  yearn  aloft  in 

wailing  strain, 
Xot  for  him,  for  he  is  happy,  but  for  us  and 

all  our  pain! 
Louder,   louder  let  the  organ  like  a  seraph 
anthem  roll, 


Hymning  to  its  home  of  glory  our  departed 

brother's  soul ! 
He  has  laid  him  down  to  slumber  to  awake  to 

nobler  trust, 
Give  his  frame  to  kindred  ashes,  earth  to  earth 

and  dust  to  dust! 
Louder  yet,  and  yet  more  loudly,  let  the  organ's 

thunder  rise! 
Hark!  a  louder  thunder  answers,  deepening 

inwards  to  the  skies! 
Heaven's  majestic  diapason,  pealing  on  from 

east  to  west, 
Never  grander  music  anthem'd   poet   to   his 

home  of  rest! 


THE  DYING   GIRL'S   SONG. 

Toll  no  sullen  bell  for  me, 

None,  when  I  am  dying; 
Let  my  spirit's  requiem  be 

But  the  zephyr's  sighing. 
And  the  wood-bird's  melody, 

When  the  day  is  dying. 

Rear  no  solemn  marble  where 

Low  my  head  reposes, 
Let  earth's  sweet  flowers  blossom  there, 

Lilies  pure  and  roses. 
And  beside  it  children  fair 

Sport  and  gather  posies. 

I  Lave  loved,  and  life  was  dear 

All  its  pulses  thorough; 
He  is  dead,  and  life  is  drear. 

Why,  then,  should  ye  sorrow? 
Strew  no  cypress  on  my  bier, 

AVe  shall  meet  to-morrow. 


MARK   BOZZ.VRI. 

(from   the    GERMAN    OF   WILHELM    MULLER.) 

Open  wide,  proud  Missolonghi,  open  wide  thy 

portals  high, 
Where  repose   the  bones  of  heroes,  teach  us 

cheerfully  to  die! 
Open  wide  tl'iy  lofty  portals,  open  wide  thy 

vaults  profound. 
Up  and  scatter  laurel  garlands  to  the  breeze 

and  on  the  ground. 
Mark  Bozzari's  noble  body   is  the  freight  to 

thee  we  bear, 
Mark  Bozzari's!     Who  for  hero  great  as  he  to 

weep  will  dare] 


THEODORE   MARTIN. 


395 


Tell  his  wounds,  his  victories  over!     "Which  in 

number  greatest  be? 
Every  victory  hath  its  wound,  and  every  wound 

its  victory ! 
See,  a  turban'd  head  is  grimly  set  on  all  our 

lances  here! 
See,   how  the   Osmanli's   banner  swathes  in 

purple  folds  his  bier! 
See,  oh  see,  the  latest  trophies,  which  our  hero's 

glory  seal'd, 
When  his  glaive  with  gore  was  drunken  on 

great  Karpinissi's  field! 
In  the  murkiest  liour  of  midnight  did  wc  at  his 

call  arise. 
Through   the  gloom,   like   lightning   flashes, 

flash'd  the  fury  from  our  eyes. 
With  a  shout,  across  our  knees  we  snapp'd  the 

scabbards  of  our  swords. 
Better  down  to  mow  the  harvest  of  the  mellow 

Turkish  hordes; 
And  we  clasp'd  our  hands  together,  and  each 

warrior  stroked  his  beard. 
And  one  stamp'd  the  sward,  another  rubb'd  his 

blade  and  vow'd  its  weird. 
Then  Bozzari's  voice  resounded:  "On,  to  the 

barbarian's  lair! 
On,  and  follow  me,  my  brothers,  sec  you  keep 

together  there! 
Should  you  miss  me,  you  will  find  me  surely  in 

the  Pasha's  tent! 
On  with  God:  through  Him  our  foemen,  death 

itself  through  Him  is  shent. 
On!"  and  swift  he  snatched  the  bugle  from 

the  hands  of  him  that  blew, 
And  himself  awoke  a  summons  that  o'er  dale 

and  mountain  flew. 
Till  each  rock  and  cliff"  made  answer,  clear  and 

clearer  to  the  call; 
But  a  clearer  echo  sounded  in  the  bosom  of  us 

all! 
As  from  midnight's   battlemented  keep   the 

lightnings  of  the  Lord 
Sweep,   so  swept  our  swords  and   smote  the 

tyrants  and  their  slavish  horde; 
As  the  trump  of  doom  shall  waken  sinners  in 

their  graves  that  lie — ■ 
So  through  all  the  Turkish  leaguer  thunder'd 

his  appalling  cry, 
"Mark  Bozzari!  Mark  Bozzari!  Suliotes  smite 

them  in  their  lair!" 
Such  the  goodly  morning  greeting  that  we  gave 

the  sleepers  there. 
And  they  stagger'd  from  their  slumber,  and 

they  ran  from  street  to  street, 
Ean  like  sheep  without  a  shepherd,  striking 

wild  at  all  they  meet, 
Ean  and  frenzied  by  death's  angels,  who  amidst 

their  myriads  stray 'd, 


Brother,  in  bewildered  fury,  dash'dand  fell  on 

brother's  blade. 
Ask  the  night  of  our  achievements!    It  beheld 

us  in  the  fight; 
But  the  day  will  never  credit  what  we  did  in 

yonder  night. 
Greeks  by  hundreds,  Turks  by  thousand.*,  there 

like  scatter'd  seed  they  lay 
On  the  field  of  Karpinissi,  when  the  morning 

broke  in  grey. 
Murk  Bozzari!  Mark  Bozzari!  and  we  found  thee 

gash'd  and  mown. 
By  thy  sword  alone  we  knew  thee,  knew  thee 

by  th}'  wounds  alone. 
By  the  wounds  thy  hand  had  cloven,  by  the 

wounds  that  seam'd  thy  breast, 
Lying,  as  thou  hadst  foretold  us,  in  the  Pasha's 

tent  at  rest ! 

Open  wide,  proud  Missolonghi,  open  wide  thy 

portals  high, 
Where  repose  the  bones  of  heroes,  teach  us 

cheerfully  to  die! 
Open  wide  thy  vaults!      Within   their   holy 

bounds  a  couch  we'd  make. 
Where  our  hero,  laid  with  heroes,  may  his  long 

last  slumber  take! 
Rest  beside  that  rock  of  honour,  brave  Count 

Kormann,  rest  thy  head, 
Till,  at  the  archangel's  trumpet,  all  the  graves 

give  up  their  dead! 


IfAPOLEOX'S   MIDNIGHT    REVIEW. 

(FEOM   the   GERMAN    OF   BAROX   JO.SEPH   CHRIS- 
TIAN  VON    ZEDLITZ.^) 

At  midnight,  from  the  sullen  sleep  of  death 

the  drummer  rose, 
The  night  winds  wail,  the  moonbeams  pale  are 

hid  as  forth  he  goes. 
With  solemn  air  and  measured  step  he  paces 

on  his  rounds. 
And  ever  and  anon  with  might  the  doubling 

drum  he  sounds. 

His  fleshless  arms  alternately  therattling  sticks 

let  fall. 
By  turns  they  beat  in  rattlings  meet  reveille 

and  roll-call; 


1  Joseph  Christian  Von  Zedlitz,  a  German  poet,  is 
credited  with  the  authorsliip  of  "The  Midnight  Re- 
view," in  Longfellow's  Po.ts  and  Poetry  of  Europe.— Ed. 


396 


JOHN   CEAWFOKD. 


Oh!  strangely  drear  fell  on  the  ear  the  echoes 

of  that  drum, 
Old  soldiers  from  their  graves  start  up  and  to 

its  summons  come. 

They  who  repose  'mong  northern  mows,  in  icy 

cerements  lapp'd, 
Or  in  the  mould  of  Italy  all  sweltering  are 

wrapp'd, 
Who  sleep  beneath  the  oozy  Nile,  or  desert's 

whirling  sand, 
Break  from  their  graves,  and  armbd  all  spring 

up  at  the  command. 

And  at  midnight  from  death's  sullen  sleep  the 

trumpeter  arose. 
He  mounts  his  steed,  and  loud  and  long  his 

pealing  trumpet  blows; 
Each  horseman  heard  it,  as  he  lay  deep  in  his 

gory  shroud, 
And  to  the  call  these  heroes  all  on  airy  coursers 

crowd. 

Deep  gash  and  scar  their  bodies  mar — they 

were  a  ghastly  file — 
And  underneath  the  glittering  casques  their 

blench'd  skulls  grimly  smile; 
With  haughty  mien  they  grasp  their  swords 

within  their  bony  hands, — 
'Twould  fright  the  brave  to  see  them  wave  their 

long  and  gleaming  brands. 

And  at  midnight  from  the  sullen  sleep  of  death 

the  chief  arose. 
Behind  him  move  his  officers,  as  slowly  forth  he 

goes. 
His  hat  is  small — upon  his  coat  no  star  or  crest 

is  strung, 
And  by  his  side  a  little  sword — his  only  arms 

— is  hung. 

The  wan  moon  threw  a  livid  hue  across  the 

mighty  plain, 
As  he  that  wore  the  little  hat  stepp'd  proudly 

forth  again — 


And  well  these  grizzly   warriors   their  little 

chieftain  knew. 
For  whom  they  left  their  graves  that  night  to 

muster  in  review. 

' '  Present — recover  arms!  "  The  cry  runs  round 
in  eager  hum, 

Before  him  all  that  host  defiles  while  rolls  the 
doubling  drum. 

Halt:— then  he  calls — his  generals  and  captains 
cluster  near — 

He  turns  to  one  that  stands  beside  and  whis- 
pers in  his  ear. 

From  rank  to  rank,  from  rear  to  flank  it  wings 

along  the  Seine, 
The  word  that  chieftain  gives  is  "France!" 

the  answer — "  Sainte-Hel^ne! " 
And  thus  departed  Csesar  holds,  at  midnight 

hour  alway, 
The  grand   review  of  his  old   bands   in  the 

Champs  Elysdes. 


THE  SERENADE. 

(translation  from  ludwig  uhland.) 

What  soft  low  sounds  are  these  I  hear. 
That  come  my  dreams  between  ] 

Oh!  mother,  look,  who  may  it  be 
That  plays  so  late  at  e"en. 

"  I  hear  no  voice,  I  see  no  form, 
Oh!  rest  in  slumber  mild! 
They'll  bring  no  music  to  thee  now. 
My  poor,  my  ailing  child." 

It  is  not  music  of  the  earth 
That  makes  my  heart  so  light. 

The  angels  call  me  with  their  songs — 
Oh,  mother  dear,  good  night! 


JOHN    CRAWFORD 


Born  1816  — Died  1873. 


John  Crawford  Avas  born  in  1816  at 
Greenock,  in  the  same  apartment  where,  thirty 
years  previous,  had  died  his  mother's  cousin, 
the  "Highland  Mary"  of  Burns'  song.     He 


was  from  boyhood  obliged  to  work  for  a  liveli- 
hood, and  learned  the  trade  of  a  house-painter. 
In  his  eighteenth  year  he  removed  to  Alloa, 
where  he  resided  till  his  death,  Dec.  13, 1873. 


JOHN   CEAWFOED. 


397 


He  early  made  himself  acquainted  with  the 
pleasures  of  literature,  and  lost  no  opportunity 
of  cultivating  his  mind.  In  ISoO  he  published 
a  small  volume  entitled  Doric  Lays:  Icing 
Snatches  of  Song  and  Ballad.  Miss  Mitford 
wrote  of  this  little  work:  "There  is  an  origin- 
ality in  his  writings  very  rare  in  a  follower  of 
Burns.  .  .  .  This  is  the  true  thing — a 
flower  springing  from  the  soil,  not  merely  cut 
and  stuck  into  the  earth.  AVill  you  tell  Mr. 
Crawford  how  much  pleasure  he  has  given  to 


a  poor  invalid  ?"     His  poetry  was  also  highly 
commended  by  Lord  JefTrey. 

In  1860  Mr.  Crawford  produced  a  second 
series  of  Doric  Lays,  a  volume  of  considerable 
merit,  which  was  published  in  Edinburgh. 
An  interesting  and  entertaining  volume  entitled 
Memoricds  of  the  I'oivn  of  Alloa,  containing 
a  historical  and  descriptive  account  of  the  town 
and  parish,  written  by  Crawford,  and  edited 
by  Dr.  Charles  Rogers,  was  published  a  few 
months  after  the  poet's  death. 


MY  AULD  "WIFE  JEAX. 

My  couthie  auld  wifie,  aye  blythesome  to  see, 
As  years  slip  awa'  aye  the  dearer  to  me; 
For  ferlios  o'  fashion  I  carcna  ae  j)reen 
When  I  clock  to  the  kirk  wi'  my  auld  wifie  Jean. 

The  thoughts  o'  the  past  are  aye  pleasin'  to  nic. 
And  mair  sae  when  love  lights  my  auld  wifie's  e'e; 
For  then  I  can  speak  o'  the  days  I  ha'e  seen, 
When  care  found  nae  hame  i'  the  heart  o'  my  Jean. 

A  hantle  we've  borne  since  that  moment  o'  bliss, 
Frae  thy  hps,  breathiii'  balm,  when  I  stole  the 

first  kiss, 
When  I  read  a  response  to  my  vows  in  thy  een, 
An',  blushin',  I  prest  to  my  bosom  my  Jean. 

Like  a  rose  sot  in  snaw  was  the  bloom  on  thy  cheek, 
Thy  hair,  wi'  its  .silken  snood,  glossy  and  sleek. 
When  the  Lau'd  o'  Drumlochie,  sae  lithloss  and 

lean, 
Wad  ha'e  gane  a  laiig  mile  for  ae  glisk  o'  my  Jean. 

Thy  mither  was  dead,  and  thy  faither  was  fain 
That  the  lang-luggit  lairdie  wad  ca'  thee  his  ain ; 
But  auld  age  and  frailty  could  ne'er  gang  atween 
The  vows  I  had  niffer'd  wi'  bonnie  young  Jean. 

I  canna  weel  work,  an'  ye're  weary  an'  worn, 
The  gudes  and  the  ills  lang  o'  life  we  ha'e  borne; 
But  we  ha'e  a  hame,  an'  we're  cozie  and  bein. 
And  the  thrift  I've  to  thank  o"  my  auld  wifie  Jean. 

Baith  beddin'  an'  cleadin'  o'  a'  kind  ha'e  we, 
A  sowp  for  the  needy  we've  aye  had  to  gie, 
A  bite  and  a  drap  for  baith  f remit  an'  frien'. 
Was  aye  the  warst  wish  o'  my  auld  wifie  Jean. 

The  puir  beildless  body  has  scugg'd  the  cauld 

blast, 
'Yont  our  hallan  he's  houft  till  the  gurl  gaed  past, 
An'  a  bite  aff  our  board,  aye  sae  tidy  an'  clean. 
He's  gat  wi'  gudewill  frac  my  auld  wifie  Jean. 


Our  hopes  we  ha'e  set  where  our  bairnies  ha'e  gacn ; 
Though  lyart  we've  grown  since  they  frae  us 

were  ta'en;     ■ 
The  thoughts  o'  them  yet  brings  the  tears  to  our 

een, 
And  aft  I've  to  comfort  my  auld  wifie  Jean. 

The  panghty  and  proud  ha'e  been  laid  i'  the  dust, 
Since  the  first  hairst  I  shore,  since  the  first  clod 

I  cuist; 
And  soon  we'll  lie  laigh;  but  aboon  we've  a  Frien', 
And  bright  days  are  comin'  for  me  an'  my  Jean. 


THE  LAND  0'   THE   BONNET  AND 
PLAID. 

Hurra!  for  the  land  o'  the  hroom-cover'd  brae, 
The  land  o'  the  rowan,  the  haw,  and  the  slae; 
Where  waves  the  blue  harebell  in  dingle  and 

glade — 
The  land  o'  the  pibroch,  the  bonnet,  and  plaid. 

Hurra!  for  the  hills  o'  the  cromlech  and  cairn, 
Where  blossoms  the  thistle  by  hillocks  o'  fern; 
There  Freedom  in  triumph  an  altar  has  made 
For  holiest  rites  in  the  land  o'  the  plaid. 

A  coronal  wreath,  where  the  wild  flowers  bloom. 
To  garnish  the  martyr  and  patriot's  tomb : 
Shall  their  names  ever  perish — their  fame  ever 

fade, 
Wlio  ennobled  the  land  o'  the  bonnet  and  plaid? 

Oh,  hame  o'  my  bairnhood,  ye  hills  o'  my  love! 
The  haunt  o'  the  freeman  for  aye  may  ye  prove ; 
And  honour'd  for  ever  be  matron  and  maid 
In  the  land  o'  the  heather,  the  bonnet,  and  plaid. 

Hurra!  for  the  land  o'  the  deer  and  the  rae, 
0'  the  gowany  glen  and  the  bracken-clad  brae. 
Where  blooms  our  ain  thistle,  in  sunshine  and 

shade — 
Dear  badge  o'  the  land  o'  the  bonnet  and  plaid. 


X 


398 


HUGH   MACDONALD. 


ANN   0'   CORNYLEE. 

I'll  twine  a  gowany  garland 

Wi'  lilies  frae  the  spring; 
The  fairest  flowers  by  Cliitha's  side 

In  a'  their  bloom  I'll  bring. 
I'll  wreathe  a  flowery  wreath  to  shade 

My  lassie's  scornfu'  e'e — 
For  oh,  I  eanna  bide  the  frown 

0'  Ann  o'  Cornylee. 

Nae  gilded  ha',  nae  downie  bed, 

3Iy  lowly  cot  maun  cheer, 
A  sheilin'  on  the  banks  o"  Gryfe 

Is  a'  my  worldly  gear; 
A  lanely  cot,  wi'  moss  o'ergrown, 

Is  a'  I  ha'e  to  gie; 
A  leal  heart,  sinking  'neath  the  scorn 

0'  Ann  o'  Cornylee. 

The  Untie  'raang  the  yellow  broom, 

The  laverock  in  the  lift, 
Ha'e  never  sang  the  waes  o'  love 

0'  hope  and  joy  bereft; 
Nor  has  the  mavis  ever  sang 

The  ills  I  ha'e  to  dree. 
For  levin'  o'  a  paughty  maid, 

Fair  Ann  o'  Cornylee. 


THE  WAES   0'    EILD. 

The  cranreuch's  on  my  heid. 
The  mist's  now  on  my  een, 
A  lanesome  life  I  lead, 
I'm  no  what  I  ha'e  been. 


Ther're  runkles  on  my  broo, 
Ther're  furrows  on  my  cheek. 
My  wither'd  heart  tills  fu' 
Whan  o'  bygone  days  I  speak. 

For  I'm  weary, 

I'm  weary, 

I'm  weary  o'  care — 

Whare  my  bairnies  ha'e  gane, 

Oh,  let  me  gang  there. 

I  ance  was  fu'  o'  glee. 
And  wha  was  then  sae  gay, 
AVhan  dreamin'  life  wad  be 
But  ae  lang  simmer  day  ? 
My  feet  like  lichtnin'  flew 
Pvoun'  pleasure's  dizzy  ring. 
They  gimply  staucher  noo 
Aneath  a  feckless  thing. 

For  I'm  weary, 

I'm  weary, 

I'm  weary  o'  care — 

AVhare  my  first  luve  lies  cauld, 

Oh,  let  me  lie  there. 

The  onrie  breath  o'  eild 

Has  blown  ilk  frien'  frae  me; 

They  come  na  near  my  beild 

I  ha'e  dauted  on  my  knee; 

They  hand  awa  their  heids, 

My  frailties  no  to  see; 

My  blessings  on  them,  ane  and  a' — 

I've  naething  else  to  gie. 
For  I'm  weary, 
I'm  weary, 

I'm  weary  and  worn — 
To  the  friens  o'  my  youth 
I  maun  soon,  soon  return. 


HUGH    MACDONALD. 


Born  1S17  — Died  1S60. 


Hugh  Macdonald  was  of  Highland  par- 
entage, and  was  born  in  Bridgeton,  Glasgow, 
April  4,  1817.  After  receiving  a  very  limited 
education  he  was  apprenticed  to  the  block- 
printing  business,  and  was  first  employed 
in  the  Barrowfield  Works,  which  he  has  de- 
scribed in  one  of  his  poems  as  "The  Quid  Auld 
Field."  He  early  became  noted  for  his  love  of 
country  rambles,  and  was  familiar  with  every 
hill  and  dale  from  the  ilearns  Moor  to  Campsie 


Glen,  and  along  the  whole  course  of  the  Clyde 
from  Stonebyres  Linn  to  Bowling  Braes.  In 
this  way  the  education  which  he  was  not  privi- 
leged to  derive  from  books  he  acquired  in  his 
youth  from  nature.  He  especially  became  no 
mean  proficient  in  the  science  of  botany,  in  all 
his  excursions  carrying  his  vasculnm  with  him 
for  the  collection  of  wild  plants.  This  know- 
ledge stood  him  in  good  stead  at  a  later  period 
by  giving  precision  and  accuracy  to  what  he 


HUGH  MACDONALD. 


399 


wrote,  wliile  it  quickened  his  appreciation  of 
and  !<ympatl)y  with  nature.  Having  by  his 
industry  saved  a  little  money  he  began  a  small 
business  in  Glasgow,  but  it  proved  unsuccessful, 
and  ilacdonald,  after  honourably  discharging 
all  his  liabilities,  retired  from  it  with  a  mere 
trifle  in  his  possession.  He  then  returned  to  his 
trade  of  block-printing  in  a  work  near  Paisley, 
to  and  from  which  he  walked  every  day  from 
Glasgow,  a  distance  of  sixteen  miles! 

It  was  about  this  time  that  Macdonald"s 
Kterary  career  began.  His  first  effusions  were 
poetical,  and  were  followed  by  a  series  of  letters 
in  defence  of  the  character  of  Eobert  Burns 
from  an  inconsiderate  and  ill-advised  attack 
made  upon  it  by  a  popular  Scottish  writer. 
These  letters  were  published  in  the  Glusgoio 
Citizen,  a  paper  in  which  JIacdonald's  name 
was  afterwards  frequently  met  with  in  the 
poets'  corner.  In  1849  the  block-printer  fairly 
embarked  in  the  career  of  a  man  of  letters 
by  becoming  sub -editor  of  that  newspaper. 
Soon  after  occupying  his  new  position  he 
began  his  series  of  "  Rambles  IJound  Glas- 
gow," which  appeared  in  the  Citizen  under 
the  signature  of  "Caleb."  The  companion 
series  of  sketches  descriptive  of  the  Firth  of 
Clj-de,  and  entitled  "Days  at  the  Coast,"  were 
also  commenced  during  his  connection  with 
the  Citizen,  and  concluded  in  the  columns  of 
the  Glasgoiv  Times.  Both  these  delightful 
volumes,  abounding  in  charming  description 
and  enriched  with  poetic  effusions,  have  been 
repeatedly  republished,  and  have  met  with  an 
extensive  circulation. 

In  1855  Mr.  Macdonald  connected  himself 
with  the  Glasgow  Sentinel,  and  was  soon  after 
appointed  editor  of  the  Glasgou)  Times.  In 
June,  1858,  when  the  MornoKj  Journal  was 
established,  he  accepted  the  position  of  literary 
editor,  and  the  connection  continued  until  his 
death.  In  this  capacity  sketches,  essays,  and 
reviews  were  constantly  appearing  from  his 
pen;  and  among  the  rest  a  "  Series  of  Pilgrim- 


ages to  Remarkable  Places,"  on  the  same  plan 
as  his  two  preceding  volumes.  But  they  lacke<l 
the  freshness  of  his  earlier  efforts;  and  his 
friends  saw  painful  evidences  that  his  health 
was  failing.  After  eleven  years  of  laborious 
exertion  for  the  amusement  and  instruction  of 
the  public,  the  genial  and  admired  ^Macdonald 
died,  March  16,  1860,  in  the  forty-third  year 
of  his  age.  At  the  time  of  his  decease  he  was 
engaged  in  the  preparation  of  a  work  on  "Old- 
Folk  Lore,"  the  aim  of  which  was  to  gather 
legends,  traditions,  and  auld-warld  stories  of 
the  west  of  Scotland. 

Mr.  IMacdonald  Avas  a  member  of  various 
literary  and  scientific  societies,  in  whose  pro- 
ceedings he  took  a  prominent  part.  He  pre- 
sided at  the  celebration  of  the  centenary  of  the 
birth  day  of  Robert  Burns  in  Glasgow;  and 
the  year  previous  had  the  honour  of  being 
entertained  at  a  public  dinner  in  his  native 
city.  To  show  the  estimation  in  which  he  was 
held  by  all  sections  of  the  community,  it  may 
be  stated  that  after  his  death  a  sum  of  £900 
was  raised  by  subscription,  and  invested  for 
behoof  of  his  widow  and  children. 

In  1SG3  a  volume  of  Macdonald's  poems  and 
songs,  with  a  memoir  of  his  life,  was  published 
in  Glasgow.  The  writer  says  of  him  that  he 
"was  emphatically  a  man  of  the  people — a 
representative  man.  Not  only  did  he  excel  as 
a  journalist  and  as  a  writer  of  prose  which  will 
be  permanent,  but  he  was  a  true  poet,  to  the 
manner  born.  Sprung  from  the  industrial 
classes,  he  was  proud  of  his  origin,  and  always 
ready  to  uphold  the  dignity  of  labour  and  de- 
fend the  rights  of  the  working  man.  .  .  . 
A  kinder-hearted  man  never  breathed,  and  he 
was  guileless  even  to  a  fault."  He  was  espe- 
cially free  from  literary  jealousy,  and  was 
generous  and  prompt  to  acknowledge  the  merits 
of  others.  In  especial  he  was  among  the  first 
to  recognize  and  call  attention  to  the  real 
genius  of  Alexander  Smith,  whose  firm  friend 
he  remained  till  death. 


WEE    ANNIE    0'  AUCIIINEDEN. 


A  gowden  dream  thou  art  to  me. 
From  shades  of  earth  and  evil  free; 
An  angel  form  of  love  and  glee. 
Wee  Annie  o'  Auchineden. 


I  never  saw  thy  winsome  face. 
Thy  bairnly  beauty  rowed  in  grace; 
Yet  thou  art  with  me  every  place, 
Wee  Annie  o'  Auchineden. 


400 


HUGH   MACDONALD. 


AVlicrc  flifk'ring  beams  beneath  the  trees 
Flit  playful  in  the  summer  breeze, 
The  eve  of  fancy  ever  sees 

Wee  Annie  o"  Auchineden. 

Thy  mither's  cheek  was  wet  and  pale, 
And  aft  in  sighs  her  words  wad  fail, 
When  in  mine  ear  she  breathed  thy  tale, 
Wee  Annie  o'  Auchineden. 

That  low,  sweet  voice  through  many  a  year, 
If  life  is  mine,  shall  haunt  my  ear, 
AVhich  pictured  thee  with  smile  and  tear, 
Wee  Annie  o'  Auchineden. 

Lone  was  thy  hame  upon  the  moor, 
'Mang  darktrown  heaths  and  mountains  boar; 
Thou  wert  a  sunbeam  at  the  door. 
Wee  Annie  o'  Aucliineden. 

Blue  curling  reek  on  the  breeze  afloat 
Quiet  hover'd  abune  thy  snaw-white  cot. 
And  strange  wild  birds  of  eeriest  note 
Swept  ever  o'er  Auchineden. 

Sweet  scented  nurslings  o'  sun  and  dew. 
In  the  bosky  faulds  o'  the  burn  that  grew. 
Were  the  only  mates  thy  bairnhood  knew, 
Wee  Annie  o'  Auchineden. 

But  the  swallow  biggit  aneath  the  eaves, 
And  the  bonnie  cockshilfa  'mang  the  leaves 
Aft  rited  to  thee  in  the  silent  eves, 
Wee  Annie  o'  Auchineden, 

Ilk  fairy  blossom  ye  kent  by  name. 
And  birds  to  thy  side  all  fearless  came, 
Thy  winning  tongue  could  the  wildest  tame, 
Wee  Annie  o'  Auchineden. 

There's  a  deep,  deep  lore  in  hearts  o'  love, 
And  kindness  has  charms  a'  charms  above; 
'Twas  thine  the  cauldest  breast  to  move, 
Wee  Annie  o'  Auchineden. 

But  the  auld  folk  shook  their  heads  to  see 
Sic  wisdom  lent  to  a  bairn  like  thee; 
"Lang  here,"  they  sighed,  "  yc  wadna  be," 
Wee  Annie  o'  Auchineden. 

And  thou  wert  ta'en  frae  this  world  o'  tears, 
Unstained  by  the  sorrow  or  sin  of  years; 
Thy  voice  is  now  in  the  angels'  ears, 
Wee  Annie  o'  Aucliine<len. 

Thy  mither's  e'e  has  been  dimmed  with  wae- 
The  auld  kirkyard  has  her  darling's  clay; 
But  a  better  hanie  is  thine  for  aye. 
Wee  Annie  o'  Auchineden. 


There's  an  eerie  blank  at  yon  fireside. 
And  sorrow  has  crushed  the  liearts  of  pride; 
For  sair  in  thy  loss  their  faith  was  tried, 
Wee  Annie  o'  Auchineden. 

The  primrose  glints  on  the  spring's  return, 
The  merle  sings  blithe  to  the  dancin'  burn; 
But  there's  ae  sweet  flowerweaye  shall  mourn. 
Wee  Annie  o'  Auchineden, 

Life's  waning  day  wears  fast  awa' — 
The  mirk,  mirk  gloamin'  sune  shall  fa'; 
To  death's  dark  porch  we  journey  a', 
Wee  Annie  o"  Auchineden. 

When  the  weary  wark  o'  the  warld  is  dune, 
And  the  purple  stream  has  ceased  to  rin. 
May  we  meet  wi'  thee  in  thy  hame  abune. 
Wee  Annie  o'  Auchineden. 


THE    BIEDS   OF   SCOTLAND, 

0  the  birds  of  bonnie  Scotland, 
I  love  them  one  and  all — 

The  eagle  soaring  high  in  pride, 
The  wren  so  blithe  and  small. 

1  love  the  cushat  in  the  wood, 

The  heron  by  the  stream. 
The  lark  that  sings  the  stars  asleep, 
The  merle  that  wakes  their  beam.  ,i 

0  the  birds  of  dear  old  Scotland, 
I  love  them  every  one — 

The  owl  that  leaves  the  tower  by  night, 
The  swallow  in  the  sun. 

1  love  the  raven  on  the  rock, 

The  sea-bird  on  the  shore. 
The  merry  chaffinch  in  the  wood. 
And  the  curlew  on  the  moor. 

0  the  birds  of  bonnie  Scotland, 

How  lovely  are  they  all! 
The  oozel  by  the  forest  spring 

Or  lonely  waterfall! 
The  thrush  that  from  the  leafless  bough 

Delights  the  infant  year. 
The  redbreast  wailing  sad  and  lone, 

When  leaves  are  falling  scar. 

0  for  the  time  when  first  T  roamed 
The  woodland  and  the  field, 

A  silent  sharer  in  the  joy 

I'^ach  summer  minstrel  pealed. 

Their  nests  I  knew  them  every  one — 
In  bank,  or  bush,  or  tree; 


HUGH   MACDONALD. 


401 


Familiar  as  a  voice  of  home, 
Their  every  tone  of  glee. 

They  tell  of  birds  in  other  climes 

In  richest  plumage  gay, 
With  gorgeous  tints  that  far  outshine 

An  eastern  king's  array. 
Strangers  to  songl  more  dear  to  me 

The  linnet,  modest  gray, 
That  pipes  among  the  yellow  broom 

His  wild,  heart-witching  lay. 

More  dear  than  all  their  shining  hues, 

Tiie  wells  of  glee  that  lie 
In  throstle's  matchless  mottled  breast 

Or  merle's  of  ebon  dye. 
And  though  a  lordling's  wealth  were  mine, 

In  some  far  sunny  spot, 
^ly  heart  could  never  own  a  home 

Where  minstrel  birds  were  not. 

Sweet  wilding  birds  of  Scotland, 

I  loved  ye  when  a  boy, 
And  to  my  soul  your  names  are  linked 

With  dreams  of  vanished  joy. 
And  I  could  wish,  when  death's  cold  hand 

Has  stilled  this  heart  of  mine, 
That  o'er  my  last  low  bed  of  earth 

Might  swell  your  notes  divine. 


TO    TIIE   CLYDE. 

O'er  all  the  streams  that  Scotia  pours        \ 

Deep  murmuring  to  the  sea. 
With  warmest  love  my  heart  still  turns, 

Fair,  winding  Clyde,  to  thee! 
Through  scenes  where  brightest  beauty  smiles, 

Thy  placid  waters  glide. 
Linked  to  a  thousand  mem'ries  sweet, 

My  own,  m}-  native  Clyde! 

Let  others  love  the  tangled  Forth, 

Or  mountain-shadowed  Spey; 
The  Don,  the  Dee,  wake  others'  glee. 

Fair  Tweed,  or  queenly  Tay; 
From  all  their  charms  of  wood  or  wild, 

I  ever  turn  with  pride 
To  where  the  golden  apple  gleams. 

On  thy  green  banks,  sweet  Clydel 

It  is  not  that  thy  heaving  breast 

A  kingdom's  wealth  has  borne, 
That  jiregnant  barques,  a  gorgeous  crowd, 

Thy  spacious  ports  adorn; 
'Tis  not  thy  cities  fair  to  see, 

Thy  castled  homes  of  pride. 

Vol.  II. — C  c 


That  knit  this  heart  in  love  to  thee. 
Thou  proudly  rolling  Clyde! 

An  heir  of  poverty  and  toil. 

Thy  wealth  to  me  is  nauglit. 
Yet  thou  hast  treasures  to  my  soul, 

AVith  deepest  pleasure  fraught — 
The  homes  of  living,  and  the  graves 

Of  parted  friends  are  thine — 
The  loving  hearts,  the  tried,  the  true. 

Bright  gems  of  sweet  "Langsyne." 

OhI  honied  were  my  joys,  I  ween. 

When  'side  thee,  lovely  streanil 
Life  dawned  upon  my  wakening  soul, 

Bright  as  a  poet's  dream, 
Then  daisied  fields  to  me  were  wealth, 

Thy  waters  were  a  sea, 
And  angel  voices  in  the  clouds 

The  larks'  far  showers  of  glee. 

How  loved  I,  on  thy  pebbled  marge, 

To  watch  the  minnows  play  I 
Or  on  thy  rippled  breast  to  set 

My  tiny  barque  away! 
Or  chasing  wide  the  painted  fly. 

Along  thy  skirt  of  flowers. 
While  on  the  swallow-wings  of  joy 

Flew  past  the  laughing  hours. 

Each  smiling  season  then  had  charms — 

Spring  came  with  buds  and  flowers, 
And  wild-bird  nests,  with  bead-like  eggs, 

Leaf-screened  in  woodland  bowers; 
Summer  brought  aye  the  rushy  caj), 

The  dandelion  chain; 
While  hips  and  haws,  like  gems  were  strewn 

O'er  autumn's  yellow  train. 

But  years  of  mingled  weal  and  woe. 

Like  bubbles  on  thy  wave. 
Have  passed:  and  friends  are  seatter'd  now. 

Or  slumbering  in  the  grave. 
The  dust  of  time  has  dimmed  my  soul. 

And  'neath  vile  passion's  sway, 
Its  freshness  and  its  bloom  have  passed 

For  evermore  away. 

Yet  still  I  love  thee,  gentle  Clyde; 

For  aye,  as  with  a  spell. 
Thou  bring'st  me  back  the  cherished  forms 

In  memry's  haunts  that  dwell. 
Like  sunshine  on  the  distant  hills. 

Life's  early  joys  I  see: 
And  from  the  brightness  of  the  past, 

1  dream  what  heaven  may  be. 

Dear  stream,  long  may  thy  hills  be  green, 
Thy  woods  in  beauty  wave, 


402 


HUGH   MACDONALD. 


Thy  daughters  still  be  chaste  and  fair, 

Thy  sons  be  true  and  brave! 
And,  oh!  wiieii  from  this  weary  heart 

Has  ebbed  life's  purple  tide, 
May  it  be  mine,  'mongst  those  I've  loved. 

To  rest  on  thy  green  side. 


THE  BONNIE  WEE  WELL. 

The  bonnie  wee  well  on  the  breist  o'  the  brae, 
That  skinklos  sae  cauld  in  the  sweet  smile  o'  day. 
And  croons  a  laigh  sang  a'  to  pleasure  itsel' 
As  it  jinks  'neath  the  breckan  and  genty  blue- 
bell. 

The  bonnie  wee  well  on  the  breist  o'  the  brae 
Seems  an  image  to  me  o'  a  bairnie  at  play; 
For  it  springs  frae  the  yird  wi'  a  flicker  o'  glee, 
And  it  kisses  the  flowers,  while  its  ripple  they 
pree. 

The  bonnie  wee  well  on  the  breist  o'  the  brae 
Wins  blessings  and  blessings  fu'  monie  ilk  day; 
For  the  wayworn  and  weary  aft  rest  by  its  side, 
And  man,  wife,  and  wean  a'  are  richly  supplied. 

The  bonnie  wee  well  on  the  breist  o'  the  brae, 
Where  the  hare  steals  to  drink  in  the  gloamin' 

sae  gray. 
Where  the  wild  moorlan'  birds  dip  their  nebs  and 

tak'  wing, 
And  the  lark  weets  his  whistle  ere  mounting  to 

sing. 

Thou  bonnie  wee  well  on  the  breist  o'  the  brae, 
My  mem'ry  aft  haunts  thee  by  nicht  and  by  day; 
For  tlie  friends  I  ha'e  loved  in  the  years  that  are 

gane, 
Ha'e  knelt  by  thy  brim,  and  thy  gush  ha'e  par- 

ta'en. 

Thou  bonnie  wee  well  on  the  breist  o'  the  brae, . 
While  I  stoop  to  thy  bosom,  my  thirst  to  allay, 
I  will  drink  to  the  loved  ones  who  come  back  nae 

mair, 
And  my  tears  will  but  hallow  thy  bosom  sae  fair. 

Thou  bonnie  wee  well  on  the  breist  o'  the  brae, 
My  blessing  rests  with  thee,  wherever  I  stray; 
In  joy  and  in  sorrow,  in  sunshine  and  gloom, 
I  will  dream  of  thy  beauty,  thy  freshness,  and 
bloom. 

In  the  depths  of  the  city,  midst  turmoil  and  noise, 
I'll  oft  hear  with  rapture  thy  lone  trickling  voice, 
While  fancy  takes  wing  to  thy  rich  fringe  of 

green, 
And  ((uaffs  thy  cool  waters  in  noon's  gowden 

sheen. 


TO  OCTOBER. 

Gorgeous  are  thy  woods,  October! 

Clad  in  glowing  mantles  sear; 
Brightest  tints  of  beauty  blending. 
Like  the  west,  when  day's  descending, 

Thou'rt  the  sunset  of  the  year. 

Beauteous  are  thy  rowan  trees,  glowing 

With  tlieir  beads  of  coral  dye; 
Beauteous  are  thy  wild-rose  bushes. 
Where  the  hip  in  ripeness  blushes. 

Like  a  maid  whose  lover's  nigh. 

Sweet  to  see  thy  dark  eyes  peeping 

From  the  tangled  blackthorn  bough. 
Sweet  thy  elder's  purple  fruitage, 
Clustering  o'er  the  woodland  cottage; 
Sweet  thy  hawthorn's  crimson  glow. 

Fading  flowers  are  thine,  October! 

Droopeth  sad  the  sweet  bluebell. 
Gone  the  blossoms  April  cherished — 
Violet,  lily,  rose,  all  perished — 

Fragrance  fled  from  field  and  dell. 

Songless  are  thy  woods,  October! 

Save  when  redbreast's  mournful  lay 
Through  the  calm  gray  morn  is  swelling. 
To  the  list'ning  echoes  telling 

Tales  of  darkness  and  decay. 

Saddest  sounds  are  thine,  October! 

Music  of  the  falling  leaf 
O'er  the  pensive  spirit  stealing, 
To  its  inmost  depths  revealing; 

"Thus  all  gladness  sinks  in  grief."' 

I  do  love  thee,  drear  October! 

More  than  budding,  blooming  Spring, 
Hers  is  hope,  delusive  smiling, 
Trusting  hearts  to  grief  beguiling; 

Mem'ry  loves  thy  dusky  wing. 

Joyous  hearts  may  love  the  summer. 

Bright  with  sunshine,  song,  and  flower; 

But  the  heart  whose  hopes  are  blighted. 

In  the  gloom  of  woe  benighted, 
Better  loves  thy  kindred  bower. 

'Twas  in  thee,  thou  sad  October! 

Death  laid  low  my  bosom  flower. 
Life  hath  been  a  wintry  river 
O'er  whose  ripple  gladness  never 

Gleameth  brightly  since  that  hour. 

Hearts  would  fain  be  with  their  treasure, 

Mine  is  slumb'ring  in  the  clay; 
AVandering  here  alone,  unchccry, 
Dcem't  not  strange  this  heart  should  weary 
For  its  own  October  dav. 


ALEXANDER  M'LACHLAN. 


403 


ALEXANDEK    M'LACHLAN. 


Alex.vndek  ^1  •  Lachlan,  a  well-known  Scoto- 
Canadian  poet,  was  born  at  Johnstone,  in 
Renfi-ewshire,  August  12,  1818.  His  father, 
Charles  ]\I 'Lachlan,  was  a  mechanic  and  the 
autlior  of  some  very  respectable  verses.  In 
1820,  in  company  with  a  brother,  he  went  to 
Canada  and  purchased  land,  which  he  partially 
cleared,  and  set  out  on  his  return  to  Scothuul 
for  his  family,  but  died  on  the  way,  leaving  a 
wife  and  four  children  unprovided  for.  Alex- 
ander, the  only  son,  was  sent  by  the  mother 
as  soon  as  he  was  able  to  work  to  the  cotton 
factory,  where  the  pittance  which  he  earned 
helped  to  support  tlie  family.  But  he  soon 
grew  weary  of  the  thirteen  hours'  daily  im- 
prisonment in  the  factory,  and  left  it  to  become 
a  tailor's  apprentice.  At  this  time  he  devoted 
all  liis  leisure  hours  to  reading  Burns,  and  ere 
long  became  passionately  fond  of  poetry  and 
oratory.  He  went  far  and  near  to  hear  cele- 
brated speakers;  and  he  says  in  a  letter  to 
us  dated  Oct.  31,  1865,  "I  still  recollect  the 
feelings  of  rapture  with  which  I  listened  to 
Chalmers  and  O'Connell."  He  soon  began  to 
try  his  powers  as  a  poet  and  also  as  a  public 
speaker. 


In  1841  M'Lachlan  removed  to  Canada  and 
settled  on  a  farm,  but  for  many  years  he  has 
followed  tiie  vocation  of  a  lecturer  on  literary 
and  other  topics.  In  1862  he  was  sent  by  tlie 
Canadian  government  to  set  before  his  country- 
men in  Scotland  the  advantages  to  be  gained 
by  emigrating  to  Canada.  From  his  friends 
and  admirers  in  Johnstone  lie  received  a  public 
ovation,  and  was  at  the  same  time  presented 
with  an  elegant  Avalking-stick,  bearing  this 
inscription :  "Presented  to  Alexander  M'Lach- 
lan, Esq.,  Poet,  by  his  friends  at  a  public 
supper  given  him  in  Johnstone,  his  native 
town,  as  a  mark  of  respect,  and  as  a  memorial 
of  his  visit  to  this  country  from  Canada. 
Nov.  14,  1862."  Twelve  years  later  he  was 
again  entertained  by  his  fellow-townsmen,  and 
received  a  handsome  gift  of  books. 

M'Lachlan's  first  volume,  entitled  Poems, 
chief  1/  in  the  Scottish  Dialect,  Avas  published 
in  Canada  in  1855.  Three  years  later  another 
volume  with  the  title  Lyrics  appeared,  fol- 
lowed in  1861  by  The  Emigrant,  and  other 
Poems.  His  latest  publication,  a  liandsome 
octavo  volume  entitled  Poems  and  Songs, 
appeared  in  1874. 


I    WINNA    GAE   HAME. 


I  winna  gae  back  to  my  youtbfu'  haunts. 

For  they  are  nae  langer  fair — 
The  spoiler  has  been  in  the  glades  so  green 

And  sad  are  the  changes  there; 
The  plou'  has  been  to  the  very  brink 

O'  the  lovely  Locher  fa', 
And  beauty  has  fled  wi'  the  auld  yew-trees 

And  the  boimie  wee  birds  awa'. 

Young  spring  aye  cam'  the  earliest  there, 

Alang  wi'  her  dear  ciickoo, 
And  the  weary  autumn  lingered  lang 

Wi'  her  lonely  cusha-doo; 
And  peace  aye  nestled  in  ilka  nook 

0'  the  bonnie  gowany  glen, 
For  it's  always  Sabbath  among  the  flowers, 

Awa'  frae  the  haunts  o'  men. 


How  aft  hae  I  paused  in  thac  green  retreats 
0'  the  hare  and  the  foggy-bee, 

While  the  hntie  lilted  to  his  love- 
As  blythe  as  a  bird  could  be; 

And  the  yorlin  sang  on  the  whinny  knowe, 
In  the  cheery  morn  o'  spring, 

And  the  laverock  drapt  frac  the  cloud  at  e'en. 
To  fauld  up  her  weary  wing. 

And  the  mavis  sang  in  the  thorny  brake. 

And  the  blackbird  on  the  tree, 
And  the  lintwhite  tauld  his  tale  of  love, 

Far  down  hi  the  gowany  lea; 
And  the  moss  an'  the  cress  an'  the  crawflow'r  crept 

Sae  close  to  the  crystal  spring. 
And  the  water  cam'  wi'  a  laughin'  loup, 

And  awa'  like  a  living  thing. 


404 


ALEXANDER   M'LACHLAN. 


And  it  sang  its  way  tlr.o-.igh  the  green  retreats, 

In  a  voice  so  sweet  and  clear, 
That  the  rowan  hstened  on  the  rock, 

And  the  hazel  leaned  to  hear; 
And  the  water-lilies  raised  their  heads. 

And  the  bells  in  clusters  blue. 
And  the  primrose  came  wi'  its  modest  face, 

A'  wat  wi'  the  balmy  dew. 

And  the  hoary  hawthorn  hung  its  head- 
As  lapt  in  a  bhssfu'  dream, 

While  the  honeysuckle  strained  to  catch 
The  murmurs  o'  that  stream; 

And  the  buttercup  and  the  cowslip  pale. 
To  the  green,  green  margin  drew. 

And  the  gowan  cam'  and  brought  wi'  her 
The  bonnie  wee  violet  blue. 

And  the  red  red  rose  and  the  eglantine, 

And  the  stately  foxglove  came, 
And  mony  an'  mony  a  sweet  wee  flower. 

That  has  died  without  a  name; 
While  the  burnie  brattled  doun  the  brae, 

111  her  ain  blithe  merry  din. 
And  leapt  the  rocks  in  a  cloud  o'  spray. 

And  roared  in  the  boiling  hnn; 

And  churned  hersel'  into  silver  white, 

Into  bubbles  green  and  gay, 
And  rumbled  round  in  her  wild  delight, 

'Neath  the  rainbow's  lovely  ray; 
And  swirled,  and  sank,  and  rose  to  the  brim, 

Like  tlie  snawdrift  on  the  lee. 
And  then  in  bells  o'  the  rainbow's  rim, 

She  sang  awa'  to  the  sea. 

But  the  trees  are  felled  and  the  birds  are  gane. 

And  the  banks  are  lone  and  bare, 
And  wearily  now  she  drags  her  lane 

Wi'  the  heavy  sough  o'  care; 
And  fond  lovers  there  shall  meet  nae  mair. 

In  the  lang,  lang  simmer's  e'en, 
To  pledge  their  vows  'neath  the  spreading  boughs. 

Of  the  birk  and  the  beech  sae  green. 

In  a'  my  wanderings  far  or  near. 

Through  thir  woods  sae  wild  and  lane, 
There  was  still  ae  spot  to  memory  dear. 

That  I  hoped  to  see  again; 
But  I'll  no  gae  back,  I'll  no  gae  back, 

For  my  heart  is  sick  and  sair, 
And  I  couldna  bide  to  see  the  wreck 

O'  a  place  sae  sweet  and  fair. 


OLD  H  ANN  Air. 

'Tis  Sabbath  morn,  and  a  lioly  halm 
Drops  down  on  tlie  heart  like  dew, 
And  tlie  sunbeams  gleam 
Like  a  blessed  dream 


Afar  on  the  mountains  blue. 
Old  Hannah's  by  her  cottage  door, 
In  her  faded  widow's  cap; 

She  is  sitting  alone 

On  the  old  gray  stone, 
With  the  Bible  in  her  lap. 

An  oak  is  hanging  o'er  her  head, 
And  the  burn  is  wimpling  by; 

The  primroses  peep 

From  their  sylvan  keep. 
And  the  lark  is  in  the  sky. 
Beneath  that  shade  hercliiidren  played, 
But  they're  ail  away  with  Death, 

And  she  sits  alone 

On  tlie  old  gray  stone 
To  hear  wiiat  the  Spirit  saith. 

ller  years  are  o'er  threescore  and  Icn, 
And  her  eyes  are  waxing  dim, 

But  the  page  is  bright 

With  a  living  light, 
And  her  heart  leaps  up  to  Him 
\Vho  pours  the  mystic  harmony 
Which  the  soul  can  only  hear! 

She  is  not  alone 

On  the  old  gray  stone, 
The'  no  earthly  friend  is  near. 

Tliere's  no  one  left  to  love  her  now ; 
But  the  Eye  that  never  sleeps 
Looks  on  her  in  love 
From  the  heavens  above, 
And  with  quiet  joy  she  weeps: 
She  feels  the  balm  of  bliss  is  pour'd 
In  her  lone  heart's  deepest  rut; 
And  the  widow  lone 
On  the  old  gray  stone. 
Has  a  peace  the  world  knows  not. 


THE  HALLS   OF   HOLYROOD. 

0  let  me  sit  as  evening  falls 

In  sad  and  solemn  mood, 
Among  the  now  deserted  halls 

Of  ancient  Holyrood; 
And  think  liow  human  power  and  pride 

]\Iust  sink  into  decay, 
Or  like  the  bubbles  on  the  tide, 

Pass,  pass  away. 

No  more  the  joyous  crowd  resorts 

To  see  the  arciiers  good 
Draw  bow  wiliiin  tiie  ringing  courts 

Of  merry  Holyrood; 


ALEXANDER  M'LACHLAN. 


405 


Ah!  where's  that  high  and  haughty  race 

That  here  so  long  helil  sway, 
And  Avhere  the  jiliautoms  they  would  chase? 

Past,  past  away ! 

And  where  the  monks  and  friars  gray, 

That  oft  in  jovial  mood 
Would  revel  till  the  break  of  day 

In  merry  Holy  rood  ? 
Tlie  flagons  deep  are  emptied  out. 

The  revellers  all  away; 
They  come  not  to  renew  the  bout — 

Where,  where  are  they? 

And  where  the  plaided  chieftains  bold 

That  round  tlieir  monarch  stood? 
And  where  the  damsels  that  of  old 

Made  merry  Ilolyrood; 
And  where  that  fair,  ill-fated  queen, 

And  where  the  minstrels  gray 
Tiiat  made  those  vaulted  arches  ring  — 

Where,  where  are  they  ? 

Tlio'  mould' ring  are  the  minstrels'  bones, 

Their  thouglits  have  time  withstood — 
They  live  in  snatches  of  old  songs 

Of  ancient  Holyrood. 
For  thrones  and  dynasties  depart. 

And  diadems  decay — 
But  those  old  gushings  of  the  heart 

Xever  pass  away. 


MAY. 


0  sing  and  rejoice! 
Give  to  gladness  a  voice. 

Shout  a  welcome  to  beautiful  May! 
Rejoice  with  the  flowers. 
And  the  birds  'mong  the  bowers. 

And  away  to  the  greenwoods,  away! 
0  blithe  as  the  fawn, 
Let  us  dance  in  the  dawn 

Of  this  life-giving,  glorious  day; 
'Tis  bright  as  the  first 
Over  Eden  that  burst  — 

Tiiou'rt  welcome,  young  joy-giving  May! 

The  cataract's  horn 
Has  awaken'd  the  morn. 

Her  tresses  are  dripping  with  dew; 
0  hush  thee,  and  hark! 
'Tis  her  herald,  the  lark, 

Tiiat's  singing  afar  in  tiie  blue. 
Its  happy  heart's  rushing. 
In  strains  wildly  gushing, 

Tiiut  reach  to  the  revelling  earth. 


And  sink  through  the  deeps 
Of  the  soul,  till  it  leaps 
Into  raptures  far  deeper  than  mirth. 

All  nature's  in  keeping! 

The  live  streams  are  leaping 
And  laugiiing  in  gladness  along; 

The  great  iiills  are  heaving, 

The  dark  clouds  are  leaving, 
The  valleys  have  burst  into  song. 

We'll  range  through  the  delis 

Of  the  bonnie  bluebelLs, 
And  sing  with  the  streams  on  their  way: 

We'll  lie  in  the  shades 

Of  the  flower-covered  glades 
And  hear  what  the  primroses  say. 

0,  crown  me  flowers 

'Neath  the  green  spreading  bower.s, 

With  the  gems,  and  the  jewels  May  brings 
In  the  light  of  her  eyes. 
And  the  depth  of  her  dyes. 

We'll  smile  at  the  purple  of  kings. 
AVe'U  throw  off"  our  years 
AVith  their  sorrows  and  tears, 

And  time  will  not  number  the  hours 
We'll  spend  in  the  woods, 
AVliere  no  sorrow  intrudes. 

With  the  streams,  and  the  birds,  and 
flowers. 


til 


LORD  LINDSAY'S  RETURX. 

0  weel  I  mind  of  that  happy  morn, 
When  I  blew  the  hunter's  bugle-horn, 

And  the  sound  through  the  leafy  lane  was  borne. 

And  the  joyous  brothers,  fair  and  tall, 
Came  bounding  forth  from  the  castle  hall. 
With  their  ringing  welcome,  one  and  all. 

And  a  sister  came  with  her  fairy  foot, 
The  happy  sprite  of  that  green  i-etrcat; 
Oh  why!  oh  why!  did  we  ever  meet? 

And  we  ranged  th?  dells  and  the  forest  free, 
And  0,  what  a  joyous  band  were  we, 
Happy  as  only  young  hearts  can  be! 

No  sorrow  came  to  those  bowers  so  green, 

For  wo  had  no  time  to  think,  I  ween, 

On  the  what  might  be,  or  the  what  had  been. 

But  I  left  them  all  for  a  distant  land, 

Where  the  lakes  and  the  woods  are  wild  and 

grand. 
But  my  heart  still  turn'd  to  that  joyous  band. 

Aweary  of  fortune's  fickle  gleams, 

1  sat  me  down  by  the  stranger's  streams. 
And  wandcr'd  away  to  the  land  of  dreams. 


406 


ALEXANDER   M'LACHLAN. 


Again  we  rang'd  through  the  forest  free, 
And  sang  our  songs  'neath  the  greenwood  tree, 
Happy  as  only  young  hearts  can  be! 

When  many  a  year  had  roll'd  away. 

And  mine  auburn  locks  were  tinged  with  gray, 

I  homeward  went  on  a  joyous  day. 

And  on  to  the  hall  I  hurried  fast, 

And  the  green  lanes  knew  me  as  I  past, 

And  the  old  hills  said,  "Thou  art  come  at  last." 

Again,  as  on  the  happy  morn 

I  blew  the  hunter's  bugle-horn, 

And  the  sound  through  the  leafy  lane  was  borne. 

With  hope  and  fear  my  heart  did  bound. 
But  no  one  came  at  the  welcome  sound. 
And  Echo  only  answer'd  round. 

And  I  rush'd  into  the  castle  hall, 

But  I  found,  for  the  true  hearts  one  and  all. 

But  pictures  hanging  on  the  wall. 

For  the  joyous  ones  were  dead  and  gone. 

And  their  names  inscrib'd  on  a  mould'ring  stone 

In  the  village  churchyard  old  and  lone. 

And  the  forester  was  old  and  gray. 

And  he  said,  that  like  the  flowers  of  May, 

He  saw  them  one  by  one  decay. 

And  I  sought  once  more  the  greenwood  tree. 
And  I  .sat  me  down  and  sighed,  "Ah  me!" 
Sorry  as  only  old  hearts  can  be ! 


SCOTL.\ND   REA^ISITED,  OR  THE 
WANDERERS  RETURN. 

When  mony  a  year  had  come  and  gane, 

And  I'd  grown  auld  and  hoary, 
And  mony  a  hope  liad  proven  vain, 

And  mony  a  dream  o'  glory; 
Tlien  backward  to  my  cliildhood'.s  liame 

A  weary  langing  sent  me, 
I  found  my  native  vale  the  same, 

But  very  few  that  kent  me. 

There  were  the  liills  my  childhood  saw, 

They  look'd  as  if  tiiey  knew  me; 
And  well  they  might! — when  far  awa' 

Oh  liow  they  did  piir.sue  me! 
And  tiicrc  amang  the  hroomy  braes 

I  often  paus'd  and  ponder'd 
Upon  the  joy.s  o'  ither  day.-<, 

Tlien  on  again  I  wander'd. 

At  length  our  cot  appcar'd  in  view, 
0  weel  I  kent  the  biggin. 


There  was  the  same  o'erhanging  yew 
And  thack  upon  the  riggin'; 

And  there  the  winnock  in  the  en' 
Wi'  woodbine  train'd  sae  trimly. 

And  up  aboon  the  cosie  den 
Reek  swirlin'  frae  the  chimly. 

0  how  my  heart  leapt  at  the  sicht, 
Till' I  could  hardly  bear  it; 

1  felt  as  if  I  wad  gang  gite, 

For  I  was  maist  deleerit. 
And  hurrying  to  the  sacred  spot. 

Ilk  thump  cam'  quick  and  quicker, 
I  tried  to  pray,  but  in  my  throat 

The  words  grew  thick  and  thicker. 

To  hide  my  tears  I  vainly  strove. 

For  nae  ane  cam'  to  meet  me, 
Nae  mother  wi'  her  look  o'  love, 

Nae  sister  cam'  tae  greet  me: 
For  gane  were  they,  baith  ane  an'  a'. 

The  dear  hearts  tliat  I  cherish'd, 
Gane,  like  the  flowers  o'  spring  awa', 

Or  like  a  vision  perished. 

This  was  the  spot  of  all  most  dear. 

Where  all  my  dreams  were  centr'd; 
And  yet,  wi'  trembling  and  wi'  fear, 

Beneath  that  roof  I  enterd. 
There  was  tlie  place  my  father  sat. 

Beside  my  mother  spinning, 
An'  a'  the  bairns,  wi'  merry  chat, 

In  joy  around  lier  riuning. 

There  in  the  cottage  of  my  birtli. 

The  same  roof-tree  above  me, 
I  stood,  a  wanderer  on  the  eartli, 

AVith  nae  ane  left  to  love  me. 
Oh!  I  had  often  stood  alone 

On  many  a  post  of  danger. 
But  never  wept  till  standing  on 

My  native  hearth— a  stranger! 

I  sought  the  auld  kirkyard  alanc. 

Where  a'  the  lov'd  are  sleeping. 
And  only  the  memorial  stane 

Its  watch  aboon  them  keeping; 
It  only  said  that  tiiey  were  dead — 

Once  here,  but  now  departed  ; 
A'  gane!  a'  gane!  to  their  lang  hame. 

The  true,  the  gcutle-hearled. 

0  life,  I  cried,  is  all  a  woe, 

A  journey  lang  and  dreary : 
Is  there  nae  hame  to  which  we  go, 
Nae  heart-liamc  for  tlic  weary? 

1  cleared  tiie  weeds  frae  aff  the  stane, 

And  lang  I  sat  and  ponder'd 
Upon  the  days  for  ever  gane, 
Then  wcarv  on  I  wander'd. 


WILLIAM   STIRLING  MAXWELL. 


407 


WILLIAM    STIELING    MAXWELL. 


Sir  William  Stirling  Maxwell,  Bart. ,  an 
influential  member  of  the  Conservative  party, 
was  born  at  Kenraurc,  near  Glasgow,  March  8, 
1818.    He  is  the  only  son  of  the  late  Archibalil 
Stirling  of  Keir,  Perthshire,  the  representative 
of  an  old  and  wealthy  family;  his  mother  was 
a  daughter  of  Sir  John  Maxwell,   Bart.,  of 
Pollock,  Renfrewshire.     lie  was  educated  at 
Trinity  College,  Cambridge,  where  he  graduated 
B.A.  in  1839  and  M.A.  in  1843.     Soon  after 
he   printed    for    private   circulation   a   small 
volume  of  poems  entitled    The  Somjs  of  the 
IIolij  Land,  composed  chiefly  during  a  visit 
to  Palestine.     Having  turned  his  attention  to 
the  study  of  Spanish  history,  literature,  and 
art,  he  resided  some  time  in  France  and  Spain 
for  the  prosecution  of  his  researches.    He  wrote 
The  Ajinals  of  the  Artists  of  Spain,  issued  in 
three  volumes  in  1848;   The  Cloister  Life  of 
Charles   V.,  published  in  1852,  for  which  be 
had   carefully   prepared    himself  by   visiting 
the  convent  of  Yuste,  the  place  to  which  the 
monarch  retired,  as  well  as  by  a  most  diligent 
search  for  materials  in  the  archives  of  France; 
Velasquez  and  his  Works,  issued  in  1855;  and 
The  Chief  Victories  of  the  Emperor  Charles 
v.,  desi'jned  by  Martin  Heimskerch  in  1555, 
and  now  illustrated  icith  j)ortraits,  2)rints,  and 
notes:  London,  1870,  folio,  privately  printed. 

At  the  general  election  in  1852  Stirling  was 
returned  to  the  House  of  Commons  as  member 
for  Perthshire,  which  county  he  continues  to 
represent.      In   1865,    by   the   death   of    his 


maternal  uncle  Sir  John  Maxwell,  he  became 
heir  to  the  baronetcy,  and  assumed  the  name 
of  Maxwell.  He  was  elected  rector  of  St. 
Andrews  University  in  1863,  when  he  received 
the  degree  of  LL.D. ;  and  he  was  honoured 
with  the  same  high  o.lice  by  the  University  of 
Edinburgh  in  1872.  Three  years  later  he  was 
elected  chancellor  of  the  University  of  Glasgow 
as  successor  to  the  late  Duke  of  Montrose.  Sir 
William  married  in  1865  Lady  Anna  Maria 
Melville,  third  daughter  of  David,  eighth  earl 
of  Leven  and  Melville,  who  died  December  8, 
1874,  leaving  two  sons. 

Among  various  published  or  privately-printed 
books  edited  or  written  by  Sir  'William,  may 
be  mentioned  Lemmata  Proverb ialia ;  Cata- 
loguesof  Books  relating  to  Proverbs,  Emblems, 
and  Ana,  and  to  the  Arts  of  Design,  in  the 
Library  at  Keir,  1860,  two  vols.  8vo;  a  Iiand- 
some  volume  issued  in  1873,  entitled  The 
Turks  in  1533;  a  series  of  drawings  made  in 
that  year  at  Constantinople  by  Peter  Coeck  of 
Aelst;  and  in  1875  two  volumes  folio,  en- 
titled The  Entry  of  the  Emperor  Charles  V. 
into  Bologna,  Nov.  5,  1529;  and  The  Proces- 
sion of  Pope  Clement  VI I.  and  the  Emperor 
Charles  V.  on  the  occasion  of  the  Coronation, 
Bologna,  Fehruaru  'SJf,  1530.  These  magni- 
ficent series  of  engravings  were  drawn  and 
designed  the  first  by  an  anonymous  Venetian, 
and  the  second  by  Nicholas  Hogenberg,  and 
have  been  reproduced  in  fac- simile  from  the 
very  rare  originals. 


E  U  T  H 


The  golden  smile  of  morning 

On  the  hills  of  Moab  play'd, 
When  at  the  city's  western  gate 

Their  steps  three  women  stay'd. 
One  laden  was  with  years  and  care, 

A  gray  and  faded  dame, 
Of  Judah's  ancient  lineage. 

And  Naomi  her  name; 
And  two  were  daughters  of  the  land. 

Fair  Orpah  and  sweet  lluth. 


Their  faces  wearing  still  the  bloom, 

Their  eyes  the  light  of  youth; 
But  all  were  childless  widows. 

And  garb'd  in  weeds  of  woe. 
And  their  hearts  were  full  of  sorrow. 

And  fast  their  tears  did  flow. 
For  the  Lord  God  from  Naomi 

Her  spouse  and  sons  had  taken. 
And  she  and  these  that  were  their  wives. 

Are  widow'd  and  forsaken; 


408 


AVILLIAM   STIRTJNG  MAXWELL. 


And  wish  or  liope  her  bosom  knows 

None  other  but  to  die, 
And  lay  her  bones  in  Bethlehem, 

Where  all  her  kindred  lie. 
So  gives  she  now  upon  the  way 

To  Jordan's  western  waters — 
Her  farewell  kisses  and  her  tears 

Unto  her  weeping  daugiiters: 
"Sweet  daughters  mine,  now  turn  again 

Unto  your  homes,"  she  said, 
"And  for  the  love  ye  bear  to  me. 

The  love  ye  bear  the  dead, 
The  Lord  with  you  deal  kindly, 

And  give  you  joy  and  rest, 
And  send  to  each  a  faithful  mate 

To  clieer  her  widow'd  breast." 

Then  long  and  loud  their  weeping  was, 

And  sore  was  their  lament, 
And  Orpah  kiss'd  sad  Naomi, 

And  bactk  to  Jloab  went; 
But  gentle  Ruth  to  Naomi 

Did  cleave  with  close  embrace. 
And  earnest  spoke,  witli  loving  eyes 

Up-gazing  in  her  face — 
"Entreat  me  not  to  leave  tliee. 

Nor  sever  from  thy  side, 
For  where  tiiou  goest  I  will  go. 

Where  tiiou  bidest  I  will  bide; 
Thy  people  still  my  people, 

And  thy  God  my  God  sliall  be; 
And  where  thou  diest  I  will  die. 

And  make  my  grave  witli  thee." 

So  Naomi,  not  loath,  was  won 

Unto  her  gentle  will; 
And  thence  with  faces  westward  set. 

They  fared  o'er  plain  and  hill ; 
Tiie  Lord  their  staff,  till  Bethlehem 

l{ose  fair  upon  their  sight, 
A  rock-built  town  Avith  towery  crown, 

In  evening's  purple  light, 
'.Midst  slopes  in  vine  and  olive  clad, 

And  spread  along  the  brook, 
White  fields,  with  barley  waving, 

That  woo'd  the  reaper's  hook. 

Now  for  the  sunny  harvest  field 

Sweet  Ruth  her  mother  leaves, 
And  goes  agleaning  after 

The  maids  that  bind  the  sheaves. 
And  the  great  lord  of  the  harvest 

Is  of  her  husband's  race, 
And  looks  upon  the  lonely  one 

With  gentleness  and  grace; 
.Vnd  he  loves  her  for  the  brightness 

And  freshness  of  her  youth, 
And  for  iicr  unforgetting  love, 

Her  firm  enduring  truth — 


The  love  and  truth  that  guided  Ruth 

The  border  mountains  o'er, 
Where  her  peoijle  and  her  own  land 

She  left  for  evermore. 

So  he  took  her  to  his  home  and  heart, 

And  years  of  soft  repose 
Did  recompense  her  patient  faith, 

Her  meekly-suft'er'd  woes; 
And  she  became  the  noblest  dame 

Of  palmy  Palestine, 
And  the  stranger  was  the  mother 

Of  that  grand  and  glorious  line 
Whence  sprang  our  royal  David, 

In  the  tide  of  generations. 
The  anointed  king  of  Israel, 

The  terror  of  the  nations: 
Of  whose  pure  seed  hath  God  decreed 

Jlcssiah  shall  be  born, 
AVhen  the  day-spring  from  on  high  shall  light 

The  golden  lands  of  morn ; 
Then  heathen  tongues  shall  tell  the  tale 

Of  tenderness  and  truth — ■ 
Of  the  gentle  deed  of  Boaz, 

And  the  tender  love  of  Ruth, 


THE  ABDICATION  OF  CHARLES  V.i 

In   Bruxelles    Emperor   Charles   abode,    fifth 

Cffisar  of  the  name; 
Weary  with  life's  long  toil  was  he,  and  rack'd 

with  gout  his  frame; 
His  cheek  was  pale,  his  step  was  frail,  seldom 

he  crossed  the  door. 
He  could  not  rule  as  he  had  ruled  in  the  good 

days  of  yore, 
Nor  meet  the  French  in  field  and  trench  as  he 

was  wont  to  do, 
When  o'er  the  Flemish  border  the  lilied  banner 

flew ; 
Wherefore  he  had  devis'd  and  dealt  to  lay  the 

burden  down 
Of  pomp,  and  power,  and  majesty;  of  sceptre, 

orb,  and  crown; 
And  all  his  world-wide  heritage,  and  all  his 

sword  had  won, 
To  give  unto  Don  Philip  now,  his  dear  and 

only  son, 

1  This  poem  is  a  translation  of  a  Spanish  ballad  or 
romance,  printed  in  the  Cancionero  Gmeml,  Ant«er|), 
loTV,  descriptive  of  the  alidioation  of  the  sovereignty  of 
the  Low  Countries  by  the  emi  eror  at  Bnissels.  The 
al)ilication  took  place  in  the  same  hall  in  which,  more 
than  forty  years  before,  Charles  had  been  iireseiit.il 
by  his  aunt  Margn-et  to  a  similar  uuilience  as  reigniu;i 
sovereign  of  the  Netherlands.— Kd. 


WILLIAM   STIRIJNG  MAXWELL. 


409 


Don  Pliilip,  King  of  England,  who  that  noble 

realm  had  brought 
Back  to  Christ's  faith  from  heresy  by  rebel 

Luther  taught. 
So  Cfesar  and  the  Englisli  King  in  Bruxellcs 

town  were  met, 
And    paction  was   between  them    made,   and 

time  of  signing  set; 
The  year  of  grace  one  thousand  was,  five  hun- 
dred fifty-five. 
The  famous  year  that  saw  the  morn  of  this 

great  deed  arrive, 
Friday,  October  twenty-five,  three  afternoon, 

the  day 
And  hour,  Avhen  Coesar  sign'd  and  scal'd  his 

diadems  away. 

At  Bruxelles,  in  the  ancient  hall  within  the 

castle  gate. 
Where  valiant  Dukes  of  Burgundy  erst  kept 

their  royal  state. 
Upon    the    dais    richl}'    dight,    beneath    the 

canopy. 
The  throne  was  set,  and  all  a-row  stood  chairs 

of  honour  three. 
Fair  Flanders'  looms  had  spread  the  walls  with 

storied  hangings  o'er; 
And  Caesar  and  Don  Philip  came,  with  trum- 
pets blown  before. 
With  Mary,  Queen  of  Hungary,  high  lady  wise 

and  wight, 
And  Savoy's  Duke  of  iron  mould,  and  many  a 

lord  and  knight 
Of  broad  Brabant  and  proud  Castllle,  great 

chiefs  of  war  and  peace. 
Grave  magistrates  of  towns  and  states,   and 

knights  of  Golden  Fleece. 

Then  Ciesar  sat  upon  his  throne  with  calm  and 

gracious  mien. 
And  right  and  left  on  either  hand,  bade  sit  the 

King  and  Queen; 
And  near  the  Queen  the  Duke  was  set;  and 

down  below,  the  floor 
Scarce  held  the  folk  that  throng'd  to  see,  a 

thousand  souls  and  more. 
So  when  the  heralds  silence  call'd,  the  whis- 
pering hum  was  still. 
And  rose  the  Chancellor  of  the  Fleece  to  speak 

the  Emperor's  will ; 
In   weighty,  well-grac'd   words   he   .said   how 

Caesar's  Majesty 
Would  pass  the  evening  of  his  days  from  broil 

and  battle  free. 
And  giving  to  Don  Philip  now  his  royal  place 

and  state, 
Will'd  that  his  loving  people's  will   the  gift 

should  consecrate. 


Then  slowly,  when  the  Chancellor  ceas'd,  the 

Emperor  arose. 
And  told  of  all  his  toils  at  home,  and  wars 

with  foreign  foes, 
How  twice  to  heathen  Barbary  his  Christian 

flag  he  bore. 
And  now  eleven  times  liad  passed  the  stormy 

ocean  o'er, 
And  how  one  passage  moi-e,  the  twelfth,   for 

him  did  yet  remain. 
If  God  should  grant  his  sole  desire,  to  end  his 

days  in  S]iain. 
From  his  first  hour  of  royal  power  it  had  been 

his  endeavour 
Justice  to  mete  and  right  to  do   with  equal 

balance  ever; 
But  if  in  absence,  or  by  chance  or  frailty  led 

astray, 
AVrong  he  had  done,  he  pray'd  them  all  to 

pardon  him  that  day: 
And  so  he  bade  tiiem  all  farewell,  and  left 

them  to  his  son, 
Their  lord,  whose  rule   in  other  realms   the 

people's  hearts  had  won; 
This  witting,  he,  for  such  a  son,  could  joyfully 

lay  down 
The  sacred  trust  he  else  had  kept,  of  sceptre, 

sword,  and  crown; 
And  last  of  all,  in  earnest  wise  three  things  he 

did  commend 
Unto  their  care,  and  bid  them  hold  in  honour 

to  the  end: 
Their  holy  faith,  their  country's  peace,  their 

duty  to  their  lord. 
Who  lov'd  them,  and  would   win  their  love: 

this  was  his  parting  word. 

Then  rose  the  King  unbonneted,   and   stood 

before  the  throne. 
And  for  his  father's  gracious  words,  and  grace 

and  favour  done. 
Gave  thanks;  and  humbly  kneeling  down  he 

sought  to  kiss  his  hand, 
But  Cajsar  threw  his  arms  about  his  neck  and 

bade  him  stand; 
And  many  a  tear  was  shed  the  while  by  loving 

sire  and  son. 
And  by  the  Queen,  and  Duke,  and  Knights, 

and  nobles  every  one. 

Next  for  the  Cities  and  Estates  a  learnt  jurist 
spake. 

And  told  tlie  Emperor  how  well  they  were  con- 
tent to  take 

His  hopeful  son  their  lord  to  be;  whereon  Don 
Philip  bade 

The  reverend  Lord  of  Arras  speak,  who  cour- 
teous answer  made. 


410 


THOMAS   C.   LATTO. 


Then  last  the  good  Queen  Mary  rose,  of  her 

long  reign  to  tell, 
And  bid  in  fair  and  gentle  speech  her  people 

all  farewell ; 
Foremost  of  lands  to  make  their  land — for  tiiis 

she  still  had  striven, 
And  now  for  faults  and  errors  past  she  sued  to 

be  forgiven. 

In   courtly    words    th'   Estates   replied    tliey 

mourn'd  to  see  her  go, 
But  with  them  still  Avas  law  her  will,  and  she 

would  have  it  so. 
Wherewith    the    goodly   company   arose    and 

went  their  way 
As  evening  fell;  and  so  the  King  became  our 

Lord  that  dav. 


SHALLUM. 

Oh,  waste  not  thy  woe  on  the  dead,  nor  bemoan  him. 
Who  finds  with  his  fathers  the  grave  of  his  rest; 

Sweet   slumber  is   his,  who   at   night-fall  hath 
thrown  him 
Near  bosoms  that  waking  did  love  him  the  best. 

But  sorely  bewail  him,  the  weary  world-ranger. 
Shall  ne'er  to  the  home  of  his  people  return; 

His  weeping  worn  eyes  must  be  closed   by  the 
stranger. 
No  tear  of  true  sorrow  shall  hallow  his  urn. 

And  mourn  for  the  monarch  that  went  out  of  Zion, 
King  Shallum,  the  son  of  Josiah  the  Just; 

For  he  the  cold  bed  of  the  captive  shall  die  on, 
Afar  from  his  land,  nor  return  to  its  dust. 


THOMAS    C.    LATTO. 


Thomas  C.vrstairs  Latto,  author  of  the 
fine  song  "When  we  were  at  the  Schule,"  was 
born  in  the  parish  of  Kingsbarns,  Fifeshire, 
Dec.  1,  1818.  His  father,  Alexander  Latto,  was 
the  parish  schoolmaster;  his  mother's  name 
was  Christina  Anderson.  After  receiving  his 
elementary  education  in  his  father's  school 
Latto  entered  the  L'niversity  of  St.  Andrews, 
where  he  proved  himself  a  good  student  during 
the  five  sessions  that  he  continued  there.  In 
1838  he  went  to  Edinburgh,  and  entered  the 
office  of  John  Hunter,  auditor  of  the  Court 
of  Session,  M'here  he  acted  as  the  Parliament 
House  and  conveyancing  clerk.  He  was  after- 
wards employed  in  the  office  of  William  ]\Iac- 
kenzic  of  Muriston,  W.S.,  agent  for  the  Duke 
of  Sutherland  and  the  Seaforth  family.  He 
subscfjuently  acted  as  clerk  to  Professor  Aytoun, 
and  at  a  later  period  became  managing  clerk 
to  a  solicitor  in  Dundee.  Latto  in  a  letter  to 
the  Editor,  dated  May  10,  1872,  says:— "My 
connection  with  Professor  Aytoun  was  merely 
nominal.  I  did  no  work  for  him,  and  received 
no  compensation  I  .  .  .  Hunter  was  a  man  of 
fine  literary  abilities,  and  would  fain  have  been 
a  poet,  but  lacked  the  power  of  expression. 
He  was  of  the  gentlest  nature,  and  one  of  the 
most  genial  of  men.  Muriston  was  quite  a 
character,  and  noted  for  his  high  temper,  but 


in  the  three  years  that  I  was  with  him — and 
I  was  constantly  in  his  room — we  never  had 
a  tiff.  He  did  not  require  my  presence  after 
three  o'clock,  so  that  I  was  pretty  much  my 
own  master.  It  Avas  a  great  mistake  I  made 
when  I  left  him  to  go  to  Dundee." 

In  1852  Latto  entered  into  business  in 
Glasgow  as  a  commission  merchant,  and  sub- 
sequently went  to  New  York.  He  adds:  "My 
life  since  I  came  to  America  has  not  been  vcr}' 
eventful,  but  it  has  been  somewhat  chequered. 
Poets,  if  I  may  reckon  myself  among  the 
n  umber,  have  rarely  much  of  the  money-mak ing 
faculty,  and  in  this  regard  I  am  a  true  txdes. 
I  have  always,  however,  been  prudent,  steady, 
and  careful;  and  if  I  have  not  commanded 
success,  have  at  least  endeavoured  to  deserve 
it.  ...  I  started  the  Scottish  American 
Journal,  a  number  of  my  friends  taking  shares, 
but  the  financial  troubles  of  1857  compelled 
me  to  leave  the  paper,  which  was  continued 
and  is  now  flourishing."  Latto  then  entered 
the  publishing  house  of  Ivison  &  Co.  of  New 
York,  where  he  remained  for  eleven  years — 
"the  most  peaceful  period  of  my  life,"  he  says. 
In  1871  he  began  business  as  a  real-estate  agent 
in  Brooklyn,  Avhere  he  at  present  resides  Avith 
his  family. 

Latto's  first  poetical  effusions  appeared  in 


THOMAS   C.   LATTO. 


411 


tlie  Fife  Herald  while  he  was  at  college,  but 
always  anonymously  or  with  the  name  of  some 
other  student  affixed — a  liberty  at  which  it 
appears  no  ofFence  was  ever  taken.  JIany  of 
liis  later  songs  appeared  in  tlie  pages  of  Whistle- 
hinkle  and  tlie  Book  of  Scott'.nh Song.  In  184") 
he  edited  a  poem  entitled  "  The  Jlinister's 
Kail -yard,"  which,  with  a  number  of  his  own 
compositions,  Avas  published  in  Edinburgh  in 
tliat  year.  Mr.  Latto's  principal  work,  "The 
Yillage-school  E.xamination,"  completed  some 
years  ago,  is  still  in  manuscript;  but  it  is 
his  intention  to  have  it  published,  with  other 
tales  and  songs,  in  Scotland.   We  have  pleasure 


in  presenting  to  our  readers  an  extract  from 
this  fine  picture  of  Scottish  life,  exhibiting  so 
many  interesting  reminiscences  of  home  and 
boyhood.  Mr.  Latto  has  been  a  frequent 
contributor  to  the  periodicals  of  his  adopted 
country,  as  he  was  before  leaving  Scotland  to 
those  of  his  native  land,  including  Tail's 
Magazine.  His  lines  on  the  American  novelist 
J.  Fenimore  Cooper,  which  appeared  in  Harper's 
Magazine  for  June,  1870,  are  among  the  finest 
that  he  has  written,  and  are  worthy  of  the 
author  of  "The  Grave  of  Sir  ATalter  Scott," 
first  published  in  the  pages  of  Blackwood's 
Magazine. 


THE    GRAVE    OF    SIR    WALTER    SCOTT. 


'Twas  gloamin',  and  the  autumn  sun 

Had  shed  his  last  and  loveliest  smile, 
AVhen  late  I  ferried  o'er  the  stream, 

To  Dryburgh's  mouldering  pile: 
For  I  had  wander'd  from  afar, 

And  brav'd  the  wild  Atlantic's  wave, 
To  see  the  poet's  resting-place — 

The  "mighty^  Wizard's"  grave. 

I  stood  within  the  ruin'd  fane, 

Beside  Saint  JMary's  grated  aisle, 
Xo  sound  was  in  that  lonely  spot, 

Ko  voice  was  on  the  gale. 
Save  when  at  intervals  there  came 

A  mournful  music  sweet  and  slow — 
The  murmur  of  his  own  loved  Tweed 

That  calmly  roU'd  below. 

I  linger'd  till  the  harvest-moon 

Peer'd  through  the  ivied  loopholes  there, 
And  still  delay'd  to  quit  a  scene 

So  gloomy,  yet  so  fair. 
And  was  it  here,  life's  fever  o'er. 

In  this  sequester'd  holy  spot. 
Lay  mingling  with  its  kindred  clay 

The  dust  of  Walter  Scott? 

I  gazed  with  feelings  strange  and  sad, 

FulfiU'd  the  cherish'd  wish  of  years, 
I  leant  my  brow  against  the  stone, 

And  melted  into  tears. 
Ah !  where  is  now  the  flashing  eye 

That  kindled  up  at  Flodden  field- 
That  saw  in  fancy  onsets  fierce, 

And  clashing  spear  and  shield? 

The  eager  and  untiring  step 

That  urged  the  search  for  Border  lore. 


To  make  Old  Scotland's  heroes  known 

On  every  peopled  shore? 
Tlie  wondrous  spell  that  summon'd  up 

The  charging  squadrons  fierce  and  fast, 
And  garnish'd  every  cottage  wall 

With  pictures  of  the  past? 

The  graphic  pen  that  drew  at  once 

The  traits  alike  so  truly  shown 
In  Bertram's  faithful  pedagogue 

And  haughty  Marmion? 
The  hand  that  equally  could  paint. 

And  give  to  each  proportion  fair. 
The  stern,  the  wild  Meg  ]\Ierrilees, 

And  lovely  Lady  Clare? 

Tlie  glowing  dreams  of  bright  romance. 

That  teeming  fiU'd  his  ample  brow — 
Where  is  his  darling  chivalry — • 

AVhere  are  his  visions  now? 
The  open  hand,  the  generous  heart. 

That  joy'd  to  soothe  a  neighbour's  pains? 
Nought,  nought  I  see  save  grass  and  weeds. 

And  solemn  silence  reigns. 

The  flashing  eye  is  dimm'd  for  aye, 

The  stalwart  limb  is  stiff  and  cold, 
Xo  longer  pours  his  trumpet-note 

To  wake  the  jousts  of  old. 
The  generous  heart,  tiie  open  hand. 

The  ruddy  cheek,  the  silver  hair. 
Are  mouldering  in  the  silent  dust — 

All,  all  is  lonely  there. 

What  if  it  be?  his  fame  resounds 

To  far  creation's  farthest  rim; 
Ko  forest,  lake,  or  mountain  gray 

But  speaks  and  breathes  of  him. 


412 


THOMAS   C.   LATTO. 


AVhy  pours  yon  stream  by  Holyrood?  ^ 
'ilong  weeds  they  look  for  Muschat's  pile: 

AVhy  dart  yon  boats  from  fair  Kinross? 
They  seek  Lochleven's  isle. 

"Why  flock  yon  crowds  up  Benvenue, 

What  marvels  there  their  gaze  await? 
Dost  thou  not  know  the  meanest  cairn 

Genius  can  consecrate? 
Yes!  castle,  hike,  and  moated  wall — 

The  outlaw's  glen  and  cavern  grim. 
Have  each  a  tongue,  if  thou  canst  feel, 

To  speak  and  breathe  of  him. 

The  victor  on  the  battle-field 

Looks  proudly  round,  and  claims  the  prize; 
But  thou  beneath  us  hast  achieved 

Far  mightier  victories. 
The  hero  when  in  death  he  falls, 

Nations  may  hail  his  deeds  divine; 
Ah!  bought  with  blood  and  widows'  tears. 

His  fame  is  poor  to  thine! 

"Give  me,"  the  Syracusan  cried, 

And  saw  a  globe  in  fancy  hurled — 
"Give  me  but  where  to  plant  my  foot. 

And  I  will  move  the  world!" 
Now  Scotland!  triumph  in  a  son 

AVho  triumphed  in  a  grander  thought; 
Great  Archimedes,  now  outdone. 

Bows  to  thy  Walter  Scott — 

Who  the  gigantic  lever  plied, 

And  plies  while  we  his  fame  rehearse. 
Swaying,  obedient  to  his  Mill, 

A  moral  universe. 
Behold  thick  Prejudice  dispell'd  ! 

And  whose  the  blest,  the  god-like  boon? 
The  Sun  of  Waver  ley  arose 

And  made  the  darkness  noon. 

Deem  ye  his  tales  an  idle  task  ? 

They  joined  the  poles  in  kindly  span — 
Made  seas  but  highways  to  our  friends, 

And  man  to  feel  for  man. 
They  showed  the  proud  what  worth  might  glow 

Beneath  a  breast  that  russet  wore : 
They  gave  the  hind  a  rank  and  place 

lie  had  not  known  before. 

Yes!  persecuted  Hebrew  I  tell 

Where'er  a  Jewish  maid  may  roam. 
She  knows,  she  feels,  in  every  heart 

Hebecca  has  a  home. 
The  Paynim  in  a  hostile  land 

Throws  down  his  sword  and  counts  us  kin. 
Proud  that  a  lirilou's  bosom  glows 

For  noble  Saladin. 


Courage  in  high  or  low  lie  hails. 

King,  squire,  with  equal  eye  he  saw: 
Brave  Eichard  of  the  Lion  heart. 

And  the  heroic  Shaw. 
Yon  cottar  feels  his  class  is  rich 

In  Nature's  nobles — shaming  queens: 
Ah'  not  a  prattler  climbs  his  knee 

But  lisps  of  Jeanie  Deans. 

Praise,  deathless  love,  to  him  who  thus 

A  stubborn  tide  could  backward  roll; 
Eein  in  the  chafing  pride  of  man. 

And  triumph  in  the  soul. 
The  grave,  the  gay — the  child,  the  ?age — 

The  lovers  'neath  the  hawtliorn  hoar — 
All  for  a  while  their  dreams  forget. 

And  o'er  his  pictures  pore. 

The  force  of  truth  and  nature  see! 

For  all  peruse,  and  all  admire. 
The  duchess  in  her  ducal  hall — 

Her  milkmaid  by  the  fire. 
We  laugh,  we  weep,  as  he  may  choose. 

To  blend  our  willing  tears  with  smiles. 
At  Lucy  Ashton's  hapless  fate. 

And  Caleb's  honest  wiles. 

We  see  before  us  strut  in  pride 

The  Bailie,  "pawky,  hard,  and  slee,"' 
The  wily  lawyers  tangling  yet 

Poor  Peter  Peebles'  plea. 
Again  we  glow  with  Ivanhoe,  ! 

His  burning  words  so  charm  the  sense. 
And  hear  the  Covenanter  pour  j 

His  strange  wild  eloquence. 

The  Antiquary,  stern  and  grufF, 

Kejoicing  in  the  caustic  joke. 
Stamp  at  the  name  of  Aikin  Drum, 

And  quail  'neath  Eddie's  mock. 
Tell  him  of  Stcenie's  fate,  or  hint 

Of  dreams  his  own  young  days  bcguil'd; 
The  soul  within  that  rugged  husk 

Is  gentle  as  a  child. 

Where'er  the  winds  of  heaven  have  blown, 

AVe  hear  his  numbers  borne  along 
In  martial  strain  or  tender  plaint — 

The  magic  of  his  song. 
Long  Beauty's  lips  shall  chant  those  lays 

In  Music's  bower  for  ever  green. 
Bold  Ettrick's  Border  march  renown'd, 

And  Jock  o'  Hazeldean. 

Yet  pause  awhile!  among  the  names 
Tliy  genius  steep'd  in  Pity's  dew; 

Though  thou  didst  sigh  o'er  Mary's  griefs, 
Thine  own  have  not  been  few. 


THOMAS   C.   LATTO. 


413 


Who  has  not  wept  when — dropped  the  veil 
O'er  homes  and  hearts  tc  us  unknown — 

Thou  gav'st  us,  hut  for  one  brief  hour, 
A  glimpse  into  thine  own  ! 

Ah!  bitter  were  thy  thoughts,  I  ween, 

With  old  Sir  Henry  'neath  the  tree — 
Tlie  g-cntle  Alice  by  his  side, 

Thy  darling  iVnne  and  thee. 
Yet  though  the  cloud  of  ruin  fell, 

Thy  fair  horizon  to  deform. 
Thou  stood'st  serene  and  uuappall'd, 

Erect  amid  the  storm. 

The  last  sad  scene  we  would  forget, 

For  kind  loved  friends  were  round  thy  bed, 
So  milder  fell  the  parting  gales 

Upon  thy  aged  head. 
Yet,  oh!  how  terrible  the  shock 

When  cracked  that  strong  and  manly  heart. 
Sure  Deatli  with  faltering  tongue  pronounce 

The  dread  command,  "  Depart!" 

I  feel  a  joy  that  at  the  last 

The  sounds  thou  loved  the  best  to  hear. 
The  lapsing  ripple  of  the  Tweed, 

Made  music  in  thine  ear. 
And  more  tium  lapse  of  murmuring  streams. 

That  he  tiiy  eldest  born  was  by, 
To  hold  thee  on  his  manly  breast. 

To  kiss  and  close  thine  eye. 

Tlie  grass  is  trodden  by  the  feet 

Of  thousands  from  a  thousand  lands — 
The  prince,  the  peasant,  tottering  age, 

And  rosy  schoolboy  bands — 
All  crowd  to  fairy  Abbotsford, 

And  lingering  gaze,  and  gaze  the  more — 
Hang  o'er  the  cliair  in  wliicli  he  sat. 

The  latest  dress  he  wore. 

Thou  wondrous  being,  fare  tliee  well! 

Thou  noblest,  best  of  humankind, 
Who  joined  to  a  Nathaniel's  heart 

A  Shakspere's  master  mind  ! 
Light  be  the  turf  upon  thy  breast. 

For  pleasant  was  in  life  thy  mood, 
And  rare  thy  fate,  proclaim'd  at  once 

The  glorious  and  the  good ! 

Jlay  flow'rets  fair  long  blossom  here; 

Sweet  birds  the  choiring  concert  lead. 
To  swell  thy  dear  eternal  dirge 

Sung  by  the  "silver  Tweed!" 
Farewell !  farewell !  my  bosom  throbs 

With  grief  and  ecstacy  to  pain, 
"Take  thee  for  all  in  all,  we  ne'er 

Shall  see  thv  like  again." 


THE  SCHOOL  EXAMINATION. 

(extract.  ) 

If  I  forget  thee,  temple  low  and  rade, 

If  I  forget  thee,  guardian  of  my  youth, 

Epitome  of  all  that's  kind  and  good, 

To  duty  firm,  but  punishing  in  ruth. 

Turning  bright  metal  out  of  stuff  uncouth. 

Old  as  thou  art,  still  in  the  harness  yet, 

Be  mute  the  tongue  thou  taught  to  love  the 

truth, 
May  black  misfortune  snare  me  in  her  net, 
And  the  right  hand  thou  train'd  its  cunning  all 

forget. 

From  lowly  fanes  like  these  the  giants  rushed, 
Resistless  callants,  born  to  make  their  mark. 
And  hew  their  way,  whoever  might  be  crush'd; 
A  pale-faced  genius  watch'd  the  infant  spark; 
He  nurs'd  it,  sweeping  up  like  mounting  lark, 
Until  it  tower'd  imto  the  sky  of  fame; 
He  heard  the  victor  shouts,  he  from  the  dark 
Moss-covered  cabin  hail'd  the  deathless  name, 
Whose  dawning  streak  he  fann'd  into  immortal 
flame. 

Aye!  Abercromby,  gallant  Scot,  was  train'd 
For  after  coolness  'mid  the  cannon's  roar; 
The  fighting  Napiers  their  great  muscle  strain'd 
At  "Scotch  and  English"  by  the  school-house 

door. 
Stout  Hope  and  Lynedoch,  Clyde  and  many 

more ; 
And,  early  call'd,  old  Glasgow's  bravest  son,^ 
Wlio  breath'd  his  last  upon  Corunna's  shore, 
Confess'd  the  sage  who  shrunk  from  pike  and 

gun 
Was  captain  of  them  all,  and  show'd  how  fields 

were  won. 

Who  first  swart  Afric's  deserts  ventur'd  through, 
Fainting  and  weary  'neath  a  burning  sun, 
The  wanderings  of  the  Niger  to  pursue?^ 
Who  first  thro'  Nubian  wilds  the  course  begun. 
Which,  following  up,  intrepid  Speke  has  run. 
And  Nile's  disjointed  story  render'd  whole'.'' 
Nor  might  a  Highland  lad*  with  honour  shun 
The  Fnuildin  tracks,  but  scal'd  with  dauntless 

soul 
The  frost-rear'd  peaks  that  guard  the  secrets  of 

the  Pole. 

Some  village  teacher  with  a  throbbing  brow- 
Noted  in  Scott  the  heaven-descending  fire; 
Another  to  whose  beck  e'en  Burns  must  bow. 
Placed  in  his  hands  the  primer  of  the  lyre. 


1  Sir  John  Moore. 
3  James  Bruce. 


-  Muiigo  Park. 

*  Sir  L.  M'Cliutock. 


414 


THOMAS   C.   LATTO. 


Wink'd  at  asklent  by  his  unbending  sire. 
Who  saw  in  Chalmers'  ch-eaming,  sleepy  gaze 
The  spunk  would  lighten  o'er  a  Scottish  shire, 
Sound  to  the  depthsmeu's  hearts  ineveryphase, 
And  in  meridian  power  a  startled  world  amaze  ? 

In  arts,  in  science,  law  and  arms  and  lore, 

The  dominie  evok'd  the  spirits  bright 

Whose  haloed  radiance  streams  from  shore  to 

shore, 
Whose  footsteps  echo  in  the  halls  of  might,— 
The  Brougham,  the  Erskine  for  the  wordy  light 
Prepar'd  and  girded,— Jeffrey  of  the  eye 
Whose  iridescent  brilliance  flash'd  like  light, 
Watt,  Brewster,  Miller;  on  my  memory 
There  crowds  a  starry  host  whose  names  can  never 
die. 

From  bleak  Leadhills  the  artless  Allan  sprung, 
Auld  Reekie's  haunts  gave  Fergusson  his  power, 
In  Ednam's  vale  the  tuneful  Thomson  sung. 
The  shepherd  deck'd  on  Ettrick  shaws  his  bower, 
St.  Mungo's  Campbell  graced  in  happy  hour. 
By  fair  Kinross  sought  Bruce  the  muse's  rill, 
Found  by  M'Neil  where  high  the  Ochils  tower. 
From  Laurencekirk  i-ose  Beattie's  classic  trill, 
From  Paisley  Wilson  bold  and  tender  Tamiahill. 

And  who  shall  paint  the  rapture  of  his  soiil. 
Who  from  his  calm  retreat  the  conflict  sees,— 
Beholds  the  swaying  tide  of  battle  roll,— 
His  brawny  offspring  floating  on  the  breeze. 
The  "  ramping  Lion"  red  with  victories,^ — 
Of  bloodless  \-ictories  bringing  no  alloy  ? 
His  wai-m  emotion  brings  him  to  his  knees; 
He  thanks  his  Maker  in  ecstatic  joy; 
"Heaven  help  me,  taught  by  Thee,  /  taught  the 
noble  boy." 

Transcendant  gifts  like  these  what  can  repay; 
Shall  worldly  treasure,  honours,  love,  be  laid 
Before  him  as  the  savage  Kaffirs  lay 
Theirs  on  the  altar  of  a  hideous  shade,— 
What  the  reward  and  rich  endowment  made 
For  sacrifices  render'd  so  complete, — 
What  in  the  social  caste  is  this  man's  gi-ade,— 
Do  monarchs  hasten  his  approach  to  greet,— 
Does  a  great  nation  stand  in  reverence  at  his 
feet? 

Alas!  alas!  T  never  blush'd  with  shame 
To  own  my  land  three  thous;in<l  miles  away. 
Save  once,  when  casually  asked  to  name 
His  full  emoluments,— his  yeariy  pay; 
Silent  I  stood,  nor  made  the  vain  essay 
To  figure  up  the  Uterary  plinn;^ 


Honest  reply  had  met  with  mocking  "nay;" 
And  doubt  it  not,  in  other  regions  some 
Like  me  have  writhing  stood,  indignant,  sad  and 
dumb. 

0  Scotland !  what  a  heavy  debt  is  thine, 
A  debt,  alasl  thou  gi-udgest  still  to  pay. 
To  those  who  in  the  van  made  thee  to  shine 
Alike  in  prosperous  and  in  evil  day. 
Honour  the  schoolmaster  while  yet  you  may, 
Let  British  senates  give  the  cue  and  tone; 
Shed  from  thy  brow  austere  the  genial  ray. 
On  him  thy  sober  sense  will  justly  own 
Prop  of  thine  altar  pure  and  pillar  of  thy  throne. 

He  made  thee  what  thou  art,  a  crowned  queen 
And  ruler  'mong  the  nations  of  the  earth; 
But  canst  thou  say,  with  truth,  "These  hands 

are  clean!" 
Ingrate  to  him  wdio  gave  thee  second  birth  < 
In  all  the  peopled  globe's  great  circling  girth. 
There  is  no  land  mocks  her  instructors  so, 
By  leaving  them  in  penury  and  dearth; 
Arise,  my  country,  to  the  rescue  go! 
Then,  show  thy  palm  as  white  as  Jura's  drifted 
snow. 

Haply,  some  worldling,  lounging  o'er  the  page, 
Its  trivial  fond  regrets  may  scorn  away; 
The  weak  garrulity  of  doting  age 
May  rouse  impatience  at  the  homely  lay; 
Let  sneering  Fashion  mock  it  as  she  may. 
So  sad  for  mirth  to  me  the  theme  appears, 
I  lay  the  record  down  of  life's  young  day 
To  fade  and  moulder  with  the  wreck  of  years, 
A  frail  memorial  wet  and  blister'd  with  my  tears. 


AVIIEN  WE  WERE  AT   THE   SCIIULE.i 

The  laddies  plague  me  for  a  sanir, 

I  e'en  maun  play  the  fule; 
Til  sing  them  ane  about  the  days 
When  we  were  at  the  schule — 
Tlio"  now  the  frosty  pow  is  seen 
Whaur  wav'd  the  curly  hair, 
And  many  a  biythesome  heart  is  cauld — 
Sin'  first  we  sported  there. 

Wlien  we  were  at  the  schule,  my  frieu', 

When  we  were  at  the  schule; 
Nae  after  days  arc  like  the  days 
Wlien  we  were  at  the  schule. 

Yet  muckle  Jock  is  to  the  fore, 
And  canny,  creepin'  Hugh, 


1  The  royal  arms  of  Scotland. 

"The  nuldy  liion  ramping 
In  the  fiel<l  of  tiessurd  gold."— A )/toun. 

2  Afortune-£100,000. 


1  This  fine  lyric  was  fii-st  published  anonymously  in 
tlie  Book  of  Scoltish  Soiifj.  It  was  written  by  Mr.  Latto 
in  tlie  vaults  of  the  Parliament  House,  Edinburgh, 
wliile  waiting  for  a  debate —Ed. 


THOMAS   C.   LATTO. 


415 


And  Bob  the  pest,  an'  Sugar-pouch, 

The  best  o'  a'  the  crew; 
And  raggit  Willie  is  the  laird 

0'  twa-three  landart  farms; 
And  Katie  Spence,  the  pridefu'  thing, 

Now  cuddles  in  his  arms. 

0'  do  ye  mind  the  maister's  hat, 

Sae  auld,  sae  bare  an'  brown, 
We  carried  to  the  burnie's  side, 

An'  sent  it  sooniin'  down? 
We  thought  how  clever  a'  was  plann'd, 

AVhcn — whatna  voice  was  that? 
A  head  is  raised  aboon  the  hedge — 

"I'll  thank  ye  ior  vnj  hat!" 

0  weel  I  mind  our  hingin'  lugs. 

Our  het  an'  tinglin'  paws; 
O  weel  1  mind  his  solemn  look. 

An'  weel  I  mind  the  tawse. 
What  awfu'  snuffs  that  day  he  took, 

An'  panged  them  up  his  nose. 
An'  rapped  the  box  as  if  to  strike 

A  terror  to  his  foes. 

An'  do  ye  mind,  at  countin'  time, 

How  watchfu'  he  has  lain. 
To  catch  us  steal  frae  ithers'  slates. 

An'  jot  it  on  our  ain: 
An'  how  we  feared,  at  writin'  hour, 

His  glunches  and  his  glooms — 
How  many  times  a  day  he  said 

Our  fingers  a'  were  tliooms  ! 

An'  weel  I  min'  that  afternoon, 

'Twas  manfu'  like  yersel'. 
Ye  took  the  pawmies  an'  the  shame, 

To  save  wee  Johnnie  Bell. 
The  maister  found  it  out  belyve; 

He  took  ye  on  his  knee; 
And  as  be  look'd  into  your  face, 

The  tear  was  in  his  e'e. 

But  mind  ye,  lad,  yon  afternoon, 

How  fleet  ye  skipp'd  awa'. 
For  ye  had  crack'd  auld  Jenny's  pane, 

When  playin'  at  the  ba'  ? 
Kae  pennies  had  we— Jenny  grat; 

It  cut  us  to  the  core: 
Ye  took  your  mither's  hen  at  nicbt, 

An'  left  it  at  her  door  I 

And  sic  a  steer  his  granny  made, 

When  talepyet  Jamie  l!ae 
We  dookit  roarin'  at  the  pump, 

Syne  row'd  him  down  the  brae. 
But  how  the  A-ery  maister  leugh. 

When  leein'  Saddler  Wat 
Cam'  in  an'  threcpt  that  cripple  Tarn 

Had  chas'd  an'  kill'd  his  cat! 


Aye,  laddies,  ye  may  wink  awa' — 

Truth  shouldna  a'  be  tauld; 
I  fear  the  schules  o'  modern  days 

Are  no  unlike  the  auld. 
And  are  nae  we  but  laddies  yet, 

Wha  get  the  name  o'  men, 
And  living  by  the  ingle-side 
Thae  happy  days  again. 

When  we  were  at  the  schule,  my  frien', 

AVhen  we  were  at  the  schule? 
AVe're  no  sae  wise — we're  learning  aye — 
We  never  leave  the  schule! 


THE  KISS  AHINT  THE  DOOR. 

There's  meikle  bliss  in  ae  fond  kiss, 

Whyles  mair  than  in  a  score; 
But  wae  betak'  the  stouin  smack 

I  took  ahint  the  door. 

"0  laddie,  wheesht!  for  sic  a  fricht 
I  ne'er  was  in  afore, 
Fu'  brawly  did  my  mither  hear 

The  kiss  ahint  the  door." 
The  wa's  are  thick — ye  needna  fear; 

But  gin  they  jeer  an'  mock, 
I'll  swear  it  was  a  startit  cork, 
Or  wyte  the  rusty  lock. 

There's  meikle  bliss,  &c. 

We  stappit  ben,  while  Maggie's  face 

Was  like  a  lowin'  coal; 
And  as  for  me,  I  could  ha'e  crept 

Into  a  rabbit's  liole. 
The  mither  look'd — saff's  how  she  look't! 

Thae  m ithers  are  a  bore. 
An'  gleg  as  ony  cat  to  hear 

A  kiss  ahint  the  door. 

There's  meikle  bliss,  &c. 

The  douce  gudeman,  though  he  was  there. 

As  weel  micht  been  in  Ivome, 
For  by  the  fire  he  pufF'd  his  pipe, 

An'  never  fash'd  his  thoom. 
But  tittrin'  in  a  corner  stood 

The  gawky  sisters  four — 
A  winter's  nicht  for  me  they  micht 

Ha'e  stood  ahint  the  door. 
There's  meikle  bliss,  &c. 

"How  daur  ye  tak'  sic  freedoms  here?" 

The  bauld  gudewife  began, 
Wi'  that  a  foursome  yell  gat  up — 

I  to  my  heels  an'  ran; 
A  besom  whiskit  by  my  lug. 

And  dishclouts  half-a-score, 


416 


THOMAS   C.   LATTO. 


Catch  me  again,  tliough  fiilgin'  fain, 
At  kissiu'  'liint  the  door. 

There's  meikle  bliss,  &e. 


TELL  ME,   DEAR. 

Tell  me,  clear  I  in  mercy  speak, 

Has  Heaven  heard  my  prayer,  lassie? 
Faint  the  rose  is  on  thy  cheek. 

But  still  the  rose  is  there,  lass'el 
Away,  away  each  dark  foreboding. 
Heavy  days  with  anguish  clouding, 
Youthfu'  love  in  sorrow  shronding, 

Heaven  could  ne'er  allow,  lassie! 
Day  and  night  I've  tended  thee. 
Watching,  love,  thy  changing  e'e: 
Dearest  gift  that  Heaven  could  gie, 

Say  thou'rt  happy  now,  lassie! 

Willie,  lay  thy  cheek  to  mine- 
Kiss  me,  oh:  my  ain  laddie! 
Never  mair  may  lip  o'  thine 

Press  where  it  hath  lain,  laddie! 
Hark!   1  hear  the  angels  calling, 
Heavenly  strains  are  round  me  falling, 
But  the  stroke — thy  soul  appalling — 

'Tis  my  only  pain,  laddie! 
Yet  the  love  1  bear  to  thee 
Shall  follow  where  1  soon  maun  be; 
r.l  tell  how  gude  thou  wert  to  me — 
We  part  to  meet  again,  laddie! 

Lay  thine  arm  beneath  my  head  — 

Grieve  na  sae  for  me,  laddie! 
I'll  thole  the  doom  that  lays  me  dead, 

But  no'  a  tear  frae  thee,  laddie! 
Aft  where  yon  dark  tree  is  spreading. 
When  the  sun's  last  beam  is  .shedding, 
Where  no  earthly  foot  is  treading. 

By  my  grave  thou'lt  be,  laddie! 
Though  my  sleep  be  mI'  the  dead, 
Frae  on  high  my  soul  shall  speed, 
And  hover  nightly  round  thy  head, 

Although  thou  wilt  na  see,  laddie. 


THE   BLIND   LASSIE. 

0  hark  to  the  strain  that  sae  sweetly  is  ringin'. 
And  echoing  clearly  o'er  lake  and  o'er  lea. 

Like  some  fairy  bird  in  the  wilderness  singin', 
It  thrills  to  my  heart,  yet  nae  min.strel  I  see. 

Round  yonder  rock  knittin',  a  dear  child  is  sittin' 
Sae  toilin'  her  pitifu'  pittance  is  won. 


Hersel'  tho'  we  s-e  nae,  'tis  mithcrkss  Jeanie,— 
The  bonnie  blind  lassie  that  sits  i'  the  sun. 

Five  years  syne  com3  autumn  she  cam'  wi'  her 
mither, 
A  sodger's  puir  widow  sair  wasted  and  gane; 
As  brown  fell  the  leaves,  sae  wi'  them  did  she 
wither 
And  left  the  sweet  child  on  the  wide  world  her 
lane. 
She  left  Jeanie  weepin'  hi  His  holy  keepin', 
Wha  shelters  the  lamb  frae  the  cauld  wintry 
win', 
We  had  Uttle  siller,  yet  a'  were  gude  till  her,— 
The  bonnie  Wind  lassie  that  sits  i'  the  sun. 

An'  blythe  now  an'  cheerfu',  f:ao   mornin'   to 
e'enin', 
She  .sits  through  the  simmer,  an'  gladdens  ilk 
ear, 
Baith  auld  and  young  daut  her,  sae  gentle  and 
winnin'. 
To  a'  the  folks  round  the  wee  lassie  is  dear. 
Braw  leddies  caress  her,  wi'  bounties  would  press 
her. 
The  modest  bit  darlin'  their  notice  would  shun. 
For  though  she  has  nae'Jiing,  proud-hearted  this 
wee  thing, 
The  bonnie  bhnd  lassie  that  sits  i'  the  sun. 


SLY  AVIDOW  SKIXXER. 

0  the  days  when  I  strutted  (to  think  o't  I'm  sad) 

The  heir  to  a  cozy  bit  mailen, 
WTien  sly  Widow  Skinner  gat  round  me,  the  jaud  I 
For  she  thocht  my  auld  daddy  was  failin',  was 
failin'. 

For  she  thccht  my  auld  daddy  was  failin'. 

1  promised  to  tak'  her  for  better  for  worse, 

Though  sma'  was  my  chance  to  be  happy. 
For  I  found  she  had  courted  na  me,  but  my  purse; 
What's  waur— that  she  hket  a  drappy,  a  drappy. 

What's  waur,  that  she  hket  a  drappy. 

Then  ae  nicht  at  a  kirn  I  saw  Maggy  Hay, 
To  see  her  was  straiglit  to  adore  her; 

The  widow  look'd  blue  when  1  pass'd  her  ncist 
day, 

An'  waited  na  e'en  to  speer  for  her,  speer  for  licr. 
An'  waited  na  e'en  to  speer  for  her. 

r 

0  pity  my  case,  I  was  terribly  raw, 

And  .she  was  a  teriible  Tartar; 
She  spak'  about   "measures"  and    "takin'   the 

law," 
And  I  set  mysel'  down  for  a  martyr,  a  martyr, 

And  I  set  mysel'  down  for  a  martyr. 


JOHN   E.   MACDUFF. 


417 


Weel!  I  buckled  wi'  Mcpf,an'theblythelionej'moon 
Scarce  was  ower  when  the  widow  I  met  her, 

She  girningly  whisper'd,  "Hech!  weel  ha'e  ye 
dune, 

But  tent  me,  lad,  I  can  do  better,  do  better. 
But  tent  me,  lad,  I  can  do  better: — 


"Gin  ye  canna  get  berries,  put  tip  wi'  the  hools;" 

Iler  proverb  I  countetl  a'  Vilether, 
But, — widows  for  ever  for  hookin'  auld  fules,  — 
Neist  week  she  was  cryed  wi'  my  feyther,  my 
foyther! 
Neist  week  she  was  cryed  wi'  my  feyther! 


JOHN    E.    MACDUFF. 


Eev.  John  R.  Macduff,  D.D.,  is  the  second 
son  of  Alexander  Macduff  of  Bonhard,  Perth- 
shire, where  he  was  born  in  1818.  He  received 
the  principal  part  of  his  education  at  the  High- 
school  of  Edinburgh,  and  then  studied  for  the 
Church  in  the  University  of  that  city,  being  for 
three  years  a  student  of  the  illustrious  Dr. 
Chalmers.  He  was  licensed  as  a  minister  of 
the  Established  Church  in  1842,  and  the  same 
year  received  tiie  charge  of  the  parish  of  Ket- 
tins  in  Forfarshire.  He  was  afterwards  re- 
moved to  the  parish  of  St.  Madoes  in  Perth- 
shire, and  from  thence  was  translated  to  one 
of  the  west-end  churches  in  Glasgow,  where  he 
ministered  for  fifteen  years,  and  became  well 
known  as  one  of  the  most  talented  preachers 
in  the  Church.  Dr.  Macduff  received  the 
degree  of  D.D.  from  both  the  universities  of 
Glasgow  and  New  York.  "Whilst  in  Glasgow, 
he  was  presented  by  the  Crown  to  the  minis- 


terial charge  of  the  Cathedral  of  that  city, 
vacant  by  the  death  of  Principal  ilacfarlau; 
but  this  charge,  although  one  of  the  few  prizes 
in  the  Church  of  Scotland,  he  declined  to 
accept,  through  attachment  to  the  congrega- 
tion among  whom  he  laboured. 

In  1871  Dr.  Macduff  resigned  the  laborious 
duties  of  a  city  clergyman,  and  has  since  re- 
sided in  England,  devoting  himself  to  religious 
authorship.  For  many  years  no  writer  has  been 
more  popular  in  this  department  of  literature. 
His  Memories  of  Patmos,  Sunsets  on  the  Hebrew 
Mountains,  Memories  of  Betliany,  and  many 
other  religious  works,  are  highly  appreciated  on 
both  sides  of  the  Atlantic,  and  are  stated  to 
have  attained  a  circulation  of  a  million  and  a 
half.  In  1875  he  issued  a  volume  of  poetry 
entitled  Tlie  Gates  of  Praise,  from  which  we 
make  the  following  selections,  which  fully  estab- 
lish his  claim  to  a  place  in  our  Collection. 


IN    MEMORIAM: 

THE    PRINCE    CONSORT.     Balmoral,  lUU  Dec.  1S61. 


Go  silence  your  p'.brochs;  go  sound  the  wild 

coronach ; 
AVail  loudest  dirges  o'er  mountain  and  vale: 
The  Chief  of  our  chieftains   lies  silent  and 

shrouded, 
The  Prince  of  the  land,  and  the  pride  of  the 

Gael! 

This  morning  our  hill-tops  Avere  gloomy  with 
mist-clouds, 

They  curtained  each  crag,  and  then  melted  in 
rain: 

It  was  Nature  attired  in  her  garments  of  sack- 
cloth, 

And  weeping  for  him  she  shall  ne'er  see  again. 

Vol.  II.— D  d 


Ye  dumb  mountain  mourners,  how  fondly  he 

loved  you! 
In  glory  of  sunshine  or  grandeur  of  gloom: 
Your    carpets    of    heather,    your  jungles    of 

bracken, 
The  plumes  of  your  rock-pines,  the  gold  of 

your  broom! 

Begin    the    plaint    moaning,    ye    forests   of 

Athole ! 
For  yours  are  the  corries  his  eyes  first  beheld: 
Let  it  sigh  through  the  glens  of  the  Garry  and 

Tummcl, 
The  straths  of  Breadalbane — the  woods  of  Dun- 

keld. 


)< 


418 


JOHN   E.   MACDUFF. 


Grampian  heights  cdio  it!     Bolil  Ben-muic-h-  j  Not  his  were  the  lips  that  could  i-ound   liie 


dhui; 
Ben    Dearg,  Ben-e-vraek:e,   and    lone   Ben-y- 

Gloe; 
Schehallion,  respond  to  the  wail  of  Ben-Yoir- 

lich, 
Till  it  die  far  away  in  the  wilds  of  Glencoe. 

Come,  Dee's  gentle  waters,  and  lend  your  soft 

music. 
As  plaintive  yc  flow  througli  tiie   forests  of 

Mar; 
While  louder  your  dirges,  ye  torrents  of  Muick, 
Your  tribute-grief  bringing  from  loved  Locli- 

nagar. 

Garrawalt,  pour  out  your  thunder  of  tear- 
drops; 

The  rainbow  forbid  to  encircle  your  spray: 

More  fitting,  by  far,  are  tlie  wrack  and  the 
driftwood, 

Wiiicii  chafe  in  each  eddy  and  cauldron  to  day ! 

Take  up  the  coronach,  cottage  and  claclian; 
Sliepherd's  lone  shieling  on  mountain  or  moor; 
For  he  whom  we  mourn  iiad  alike  ever  ready 
A  Avord  for  the  great  and  a  smile  for  the  poor. 

Sad  change !     OIi,   how  lately  these   heights 

♦  hat  surround  me 
Were  silvered  with   birches  or   purple   with 

bloom : 
To-day  the  moist  winds  seem  to  sob  all  around 

me. 
And  load  the  bared  tresses  with  tears  for  his 

tomb! 

How  recent  the  Castle  halls  rang  with  the 

bagpipe, 
As  mustered  his  gillies  in  pride  to  display, 
By  long  autumn  "gloamin',''  or  weird  blaze 

of  torcliliirht, 
The  spoils  Balloch-buie  had  yielded  each  day! 

The  stag  hounds,  unheeded,  now  bay  in  their 

kennels; 
The  torchlight  no  longer  shall  redden  the  hills; 
The  wild  deer  may  slumber  in  peace  in  their 

corries, 
Or  drink  undisturbed  at  their  lone  mountain 

rills. 

lie  lived  not  in  times  when  our  bale-fires  were 

lighted: 
When  yelled  forth  the  war-pipes  o'er  moorland 

and  glade; 
The  fiery  cross  carried  from  hamlet  to  hamlet, 
And  sliielingaud  homestead  in  ashes  were  laid. 


fierce  slogan. 
When   claymore   met    broadsword    in    battle 

array ; 
When  chieftain  and  clansmen  stood  shoulder 

to  shoulder, 
Impatient  to  join  in  the  heat  of  the  fray. 

Far    nobler    his    mission,     far    grander    Lis 

triumphs; 
Their  glories  unreckoned  by  booty  and  slain; 
The  battle  with  wrong,  and  the  concpiest  of 

baseness, 
The  proudest  of  trophies — a  life  without  stain. 

We  wail  for  the  djad, — but  v.e  wail  for  the 
living; 

Great  God  of  the  mourner!  with  Thee  do  we 
plead 

For  the  heart  that  is  broken  with  anguish  un- 
spoken ; 

Alone  in  her  greatness, — "a  widow  indeed!" 

For  her  are  the  dirges — for  her  the  wild  coro- 
nach— 

For  her  we  may  weep  till  our  eyes  become  dim: 

But  with  our  thoughts  centred  on  the  bliss  he 
has  entered. 

All  tears  may  be  dried  that  are  falling  for  him! 


DAVID     LIVINGSTONE: 

HIS   DSATH   AND   BURIAL. 

Chitambo,  May  1st,  1873: 
Westminster  Abbey,  April  ISth,  1ST4. 

Now  the  end  of  all  was  nearing 
Underneath  the  tattered  awning; 
Angels  would  relieve  their  vigils 
Ere  another  morrow's  dawning. 
First  they  raised  him  from  the  mud-floor. 
Leaves  and  grass  his  pallet  only, 
Then  they  smoothed  a  downless  pillow 
In  that  desert  drear  and  lonely; 
AVhile  the  faithful  boy  Majwara 
Lay  close  by  his  dying  master. 
Knowing  well  how  helpless  was  he 
To  avert  the  dire  disaster. 
As  the  waves  of  life  were  ebbing, 
Thoughts  about  the  past  were  ever 
i\lingling  in  the  feverish  wan<lering9 
Over  mountain,  lake,  and  river. 

"Say,  is  this  the  Luapula'? 
Th'is  the  chill  Lofuko's  water?" 

"No,  my  Bwana,"^  answered  Susi, 

1  '"Master" — the  nanio  by  which  they  addressed  him. 


JOHN   Tt.   MACDUFF. 


419 


Nursing  like  a  tender  daiigliter; — 
"A\'e  are  near  the  ^fiililauio, 
We  are  in  Cliitambo's  village, 
You  may  sleep  assured  of  safety, 
Fearing  neither  blood  nor  pillage." 

Then  he  sank  in  broken  slumber; 
AVho  can  tell  what  he  wa-^  dreaming? 
Of  his  childhood  days  at  IJlanlyre; 
Of  the  golden  sunlight  gleaming 
Through  old  Bothweirs  storied  castle, 
Lighting  its  umbrageous  meadows; 
Or  when  in  the  silver  moonlight 
He  had  watched  the  tender  shadows? 
Or  it  may  be  of  the  niotiier 
AYiio  the  mission  torch  first  lighted, 
AVhich  her  son  had  borne  to  regions 
By  the  direst  curse  benighted? 
Or,  perchance,  the  sainted  partner 
Who  in  life  had  shared  his  dangers, 
Dreaming  she  had  closed  his  eyelids 
In  the  far-off  land  of  strangers  I 

Now  liis  sight  is  quickly  fading, — 
"Susi — come  and  light  the  candle; 
Fill  my  med'cine-cup  with  water, 
Guide  my  fingers  to  the  handle." 
Promptly  were  his  Avishes  answered, 
Half  were  guessed  from  speech  so  broken; 
"You  can  go,"  in  feeble  whispers. 
Were  the  last  words  that  were  spoken. 

It  was  four  in  summer  morning. 
When  the  herbs  with  dcwdrops  glisten, 
That  the  wakeful  negro  rises, 
Creeping  to  the  couch  to  listen. 
But  all  watchings  now  are  needless. 
Footsteps  gliding  soft  and  slowly; 
For  his  fond,  devoted  master 
Rcsteth  with  the  good  and  holy! 

Forth  he  speeds  to  faithful  Susi, 

Eousing  him  from  fitful  slumber; 
"Come  to  Bwana — follow  quickly, 

Chumah,  come  with  all  our  number!" 

Hastily  they  ran  together. 

Entering  the  silent  shieling. 

There  they  gazed  upon  the  dead  man 

To  his  God  devoutly  kneeling! 
"Hush!  our  master  still  is  praying," 

For  they  deemed  they  were  mistaken. 

Thinking  he  had  slept  from  weakness. 

And  would  by-and-by  awaken. 
"  Yet,  come,  feel  how  cold  his  cheek  is; 

Matthew!  can  you  hear  no  breathing? 

Has  the  forehead  ceased  its  throbbing? 

And  the  chest  its  cruel  heaving?" 

Y'es,  indeed,  it  all  was  over; 


Pain,  unrest,  and  toil  are  ended; 
He  has  gone  to  meet  his  kindred. 
Spirit  hath  with  spirit  blended : 
On  Almighty  strength,  the  hero 
In  the  hour  of  death  reposes; 
Prayer  began  his  noble  warfare, 
And  with  prayer  the  battle  closes. 
He  has  gone  to  get  the  welcome, 
"Good  and  faithful  servant  enter;" 
Summon  in  no  hirfed  minstrels, 
Africa!  be  his  lamenter. 
As  "All  Israel"  mourned  for  Samuel, 
Let  your  millions,  broken-hearted. 
Gather  round  in  tears  and  sackcloth. 
And  bewail  the  Great  Departed! 

AVithin  England's  reverend  minster. 
Proud  custodier  of  tiie  ages. 
Resting-place  of  kings  and  princes, 
Poets,  heroes,  statesmen,  sages; 
Every  head  is  bowed  in  silence 
As  the  mourner's  tread  is  sounding; 
Strange,  unwonted  is  the  homage 
Of  the  tear-dimmed  crowd  surrounding. 
AVho  this  honoured  entrant?  counted 
AVorthy  of  these  precincts  hoary; 
Brotherhood  assigned  with  sleepers 
"Each  one  lying  in  his  glory  ?" 

'Tis  the  good  man  we  have  gazed  on 
On  his  desert  bier  reposing, 
Tender  children  of  his  wanderings 
Closing  eyes  and  limbs  composing. 
AVhen  the  burst  of  grief  was  over, 
And  the  public  days  to  mourn  him. 
Through  a  thousand  miles  of  desert 
These  his  faithful  sons  had  borne  him. 
Only,  first  the  clamant  favour 
Africa  had  made  with  weeping, 
"If  you  will  his  dust  to  England, 
Let  his  heart  be  in  my  keeping!" 
It  was  done: — the  lowly  casket 
Safe  was  laid  beneath  a  mvula;'- 
Then  the  funeral  cortege  slowly 
AVended  towards  the  Luapula. 
Over  sandy  wastes  they  traversed, 
Scorning  toil  or  leagues  to  measure; 
Bating  heart  or  hope  no  moment. 
On  they  bore  their  priceless  treasure. 

In  that  ancient  fiine  are  gathered 
Men  of  every  clime  and  order, 
Brothers  from  his  native  Clydesdale, 
Clansmen  from  beyond  the  border: 
Best  and  choicest  sons  of  England 

1  A  large  tree  standing  by  the  place,  aiul  on  nliii-li 
Jacob  Waiuwright  carved  llie  name  and  date  of  deaili. 


420 


JOHN   E.   MACDUFF. 


In  the  common  grief  aro  sliaring, 
Peer  and  statesman — royal  depute, 
Each  his  immortelle  is  bearing: 
Hushed  the  shibboleth  of  party, 
"All  the  creeds"  these  aisles  are  thronging; 
Champion  he  of  no  mean  faction. 
But  to  Cliristendom  belonging. 
Eisel  ye  warrior  dead  around  him, 
Solemn  shades  of  tiie  departed! 
Eise!  and  give  ungrudging  welcome 
To  the  true  and  noble-hearted. 
Well  may  costliest  rites  be  paid  him, 
Gush  of  song  and  organ  pealing; 
AVake  to  life  your  holiest  echoes. 
Fretted  aisle  and  gilded  ceiling! 

Ifow  the  obsequies  are  over: 
Dust  with  kindred  dust  has  blended; 
But  as  Sabbath's  sun  is  westering, 
Multitudes  anew  have  wended 
To  the  shrine  which  holds  his  ashes: 
Crowds  again  of  every  station 
Throng  within  the  spacious  precincts 
For  the  funeral  oration. 
AVho  among  the  favoured  listeners 
Can  forget  that  music  thrilling, 
Like  the  voice  of  many  waters. 
Choir  and  nave  and  transept  filling, 
As  the  words  of  inspiration 
Sweetly  told  the  pilgrim's  story. 
Or  portrayed  his  noble  life-work 
Haloed  with  prophetic  glory; — 
"When  the  wilderness  shall  blossom, 
Fountains  in  the  desert  springing, 
.\nd  like  Lebanon  and  Carmel 
Break  forth  into  joy  and  singing."' 
Or  when  rose  "0  God  of  Bethel, "2 
Simple  words,  so  dearly  cherished. 
By  the  great  man  from  his  childhood. 
To  the  day  he  nobly  perished. 

Silent  then  the  strains  of  music; 
And  amid  a  hush  unbroken, 
Lofty  wards  of  panegyric 


1  Isa.  xxxi.  1,  2.     The  anthem  selected. 

-  'J'lie  well  known  p;ir;iplirase,  placet!  at  the  end  of 
Scottish  Bibles,  and  so  peculiarly  appiopiiate  to  the 
occasion — 

"O  God  of  Bethel,  hy  whosj  hand 
Thy  people  still  are  fed; 
Who  through  this  weary  lilgrimage 
Uast  all  our  fatliers  led. 

"O  spread  thy  covering  wings  around 
Till  all  our  wanderings  cease, 
And  at  our  Fathers  loved  abode 
Oar  souU  arrive  in  peace,"  kc. 


By  befitting  lips  were  spoken. 

Rites  are  ended: — and  the  "Dead  March,'' 

With  a  cadence  slow  and  measured, 

AVailed  its  dirges  o'er  the  ashes 

Which  the  nation's  crypt  had  treasured. 

Rest  in  peace,  thou  hero-martyr! 

Grandly  simple  is  thy  story: 

Scotland  gave  thee — England  keeps  theo, 

And  to  God  we  give  the  glory. 


FAREWELL   TO  P.VLESTINE. 

Banias,  Mount  Hermon,  April  3,  1SC7. 

Though  many  be  the  shores  and  lands 
My  pilgrim  steps  have  wandered  o'er. 
From  Alpine  heights  to  classic  lands; — 
Oh,  never  have  I  felt  before 

The  effort,  to  pronounce  farewell 
To  all  those  varied  scenes  of  thine; 
No  other  spot  can  share  thy  spell, 
Unique,  beloved  Palestine! 

Yet,  not  thy  outward  form  can  claim 
This  tribute-tear  in  parting  now; 
These  fields  so  drear,  these  hills  so  tame. 
The  laurels  faded  on  thy  brow. 

Dave  I  conceal  the  inward  taunt. 
As  over  mount  and  vale  I  trod, 
"  Is  this  indeed  the  angel-haunt. 
The  seraph-land — the  home  of  God?" 

Beneath  my  childhood's  skies,  I  ween, 
A  thousand  spots  I  can  recall. 
Far  lovelier  than  your  loveliest  scene. 
Of  wood,  and  lake,  and  waterfall. 

In  vain  T  looked  for  limpid  rills. 
Where  Syrian  shejiherd  led  his  flock, 
No  herbage  on  your  blighted  hills, 
No  pine-tree  in  "  the  rifted  rock."' 

Greater  your  charms,  ye  streams  of  home. 
Which  verdant  meadows  gently  lave, 
Than  Jordan,  with  its  turgid  foam. 
Fast  hastening  to  its  Dead  Sea  grave. 

Or  Kishon,  by  whose  crimsoned  tide 
Confronting  hosts  their  trumpets  blew; 
AVhat  is  your  scanty  stream,  beside 
;My  own  loved  Con  or  Avondhu  ? 

What  are  the  hills  of  Ephraim  bared. 
What  Moab's  sombre  mountain-chain, 


JOHN   R.   MACDUFF. 


421 


What  Jiuhilj's  limestone  heights,  comparcil 
"With  Grampians  seen  from  Dunsinnauc? 

Grander  Ben  Xevis'  rugged  slope 
Than  Carmel's  elifls  of  sombre  hue; 
Tabor  and  Hermon  vain  can  cope 
AVith  Cruachan  or  Ben-Venue. 

No  bosky  dells  with  lichen  gray, 
No  tresses  wave  on  birchen-tree. 
No  limpid  torrent  sings  its  way 
Mid  copse  and  heather  to  the  sea. 

And  as  the  golden  daylight  fades, 
No  antlered  monarchs  of  the  hill 
Are  seen  to  steal  thi-ough  forest  glades 
And  slake  their  thirst  at  lake  or  rill. 

But  hush! — the  one  absorbing  thought 
Ti'ansfigures  all  the  passing  scene, 
And  makes  the  present  time  forgot 
In  musing  what  the  past  has  been: — 

Here  patriarchs  lived,  here  prophets  trod, 
Here  angels  on  their  errands  sped; 
The  home  of  sainted  men  of  God, 
The  resting-place  of  holy  dead! 

More  wondrous  still: — on  these  same  hills 
The  eye  of  God  incarnate  fell; 
He  walked  these  paths,  He  drank  these  rills. 
He  sat  Him  by  yon  wayside  well. 

Oft  by  that  Kedron  brook  He  heard 
The  rustle  of  its  olives  gray, 
Or  carol  of  the  matin-bird 
Which  greeted  the  first  eastern  ray. 

In  Temple  court  or  noisy  street. 
When  wearied  with  the  wrangling  cry. 
How  oft  he  found  a  calm  retreat 
In  thee,  thrice-hallowed  Bethany: 

Watching  the  evening  shadows  fall. 
Or  glow  of  sunbeam  from  the  west, 
Transmuting  Moab's  mountain-wall 
Into  a  blaze  of  amethyst. 

Or  thou,  Gennesaret!  favoured  lake, 
How  fragrant  with  His  presence  still: 
The  deeds  of  love — the  words  He  spake 
Graved  on  thy  shores  indelible! 

Thy  green  hills  oft  were  altar-stairs 
Up  which  his  weary  footsteps  trod. 
For  morning  praise  and  midnight  prayers. 
Away  from  man,  alone  with  God. 

He  loved  the  flowers  which  fringed  thy  sea. 
He  trod  tliy  groves  of  stately  palm, 


Thy  carpets  of  anemone, 

Thy  vine-clad  hills,  and  bowers  of  balm. 

Enough.  —  With  kindred  interest  teems 
Each  scene,  where'er  I  gaze  around: 
The  laud  tiiroughout  a  Bethel  seems. 
And  "every  place  is  hallowed  ground." 

Adieu!  each  shrine  of  holy  thought. 
E:ich  ruined  heap — each  storied  "Tel." 
1  pluck  the  last  "Forget-me-not," 
And  now  I  take  a  fond  farewell! 

To-night,  on  Hermon's  northern  brow. 
The  .stars  upon  our  tents  shall  shine; 
Set  up  the  stone!  record  the  vow! 
"Forget  thee,  never— Palestine!" 

The  lifelong  wish  and  dream  to  see 
Thy  blessed  acres,  God  has  given: 
A  lingering  tear  I  drop  to  thee, 
Thou  earthly  vestibule  of  heaven! 


NATURE'S  HYMN. 

Let  everythins  that  hath  breath  praise  the  Lord."— 
Psalm  cl.  6. 

Praiee  Him,   0  prai.*e  Him,   ye  ministering 

seraphim! 
Praise  ye  Jehovah  enthroned  on  high: 
Awake  every  harp,  ve  archangels,  and  tell  of 

Him 
Shrouded  in  glory,  yet  graciously  nigh. 

Praise  Him,  bright  sun,  in  the  glow  of  thy 

splendour; 
Praise  Him,  thou  moon,  silver  queen  of  the 

night ; 
Ye  stars,  who  like  virgin  retainers  attend  her, 
0  praise  the  great  Lord  who  hath  robed  you 

with  light! 

Praise  Him,  0  praise  Him,   ye  soft-flowing 

fountains. 
Amid  the  lone  valleys  go  murmur  your  song: 
Uplift  the  loud   anthem,  ye  thunder -voiced 

mountains, 
Let  peak  answer  peak  and  re-echo  the  song! 

Ye  forests — ye  need  no  cathedral  of  marble, 
No  Thurifer's  censer  to  perfume  your  shrine; 
Your  own  winged  choirs  will  His  praises  best 

warble. 
Your  woodland  flowers  scatter  sweet  incense 

divine! 


422 


JOHN   R.   MACDUFF. 


Praise  Him,  ye  mists  which  on  mountain  tops 

hoary, 
Like  white  wings  of  chernb  the  rock -clefts 

enfokl; 
Praise   Him,  ye  sunset-clouds,   piled  in  your 

glory, 
Resplendent  with  amber,  vermilion,  and  gold. 

Praise  Him,  0  praise  Him,  ye  deeps  with  your 

wonders, 
Discourse  of  His  glory  to  earth's  farthest  shore; 
In  lullaby  ripples,  in  hoarse- booming  thunders. 
In  stillness  and  storm,  lend  your  voice  and 

adore! 

All  nature  arise!  the  great  anthem  intoning; 
And  from  your  vast  store-house  a  tribute-lay 

bring: 
No  voice  can  be  silent,  let  all  join  in  owning 
Jehovah  as  Maker,  Redeemer,  and  King! 


"THE  CITY  OF   THE  CRYSTAL   SEA." 

"  I  saw  the  holy  city,  New  Jei-usalem."— Rev.  sxi.  2. 

"  And  he  showed  me  a  pure  river  of  the  water  of  life,  clear 
as  crystal,  proceeding  out  of  the  throne  of  God  and  of  the 
Lami).    In  the  midst  of  the  street  of  it,"  &c.— Kev.  xxii.  1,  -2. 

"Come,  father,  mother,  Elsie  dear,  I  like  you 

near  me  now, 
For  I  feel  the  icy  finger  laid  already  on  my 

brow ; 
Come  near  and  sit  beside  me,  as  my  strength 

is  failing  fast; 
Could  I  only  take  you  with  me,  then  death's 

anguish  would  be  past; 
My  Saviour-God  is  calling  me— I  know  it  is 

His  voice, 
For  you  I  grieve,  but  for  myself  I  only  can 

rejoice: 
Oh,  do  not  weep— for  short  the  time  our  part- 
ing is  to  be : 

■\Ve  shall  meet  in  the  City  cf  the 
Crystal  Sea. 

"I  hoped  to  live  for  longer  years,  and  even 
now  I  seem 

At  times  to  think  this  death  bed  is  but  a  pass- 
ing dream: 

I  gladly  would  have  lengthened  out  my  child- 
hood's sunny  years, 

I  never  liked  to  iicar  this  earth  miscalled  a 
vale  of  tears. 

As  winter  came  and  winter  went,  I  never 
seemed  to  tire, 

As  merrily  our  voices  rang  around  tlie  par'.our 
fire; 


But  round  that  winter  hearth  now,  a  vacant 
scat  must  be: 

For  I'm  going  to  the  City  of  the 
Crystal  Sea. 

"  I  had  hoped  that,  as  in  years  gone  by,  so 

still  would  I  have  been 
A  happy  joyous  playmate   upon   the   village 

green : 
I   had  hoped  to  go  in  spiing-time  with  my 

basket  and  my  hood, 
To  search  for  yellow  primroses  with  Elsie  in 

the  wood. 
Yes,  when  spring  and  early  summer  came,  to 

pluck  the  hawthorn  spray. 
And  roam  o'er  banks  of  wild  flowers  through- 
out the  livelong  day: 
To  li.sten  to  the  singing  birds  and  humming  of 

the  bee; 

Far  distant  seemed  the  City  of  the 
Crystal  Sea. 

"  It  was  this  day,  three  months  ago,  I  .«poke 

of  Christmas  time, 
When  the  bells  above  the  snow-wreaths  would 

ring  their  merry  chime. 
How  busy  then  I  thought  would  my  finger.^ 

now  have  been, 
In  decking  porchand  lych-gate  in  their  drapery 

of  green ; 
In  decking  all  the  church  too,  till  the  short 

day's  sunshine  fails. 
The  pillars  and  the  lectern  and  the  puli)ii's 

oaken  rails; 
But  other  and  far  better  things  are  in  reserve 

for  me, 

AVhen  I  enter  God's  own  City  of 
the  Cry.stal  Sea. 

"1   had  wished,  I. own,  to  serve   Ilim  some 

time  longer  here  below, 
And  on  little  kindly  errands  now  and  then  to 

come  and  go; 
I  had  purposed,  on  next  Kew  Year's  Day,  to 

walk  to  Poynder's  m'iil 
With  the  book-stand  and  the  flower-glass  for 

Mabel's  window-sill, 
The  cu.sliion  and  the  pillows  I  was  working  for 

iicr  chair, 
A  bunch  of  holly  berries,   and  my  plant  of 

maiden  hair; 
You  can  take  lier  .still  these  little  things  as 

keepsakes  sent  by  me. 

When  I've  left  you  for  the  City  of 
the  Crystal  Sea. 

"Oh!  often  have  I  thought,  too,  when  not  ss 

strong  as  now, 
AViien  age  would  overtake  you  with  wrinkles 

on  your  Ijrow, 


JOHN   E.   MACDUFF. 


423 


How  liappj-  it  would  make  me  to  help  you, 

parents  dear. 
And  do  the  little  best  I  could  your  closing 

days  to  cheer; 
IIow  nice  for  me  and  Elsie,  in  our  turn  to  sit 

at  night. 
To  smooth  your  ruffled  pillows,  and  to  watch 

you  till  daylight; 
I   had  hoped  to  pay  you   buck  again  for  all 

you've  been  to  me; 

But  we'll  meet  in  the  City  of  the 
Crystal  Sea. 

"When  you  come  to  visit  the  spot,  mother, 

where  I  shall  silent  lie, 
The  thought  may  sometimes  startle  you,  '  IIow 

came  she  thus  to  die  ] 
Why  were  the  angels  sent  so  soon  to  bear  her 

far  away] 
■\Vhy  did  the  sun  of  life  go  down  while  yet 

'twas  early  day!' 
Oh,  trust  God's  love  and  wisdom,  which  though 

often  now  concealed, 
"Will  one  day  in  His  own  bright  world  come  all 

to  be  revealed ; 
Yes,  all  that  now  is  dark  to  us,  we  then  shall 

clearly  see. 

In  the  light  of  the  City  of  the 
Crystal  Sea. 

"  When  first  upon  a  couch  of  pain  my  throb- 
bing head  was  laid, 

That  God  might  raise  me  up  again,  how  fer- 
vently I  prayed; 

But  He,  perhaps,  foresaw  too  avcU  the  briar 
and  the  thorn, 

AVhich  might,  like  other  wand'ring  sheep,  my 
straying  feet  have  torn; 

Too  surely  would  His  wisdom  know,  that  with 
a  longer  life 

I  might  have  proved  unequal  for  the  battle  and 
the  strife, 


But  think  of  me  oniv  as  bv  guardian  angels 

led: 
Yes,  think  of  me,  I  pray  you,  as  young  as  now 
1  be, 

A  child  still  in  the  City  of  the 
Crystal  Sea. 

"And  if  at  any  future  time  should  sorrow  be 

in  store. 
Should  poverty  or  sickness  come  across  your 

cottage  door; 
Accept  of  every  trial  as  God's  messenger  of  love 
To  raise  your  heart's  affections  to  my  better 

home  above; 
A  few  short  years  at  farthest,  and  beyond  this 

scene  of  woe 
We  shall  meet  where  partings  are  unknown, 

and  sorrow  cannot  go: 
From  all  temptations  'clean  escaped' — from 

all  afflictions  free, 

Safe  for  ever  in  the  City  of  the 
Crystal  Sea. 

"Yes,  I'm  going  to  a  region  wliich  is  ever  fair 

and  bright, 
Wliere  all  the  blessed  angels  walk  in  fields  of 

golden  light, 
Where  the  cherubim  and  seraphim  surround 

the  Great  I  AM, 
And  the  armies  of  the  ransomed   sing   the 

praises  of  the  Lamb; 
Oh,   wondrous   thought  I    this   feeble   tongue 

shall  soon  take  up  the  strain. 
And  join  in  'Worthy  is  the  Lamb— the  Lamb 

for  sinners  slain;' 
My  dearly  loved  Eedecmer  in   His   beauty  I 

shall  see, 

The    glory   of   the    City  of  the 
Crystal  Sea. 

"  Come  nearer,  come  yet  nearer,  I  like  you 
near  me  now, 


And  therefore  the  unanswered  prayer  was  all  i  For  I  feel  Death's  icy  finger  still  colder  on  my 


in  love  to  me, 

So  He  took  me  to  the  City  of  the 
Crystal  Sea. 

"And  when  all  this  is  over,    and  time  has 

onward  rolled; 
0  father,  mother,  Elsie,  never  think  of  me  as 

old. 
Xever  tiiink  of  mc  but  as  I  am,  without  an 

earthly  care, 
Xo  wrinkle  on  my  forehead — no  white-lock  in 

my  hair: 
Xever  think  of  me  as  dying — never  think  of 

me  as  dead, 


brow ; 
The  angels  are  all  standing  round,  I  hear  my 

Saviour's  voice. 
The  gates  of  glory  stand  ajar,  I  cannot  but 

rejoice. 
My  eyesight  fast  isdimming— the  lengthening 

shadows  fall, 
I  dare  not  longer  tarry  and  resist  the  Master's 

call; 
Farewell! — I  mayn't  return  to  you:  but  you 

can  come  to  me" — ■ 

She  entered  then  the  City  of  the 
Crystal  Sea. 


424 


JOHN   CAMPBELL  SHAIRP. 


JOHN    CAMPBELL    SHAIEP. 


John  Campbell  Shairp,  LL.D.,  Principal 
of  the  United  College  of  St.  Salvator  and  St. 
Leonard,  St.  Andrews,  was  born  at  Houstonn 
House,  Linlithgowshire,  July  30,  1819.  He 
received  his  education  at  the  Edinburgh  Aca- 
demy, Glasgow  Universit}-,  and  Balliol  Col- 
lege, Oxford.  After  his  graduation  at  the 
latter  university  he  was  appointed  by  Dr.  Tait, 
now  Archbishop  of  Canterbury,  an  assistant 
master  of  Rugby  School,  where  he  remained 
until  1857,  when  he  undertook  the  duties  of 
the  Humanity  chair  in  the  University  of  St. 
Andrews,  and  soon  afterwards  was  appointed  to 
that  professorship.  In  1868  Professor  Shairp 
was  appointed  Principal  of  his  college,  a  posi- 
tion for  which  his  talents  and  attainments  i 
admirably  qualify  him.  His  claim  for  a  place 
in  this  AVork  rests  chiefly  upon  a  volume  issued 
in  1864,  entitled  Kilmahoe,  a  Highland  Pas- 
toral, ivith  other  Poems.  The  scene  of  Kil- 
mahoe is  laid  on  the  western  shores  of  Argyle- 
shire,  and  the  poem  describes  the  life  and 
manners  of  a  laird's  family  in  that  region,  as 
these  existed  towards  the  close  of  last  and  the 
opening  of  the  present  century.  The  other 
poems  are  short  lyrics  entitled  "From  the 
Highlands,"  "From  the  Borders,"  "From 
tiie  Lowlands."  Of  these  the  two  best  known 
pieces  are  "The  Moor  of  Rannoch"  and  "  The 
Bush  aboon  Traquair."  Besides  these  poems 
he  has  since  contributed  various  pieces  to  Good 
Words  and  otiier  periodicals.  Principal  Shairp 
is  also  the  author  of  Studies  in  Poetry  and  Phil- 
osoiilnj, 1868;  Lectures  on  Culture  and  Peligion, 
1870;  and  the  biographical  part  of  the  life  of 
Principal  James  Forbes.  An  announcement  has 
just  appeared  that  he  intends  to  contribute  to 
the  pages  of  the  Celtic  Mai/azine  a  poem  of  some 
Icngthj  entitled  "The  Clearing  of  the  Glens." 


A  recent  writer  in  St.  James's  Magazine 
remarks: — "Principal  Shairp  and  Professor 
Blackie  are  two  excellent  instances  of  com- 
bined scholarship  and  independent  originality. 
When  Principal  Shairp  was  professor  of  Huma- 
nity one  of  the  points  of  his  teaching  most 
valued,  next  to  his  range  and  accuracj',  was 
hisextempore  translation,  into  glowing  English 
prose,  of  some  flowing  ore  rotundo  passage  from 
one  of  the  poets.  Lucretius,  Horace,  and 
Juvenal  were  all  thus  covered  with  glorj-,  but 
the  charming  metaphors  and  the  lender  descrip- 
tions of  Yirgil  were  treated  with  special  sympa- 
thetic touch  and  delicate  grace.  As  an  in- 
stance, we  may  mention  the  simile  in  the  fifth 
book  of  the  jEneid,  line  213,  where  a  pigeon 
is  described  as  fluttering  out  of  a  cave,  and 
then  skimming  away  through  the  air  on  out- 
stretched noiseless  wings: — 

'  Fertur  in  arva  volans,  plansnmque  exten'ita  reimis 
Dat  tecto  ingentem,  niox  aere  lapso  quieto 
Radit  iter  liquidum,  celeres  ueqiie  commovet  alas.' 

There  is  an  echo  of  this  passage  in  Principal 
Shairp's  poem  'Kilmahoe,'  in  the  lyrical  divi- 
sion entitled  '  The  Glen' — 

'  With  laughter  and  shout  the  rock  doves  we  will  flout, 

Till,  flapping  the  loud  cave-roof, 
They  'scape  overhead  and  their  poised  -wings  spread 
To  the  calm  heavens  aloof.' 

Prose  translation  has  not  yet  by  any  means 
been  overdone  (except,  of  course,  that  kind  of 
it  which  has  been  so  ill  done  as  not  to  be  worth 
counting  at  all),  and  it  would  be  for  the  advan- 
tage of  literature  were  Principal  Shairp,  with- 
out abating  his  devotion  to  WordsAVorth,  or 
neglecting  his  other  multifarious  duties,  to  do 
some  work  in  this  sphere.  Few  could  do  it  as 
well,  and  none  could  do  it  better." 


THE    SACKAMEXTAL    SABBATH. 


'Mid  the  folding  mountains, 
Old  Kilcicran's  lone  kirkyard 
Round  its  ruined  chapel  gathers, 


Age  by  age,  the  gray  hill-fathers 
Underneath  the  heathery  sward. 
Centuries  gone  the  saint  from  Erin 


JOHN   CAMPBELL   SHAIRP. 


425 


Hither  came  on  Christ's  behest, 
Taught  and  toiled,  and  when  was  ended 
Life's  long  labour,  here  found  rest; 
And  all  ages  since  have  followed 
To  the  ground  his  grave  hath  blessed. 

Up  the  long  glen  narrowing 
Inland  from  the  eastern  deep, 
In  the  kirkyard  o'er  the  river, 
Where  dead  generations  sleep, 
Living  men  on  summer  Sabbaths 
Worship  long  have  loved  to  keep. 

Thei'e  o'er  graves  lean  lichencd  crosses, 
Placed  long  since  by  hands  unknown. 
Sleeps  the  ancient  warrior  under 
The  blue  claymore-sculptured  stone. 
And  the  holy  well  still  trickles 
From  rock  basin,  grass-o'ergrown. 

Lulled  the  sea  this  Sabbath  morning. 
Calm  the  golden-misted  glens. 
And  the  white  clouds  upward  passing 
Leave  unveiled  the  azure  Bens, 
Altars  pure  to  lift  to  heaven 
Human  hearts'  unheard  aniens. 

And  the  folk  are  flowing 
Both  from  near  and  far,  enticed 
By  old  wont  and  reverent  feeling 
Here  to  keep  the  hallowed  tryst, 
This  calm  sacramental  Sabbath, 
Far  among  the  hills,  with  Christ. 

Dwellers  on  this  side  the  country 
Take  the  shore-road,  near  their  doors. 
Poor  blue-coated  fishers,  plaided 
Crofters  from  the  glens  and  moors, 
Fathers,  mothers,  sons,  and  daugiiters. 
Hither  trooping,  threes  and  fours. 

Plaids  were  there  that  only  Sabbath 
Saw,  and  wives'  best  tartan  hoods, 
Gi'annies'  white  coifs,  and  bareheaded 
Maidens  with  their  silken  snoods; 
^lany-hued,  home-woven  tartans. 
Brightening  these  grave  solitudes. 

You  might  see  on  old  white  horses 
Agfed  farmers  slowly  ride, 
With  their  wives  behind  them  seated, 
And  the  collie  by  their  side; 
While  the  young  folk  follow  after, 
Son  and  daughter,  groom  and  bride. 

There  a  boat  or  two  is  coming 
From  lone  isle  or  headland  o'er, 
Many  more,  each  following  other. 
Slowly  pull  along  the  shore. 


Fore  and  aft  to  gunwale  freighted 
AVith  the  old,  the  weak,  the  poor, 

The  bowed  down,  the  lame,  the  palsied. 
Those  with  panting  breath  opprest. 
Widows  poor,  in  mutch  and  tartan 
Cloak,  for  one  day  lent  them,  drest. 
And  the  young  and  ruddy  mother, 
AVith  the  bairnie  at  her  breast. 

And  the  western  shores  Atlantic, 

All  the  rough  side  of  Kintyre, 

Send  small  bands  since  morn,  far-travelled 

O'er  hill,  river,  moss,  and  mire, 

Down  the  mountain  shoulders  moving 

Toward  this  haven  of  their  desire. 

Sends  each  glen  and  hidden  corry. 
As  they  pass,  its  little  train. 
To  increase  the  throng  that  thickens 
Kirkward,  like  the  growing  gain 
P^-om  hill  burns,  which  some  vale-river 
Broadening  beareth  to  the  main. 

While  the  kirkyard  throng  and  throngcr 
CJroweth,  some  their  kindred  greet; 
Others  in  lone  nooks  and  corners 
To  some  grass-grown  grave  retreat. 
There  heed  not  the  living,  busy 
With  the  dead  beneath  their  feet. 

Here  on  green  mound  sits  a  widow. 
Rocking  crooningly  to  and  fro. 
Over  him  with  Avhom  so  gladly 
To  God's  house  she  used  to  go; 
There  the  tears  of  wife  and  husband 
Blend  o'er  a  small  grave  below. 

There  you  might  o'erhcar  some  old  man, 
Palsied,  speaking  to  his  son, 
"See  thou  underneath  this  headstone 
Make  my  bed,  when  all  is  done. 
There  long  since  I  laid  my  father. 
There  his  forebears  lie,  each  one." 

They  too,  all  a  kindly  household 
From  morn-gladdened  Kilmahoe, 
Steek  their  door,  and  maid  and  mistress 
Toward  the  Sabbath  gathering  go. 
Lady  lone,  and  four  fair  daughters. 
By  the  lulled  sea  murmuring  low. 

Upward  from  the  shingly  sea-beach. 
By  the  long  glen's  grassy  road. 
First  the  white-haired  lady  mother. 
Then  the  elder  sisters,  trode, 
Last  came  Moira  fair,  and  Marion, 
All  their  spirits  overawed. 


426 


JOHN   CAMPBELL   SHAIRP. 


Jleek  and  very  lowly 

Souls,  bowed  down  with  reverent  fear, 

This  tlieir  lirst  communion  day! 

To  the  awful  presence  holy 

Dread  it  is  to  draw  so  near, 

Pain  it  were  to  turn  away. 

So  of  old  the  Hebrew  maiden, 
'Mid  tlie  Galilean  mountains 
Leaving  all  her  childhood  time, 
AVith  her  kinsfolk,  incense-laden, 
By  Kedron's  brook,  Siloah's  fountain, 
Zion's  hill  awe-struck  would  climb. 

As  they  pass  within  the  kirkyard. 
Some  old  eyes  long  used  to  stoop 
Rose  and  brightened  on  these  maidens, 
Youngest  of  the  family  group, 
Marion's  flaxen  ringlets,  Moira's 
Large  soft  eyes  witli  downward  droop. 

TiOved  ones  of  the  country  people. 
They  had  dandled  them  on  their  knees. 
Watched  them  with  their  bairnies  ranging 
Tiie  shore  coves  and  mountain  leas; 
Year  by  year  beheld  their  beauty 
Like  a  summer  dawn  increase: 
Kow  on  this  their  first  communion 
Those  old  eyes  look  blessing  and  peace. 

Sweet  the  chime  from  ruined  belfry 
Stealeth;  at  its  peaceful  call 
Round  the  knoll  whereon  the  preacher 
Takes  his  stand,  they  gather  all: 
In  whole  families  seated,  o'er  them 
Hallowed  stillness  seems  to  fall. 

There  they  sit,  the  men  bareheaded 
By  their  wives;  in  reverence  meek 
Many  an  eye  to  heaven  is  lifted, 
^lany  lips,  not  heard  to  speak, 
Slutely  moving,  on  tiieir  worship 
From  on  high  a  blessing  seek. 

Some  on  gray-mossed  headstones  seated. 
Some  on  mounds  of  wild  thyme  balm. 
Grave-browed  men  and  tartaned  matrons 
Swell  the  mighty  Celtic  psalm. 
On  from  glen  to  peak  repeated, 
Far  into  the  mountain  calm. 

Tiien  the  aged  pastor  rose. 
White  witli  many  a  winter's  snows 
Fallen  o'er  his  ample  brows; 
And  his  voice  of  pleading  prayer, 
Cleaving  slow  the  still  blue  air. 
All  his  people's  need  laid  bare. 

Laden  with  o'erflowing  feeling 
Then  streamed  on  Ids  fervid  chant, 


In  the  old  Highland  tongue  appealing 
To  each  soul's  most  hidden  want, 
AVith  the  life  and  deep  soul-healing 
He  who  died  now  lives  to  grant. 

Slow  the  people  round  the  table 
Outspread,  white  as  mountain  sleet, 
Gather,  the  blue  heaven  above  them. 
And  their  dead  beneath  their  feet; 
There  in  perfect  reconcilement 
Death  and  life  immortal  meet. 

Noiseless  round  that  fair  white  table 
'Mid  their  fathers'  tombstones  spread. 
Hoary- headed  elders  moving, 
Bear  the  hallowed  wine  and  bread, 
AVhile  devoutly  still  tlie  people 
Low  in  prayer  bow  the  head. 

Tender  hearts,  their  first  communion, 
]\Iany  a  one  was  in  tiiat  crowd; 
AVith  them  in  mute  adoration. 
Breathless  iloira  and  ]\Lirion  bowed, 
AVhile  far  up  on  yon  blue  summit 
Paused  the  silver  cloud. 

And  no  sound  was  heard — save  only 
Distance-lulled  the  Atlantic  roar, 
Over  the  calm  mountains  coming 
From  far  Machrahanish  shore, 
Like  an  audible  eternity 
Brooding  the  hushed  people  o'er. 

Soon  they  go — but  ere  another 

Day  of  iiallowed  bread  and  wine, 

Some  now  here  shall  have  ascended 

To  communion  more  divine. 

Some  have  changed  their  old  hill-dwellings. 

Some  have  swept  the  tropic  line. 


THE   CLEARANCE   SONG. 

From  Lochourn  to  Glenfinnan  the  gray  moun- 
tains ranging. 

Naught  falls  on  the  eye  but  the  changed  and 
the  changing; 

From  the  hut  by  the  lochside,  the  farm  by  the 
river, 

Macdonalds  and  Cameron  pass— and  for  ever. 

The  flocks  of  one  stranger  the  long  glens  are 

roaming, 
AVhere   a   hundred   bien   homesteads   smoked 

bonny  at  gloaming, 
Our  wee  crofts  run  wild  wi'  the  bracken  and 

heather, 
And  our  gables  stand  ruinous,   bare   to   the 

weather. 


JOHN   CAMPBELL   SHAIEP. 


427 


To  the  green  mountain  shealings  went  up  in 

old  summers 
From  farm-town  and  clachan  how  mony  blitlic 

comers! 
Though  green  the  hill   pastures  lie,  cloudless 

tlie  heaven, 
Ko  milker  is  singing  there,  morning  or  even. 

Where  high  Mam-clachard  by  the  ballach  is 

breasted, 
Ye  may  see  tiie  gray  cairns  where  old  funerals 

rested. 
They  who  built  them  have  long  in  their  green 

graves  been  sleeping, 
And  their  sons  goue  to  exile,  or  willing  or 

weeping. 

Tlic  chiefs,  whom  for  ages  our  claymores 
defended, 

Whom  landless  and  exiled  our  fathers  be- 
friended, 

From  their  homes  drive  their  clansmen,  when 
famine  is  sorest. 

Cast  out  to  make  room  for  the  deer  of  the  forest. 

Yet  on  far  fields  of  fame,  when  the  red  ranks 
were  reeling. 

Who  prest  to  the  van  like  the  men  from  the 
shealing? 

Ye  were  fain  in  your  need  Highland  broad- 
swords to  borrow. 

Where,  where  are  they  now,  should  the  foe 
come  to-morrow? 

Alas  for  the  day  of  the  mournful  Ciilloden! 
The  clans  from  that  hour  down  to  dust  have 

been  trodden. 
They  were  leal  to  their  Prince,  when  red  wrath 

was  pursuing, 
And  have  reaped  in  return  but  oppression  and 

ruin. 

It's  plaintive  in  harvest,  when  lambs  are  a- 
spaining. 

To  hear  the  hills  loud  with  ewe-mothers  com- 
plaining— 

All!  sadder  that  cry  comes  from  mainland  and 
islands, 

The  sons  of  'the  Gael  have  no  home  in  the 
Highlands. 


THE   MOOR   OF   RANXOCH. 

O'er  the  dreary  moor  of  Rannoch 
Calm  these  hours  of  Sabbath  shine; 

But  no  kirk-bell  here  divideth 
AVeek-dav  toil  from  rest  divine. 


Ages  pass,  hut  save  the  tempest. 
Nothing  here  makes  toil  or  haste; 

Busy  weeks  nor  restful  Sai)bath 
Visit  this  abandoned  waste. 

Long  ere  prow  of  earliest  savage 
Grated  on  blank  Albyn's  shore. 

Lay  these  drifts  of  granite  boulders. 
Weather-bleached  and  lichened  o'er. 

Beuchaille  Etive's  furrowed  visage 
To  Sehihallion  looked  sublime. 

O'er  a  wide  and  wasted  desert. 
Old  and  unreclaimed  as  time. 

Yea!  a  desert  wide  and  wasted, 

Washed  by  rain-floods  to  the  bones; 

League  on  league  of  heatlier  blasted, 

Storm-gashed  moss,  gray  boulder-stones; 

And  along  these  dreary  levels, 
As  by  some  stern  destiny  placed. 

Yon  sad  lochs  of  black  moss  water 
Grimly  gleaming  on  the  waste; 

East  and  west,  and  northward  sweeping. 
Limitless  the  mountain  plain, 

Like  a  vast  low  heaving  ocean, 
Girdled  by  its  mountain  chain: 

Plain,  o'er  which  the  kingliest  eagle. 
Ever  screamed  by  dark  Lochawe, 

Fain  Avould  dronp  a  laggard  ])inion, 
Ere  he  touched  Ben-Auldcr's  brow. 

Mountain-girdled, — there  Bendoran 

To  Sehihallion  calls  aloud, 
Beckons  he  to  lone  Ben-Aulder, 

He  to  Nevis  crowned  with  cloud. 

Cradled  here  old  Highland  rivers, 

Etive,  Cona,  regal  Tay, 
Like  the  shout  of  clans  to  battle, 

Down  the  gorges  break  away. 

And  the  Atlantic  sends  his  pipers 
Up  yon  thunder-throated  glen, 

O'er  the  moor  at  midnight  sounding 
Pibrochs  never  heard  by  men. 

Clouds,  and  mists,  and  rains  before  them 
Crowding  to  the  wild  wind  tune, 

Here  to  Mage  their  all-night  battle, 
Unbeheld  by  star  and  moon. 

Loud  the  while  down  all  his  hollows, 
Flashing  with  a  hundred  streams, 

Corrie-bah  from  out  the  darkness 
To  the  desert  roai'S  and  gleams. 


428 


JOSEPH   NOEL   PATON. 


Sterner  still,  more  drearly  driven, 
There  o'  nights  the  north  wind  raves 

His  long  homeless  lamentation, 
As  from  Arctic  seamen's  graves. 

Till  his  might}'  snow-sieve  shaken 
Down  hath  blinded  all  the  lift, 

Hid  the  mountains,  plunged  the  moorland 
Fathom-deep  in  mounded  drift. 

Such  a  time,  while  yells  of  slaughter 
Burst  at  midnight  on  Glencoe, 

Hither  tlying  babes  and  mothers 
Perished  'mid  the  waste  of  snow. 

Countless  storms  have  scrawled  unheeded 
Characters  o'er  these  houseless  moors; 

But  that  night  engi-aven  forever 
In  all  human  hearts  endures. 

Yet  the  heaven  denies  not  healing 
To  the  darkest  human  things. 

And  to-day  some  kindlier  feeling 
Sunshine  o'er  the  desert  flings. 

Though  the  long  deer-grass  is  moveless. 
And  the  corrie-burns  are  dry, 

^lusic  comes  in  gleams  and  shadows 
Woven  beneath  the  dreaming  eye. 

Desert  not  deserted  wholly  ! 

Where  such  calms  as  these  can  come, — 
Never  tempest  more  majestic 

Than  this  boundless  silence  dumb. 


THE  BUSH  ABOON"  TRAQUAIR. 

AVill  ye  gang  wi'  me  and  fiire 

To  the  bush  aboon  Traquair? 
Ower  the  high  ilinchmuir  we'll  up  and  awa', 

Tliis  bonny  summer  noon, 

AVhile  the  sun  shines  fair  aboon, 
.\nd  the  licht  sklents  saftly  doun  on  holm  and 
ha'. 

And  wliat  would  ye  do  there, 
At  the  bush  aboon  Traquair? 


A  lang  driech  road,  ye  had  better  let  it  be. 
Save  some  auld  skrunts  o'  birk 
r  the  hill-side  lirk, 

There's  nocht  i'  the  warld  for  man  to  see. 

But  the  blithe  lilt  o'  that  air, 

"The  bush  aboon  Traquair," 
I  need  nae  mair,  it's  eneuch  for  me; 

Owre  my  cradle  its  sweet  chime 

Cam'  sughin'  frae  auld  time, 
Sae  tide  what  may,  I'll  awa'  and  see. 

And  what  saw  ye  there 

At  the  bush  aboon  Traquair? 
Or  what  did  ye  hear  that  was  worth  your  heed? 

I  heard  the  cushies  croon 

Through  the  gowden  afternoon, 
,\.nd  the  Quair  burn  singing  down  to  the  Vale 
o'  Tweed. 

And  birks  saw  I  three  or  four, 

Wi'  gray  moss  bearded  owre, 
The  last  that  are  left  o'  the  birken  shaw, 

Whar  mony  a  simmer  e'en 

Fond  lovers  did  convene, 
Thae  bonny  bonny  gloamius  that  are  lang  awa'. 

Frae  mony  a  but  and  ben, 

By  muirland,  holm,  and  glen. 
They  cam'  ane  hour  to  spen'  on  the  greenwood 
sward, 

But  lang  hae  lad  and  lass 

Been  lying  'neath  the  grass, 
The  green  green  grass  o'  Traquair  kirkyard. 

They  were  blest  beyond  compare, 

AVhen  they  held  their  trysting  there, 
Amang  thae  greenest  hills  shone  on  by  the  sun. 

And  then  they  wan  a  rest. 

The  lownest  and  the  best, 
r  Traquair  kirkyard  when  a'  was  dune. 

Now  the  birks  to  dust  may  rot, 

Names  o'  luvers  be  forgot, 
Xae  lads  and  lasses  there  ony  mair  convene ; 

But  the  blithe  lilt  o'  yon  air 

Keeps  the  bush  aboon  Traquair, 
And  the  luve  that  ance  was  there,  aye  fresh 
and  green. 


JOSEPH    NOEL    PATON. 


Among  the  dii  minores  of  Scottish  poetry 
entitled  to  mention  in  this  volume  is  Sir 
Joseph  Noel  Baton,  R.S.A.,wIio  was  born  at 


Dunfermline,  Fifeshire,  December  13,  1S21. 
"  My  education,"  writes  Sir  Noel  to  the  Editor, 
"wiiich   was  of  a  very  desultory  kind,   was 


JOSEPH  NOEL  PATON. 


429 


received  at  Dunfermline.  In  1843  I  was  ad- 
mitted a  student  at  tlie  Eoyal  Academy  of 
London,  but  did  not  subsequently  study  tiiere. 
Indeed  I  may  say  I  never  formally  studied 
anywhere."  In  18i5  he  gained  one  of  the  three 
equal  premiums  awarded  by  the  royal  com- 
missioners at  the  AVestminster  Hall  compe- 
tition of  that  year,  and  in  a  similar  com- 
petition two  years  hxter  he  won  a  prize  in 
the  second  class  for  his  pictures  of  "Christ 
Bearing  his  Cross,"  and  "The  Reconciliation 
of  Oberon  and  Titania."  In  1850  he  be- 
came an  academician  of  the  Eoyal  Scottish 
Academy;  in  1858  he  married,  and  the  fol- 
lowing year  was  senior  officer  of  the  first 
volunteer  artillery  corps  in  Scotland.  In  1865 
he  was  appointed  limner  to  the  Queen  for 
Scotland,  an  office  of  ancient  standing  in  the 
Scottish  royal  household;  and  two  years  later 
he  received  the  honour  of  knighthood  at  "Wind- 
sor Castle  from  the  hand  of  the  Queen.  He 
is  a  commissioner  of  the  Hon.  the  Board  of 
ilauufactures,  and  one  of  the  vice-presidents 


of  the  Society  of  Antiquaries  of  Scotland.  In 
1S76  he  received  from  the  University  of  Edin- 
burgh the  honorary  degree  of  LL.D. 

Of  Sir  Noel's  numerous  works  in  various  de- 
partments of  art  we  are  not  here  called  upon 
to  speak  in  detail.  They  comprise  illustra- 
tions of  classical  and  of  northern  mythology, 
of  scriptural  and  of  poetical  subjects;  and  are 
almost  all  characterized  more  or  less  by  an 
allegorical  or  didactic  tendency.  But  it  is  not 
only  as  an  artist  that  he  has  won  reputation. 
A  volume  which  he  issued  in  ISGl,  entitled 
Poems  by  a  Painter,  Avas  favourably  received, 
and  speedily  won  for  him  recognition  as  a 
worthy  member  of  the  literary  guild.  This 
was  followed  in  1867  by  a  second  poetical 
volume,  under  the  title  of  Spindrift.  Sir 
Xoel  is  an  occasional  contributor  to  the  cur- 
rent periodical  literature  of  the  day,  and  has 
also,  as  he  says,  "entombed  in  the  proceed- 
ings of  the  Society  of  Antiquaries  pro- 
foundly uninteresting  papers  on  antiquarian 
subjects." 


THE  TOilB   IX   THE   CHANCEL 

TO   W.   II.   P. 
I. 

Up  from  the  willowy  Wharf  e  the  white  haze  crept, 

The  yellow  leaves  were  falling  one  by  one; 
Y.lien  through  the  Priory  nave  we  softly  stept 

To  where— his  clangorous  life-moil  long  since 
done — 
Sir  Everard  Rahy  in  his  hauberk  slept, 

In  the  still  chancel  corner,  all  alone. 
Ah,  time  had  used  him  roughly!  Helm  and  shield, 
All  banged  and  battered,  as  in  mortal  field; 
The  knightly  baldric  hrast,  the  brave  sword  gone, 
That  won  his  spurs  at  dusty  Ascalon. 
But  broken  harness  or  dishonoured  crest 

Boots  not  to  him  so  meekly  slumbering  there, 
With  stony  feet  crossed  in  eternal  rest, 

And  stony  fingers  locked  in  everlasting  prayer. 

II. 

The  autumn  sunlight  touched  his  carven  mail 
With  ghostly  radiance— cyclas,  belt,  and  lace; 
Scattered  wan  splendours  all  about  the  place. 
And  with  fantastic  necromancy  played 
Amongst  the  dust  our  quiet  moving  made; 
While  o'er  his  suppliant  hands  and  heavenward 
face 


It  hung  a  mournful  glory,  soft  and  pale, 
As  if,  through  mist  of  half-remembered  tears. 
It  shone  from  far,  the  light  of  buried  j^ears ! — 

We  leaned  in  silence  on  the  oaken  rail. 

And,  'mid  the  hush,  this  thought  swelled  like 
a  psalm 

In  my  heart's  sanctuary:  0  that  we,  too,  might 
bear 

Our  cross  through  life's  stem  conflict,  as  to  wear 
Indeath,  like  him,  the  crown  of  everlasting  calm. 


SONG. 


With  the  sunshine,  and  the  swallows,  and  the 
flowers, 
She  is  coming,  my  beloved,  o'er  the  sea! 
And  I  sit  alone  and  count  the  weary  hours, 
Till  she  Cometh  in  her  beauty  back  to  me; 

And  my  heart  will  not  be  quiet, 

But,  in  a  "purple  riot," 

Keeps  ever  madly  beating 

At  the  thought  of  that  sweet  meeting, 
When  she  cometh  with  the  summer  o'er  the  sea; 

All  the  sweetness  of  the  south 

On  the  roses  of  her  mouth. 

All  the  fervour  of  its  skies 

In  her  gentle  northern  eyes. 
As  she  cometh,  my  beloved,  home  to  me! 


430 


JOSEPH   NOEL   PATON. 


No  more,  o'  nights,  the  shivering  north  complains, 
But  blithe  birds  twitter  in  the  crimson  dawn; 
N^o  more  the  fairy  frost-flowers  fret  the  panes, 
But  snowdrops  gleam  by  garden-path  and  lawn; 

And  at  times  a  white  cloud  wingeth 

From  the  southland  up,  and  bringeth 

A  warm  wind,  odour-laden. 

From  the  bowers  of  that  fair  Aden 
Where  she  lingers  by  the  blue  Tyrrhenian  Sea; 

And  I  turn  my  lips  to  meet 

Its  kisses  faint  and  sweet; 

For  I  know  from  hers  they've  brought 

The  message,  rapture-fraught: 
' '  I  am  coming,  love,  with  summer,  home  to  thee ! " 


SIR  LAUNCELOT. 

"  Had  not  Sir  Ijauncelot  teen  in  his  secret  thoughts  and  in 
his  mind  set  inwardly  to  the  Queen,  as  he  was  in  seeming 
outward  unto  God,  there  had  no  knight  passed  him  in  the 
quest  of  the  Sangreall."— ia  Mort  d' Arthur 

Past  sleeping  thorp  and  guarded  tower, 
By  star-gleams  and  in  moonlight  pale, 

By  mount  and  mere,  through  shine  and  shower, 
Fhxsht  the  wan  lightning  of  his  mail. 

But  loose  the  jewelled  bridle  hung. 

And  backward  listless  drooped  the  spear — 

God's  holy  name  was  on  his  tongue. 
Thine  in  his  heart— Queen  Gueniverc. 

Deep  in  a  wood  at  dead  of  night 

lie  felt  the  white  wings  winnowing  by, 

He  saw  the  flood  of  mystic  light, 

He  heard  the  chanting  clear  and  high. 

"0,  heal  me,  blood  of  Christ  1"  he  said — 
A  low  voice  murmured  in  his  ear, 

And  all  the  saintly  vision  fled. 

The  voice  was  thine — Queen  Guenivcre. 

Bravest  of  all  the  brave  art  thou — 
Uf  guileless  heart— of  staiuless  name; 

But,  traitor  to  tliy  sacred  vow, 
Tiiou  rid'st  to  ruin  and  to  shame. 

No  joy  on  earth  for  evermore! 

No  rest  for  thee  but  on  thy  bier ! — 
Ahl  blessed  Lord,  our  sins  who  bore, 

Save  him— and  sinful  Gueniverc! 


ULYSSES   IN   OGVGIA. 

Was  it  in  very  deed,  or  but  in  dream, 

I,  King  Odysseus,  girt  with  brazen  spears. 

Princes,  and  long-haired  warriors  of  the  Isles, 


Sailed  with  the  dawTi  from  weeping  Ithaca, 
To  battle  round  the  God-built  walls  of  Troy 
For  that  fair,  faithless  Pest— so  long  ago? 
So  long  ago !     It  seems  as  many  lives 
Had  waxed  and  waned,  since,  bending  to  our  oars. 
And  singing  to  our  singing  sails,  we  swept 
From  high  Aetos,  down  the  echoing  gulf 
Towards  the  sunrise;  while  from  many  a  fane 
Rose  the  white  smoke  of  sacrificial  fires, 
And  the  wild  wail  of  women : — for  they  knew 
We  should  return  no  more.   Long  years  have  past : 
Long,  weary  years; — yetstill,  when  daylight  fades. 
And  Hesper  from  the  purple  heaven  looks  down, 
And  the  dim  wave  moans  on  the  shadowy  shore, — 
From  out  the  awful  darkness  of  the  woods, 
From  out  the  silence  of  the  twilight  air. 
In  unforgotten  accents,  fond  and  low, 
The  voices  of  the  dead  seem  calling  me; 
And  tlirough  the  mist  of  slowly  gathering  tears 
The  faces  of  the  loved  revisit  me: 
Thine,  my  Penelope,  and  his,  our  child. 
Our  fair  Teleraachus— wearing  the  dear  home- 
smiles 
They  wore  of  old,  ere  yet  the  Atridse  came. 
Breathing  of  Eris,  to  our  peaceful  shores. 
And  our  bold  hearts  blazed  up  in  quenchless  fire 
And  irrepressible  lust  of  glorious  war. 
Ai  me!  what  recked  we  then  the  streaming  tears 
Of  wife  or  virgin,  and  their  clinging  hands! 
Exulting  in  our  strength  we  scorned  the  lures 
Of  Aphrodite— scorned  the  ignoble  ease 
Of  gray  ancestral  honours.     Deathless  names 
We,  too,  the  sons  of  Heroes,  should  achieve 
Among  the  brass-mailed  Greeks!     A  thousand 

deaths 
Too  slight  a  price  for  immortality ! 

0  golden  dreams!     O  god-like  rage  of  youth! 
Quenched  in  black  blood,  or  the  remorseless  brine, 
Alas!  so  soon.     Yet  ere  They  sorrowing  went. 
All-beauteous,  to  the  shadowy  realms  of  Death 
And  unsubstantial  Hades,  their  young  souls, 
Amid  the  clang  of  shields  and  rush  of  spears, 
Beneath  the  deep  eyes  of  the  watchful  gods, 
Drank  the  delirious  wine  of  victory! 
Thrice  happy  they,  by  whom  the  agony 
Of  withered  hopes,  of  wasted  life,  of  long 
And  vain  endeavour  after  noble  ends. 
Was  all  unproved.    What  different  doom  is  mine! 
On  barren  seas  a  wanderer,  growing  old, 
And  full  of  Intter  knowledge,  best  imknown. 
Ah!  comrades,  would  that  in  the  exultant  hour 
Of  triumph,  when,  our  mighty  travail  o'er, 
The  towers  of  llion  sank  in  roaring  flame, 
I,  too,  had  perished;— or  in  that  wild  flash 
Of  vengeance  for  the  herds  of  Phoibos  slain. 
When  the  black  ship  went  down,  and  I  alone 
Of  all  was  left.     But  the  high  (Jods  are  just, 
The  Fates  inscrutable;  and  1  will  bear 
My  portion  unsulxlued  until  the  end. 
Greatly  to  do  is  great,  but  greater  still 


JOSEPH   NOEL   PATON. 


431 


Greatly  to  suffer.     So  with  steadfast  mind 
1  wait  "the  issues.     But  the  doom  is  hard: 
Far  from  the  councils  of  illustrious  men, 
Far  from  my  sea-girt  realm,  and  god-like  toils 
Of  governance, — from  noble  uses  far. 
And  wife,  and  child,  and  honourable  rest. 
To  waste  inglorious  all  these  golden  years; 
Nursing  one  sickly  hope— more  like  despair- 
That  the  blest  Gods  will  hear  me,  and  restore 
My  life,  thus  dead  to  duty.— As  he  told. 
The  eyeless  phantom,  on  that  night  of  fear 
In  Orcus,  when  around  the  bloody  trench, 
From  out  the  Stygian  gloom,  with  shriek  and 

groan. 
Crowded  the  dim  eidolons  of  the  dead, 
And  with  my  naked  sword  I  held  them  back. 
Till  each  pale  mouth,  drinking  the  reeking  gore, 
Answered  my  quest,  and  vanished. 

Shall  it  be  ?— 
Or  now,  while  yet  my  arm  is  strong  to  wield 
The  kingly  sceptre  and  avenge  its  wrongs'? 
Or  when,   bowed   down  with   years   and  many 

woes, 
My  deeds  forgotten  and  my  dear  ones  dead. 
The  children  of  my  slaves  shall  jeer  at  me. 
Mocking  my  powerless  limbs,  and  strangers  ask, 
Is  ;/((■;!  the  great  Odysseus?— But  I  wait. 

Jlan  is  the  puppet  of  the  Gods:  they  mould 
His  destiny,  and  mete  him  good  or  ill — 
Lords  of  his  fate,  from  whom,  alas!  in  vain 
He  seeks  escape.     But  he  to  whom  nor  good 
Brings  insolence,  nor  ill  abasement,  stands 
Whole  in  himself— lord  of  his  own  firm  heart. 
The  sword  may  drink  his  blood;  the  irascible  sea 
May  whelm  him;  life  bitterer  than  many  deaths 
May  lead  his  steps  to  Hades;  still  his  soul 
Unconquered  stands;  and  even  among  the  shades 
Shall  win  the  reverence  haply  here  denied. 

Hark!  from  the  myrtle-thickets  on  the  height 
Divine  Calypso  calls  me;  to  her  lute 
Singing  the  low,  sweet  song  I  made  for  her — 
A  low,  sweet  song  of  passionate  content — 
When  weary  from  the  inexorable  deep. 
Weary  and  lone,  I  touched  this  woody  isle, 
And  found  a  haven  in  her  circling  arms, 
And  all  Elysium  on  her  bounteous  breast. 
Cease,  cease.  Divine  One!  in  my  yearning  ear 
Another  song  is  echoing:  one  more  meet 
For  me  to  hearken.     Out  beneath  the  stars — 
The  old  companions  of  my  wanderings- 
Far  out  at  sea,  amid  the  deepening  dark 
The  winds  are  shouting,  as  a  gathering  host 
Shouts  on  the  eve  of  battle;  and  the  gulls — 
Lovers  of  tempest  and  my  mates  of  old! 
FUt,  dive,  and,  screaming,  summon  me  once  more 
To   plough  the  unfruitful  wastes  of  weltering 

brine — 
The  mid-sea's  moaning  soHtudes, — to  where. 
Somewhere  beyond  the  trackless  waters,  lie 


The  bights  and  bluffs  and  blue  peaks  of  my  home— 
For  my  heart  tells  me  that  the  hour  draws  near! 


LOVE  AND   FRIEXDSHIP. 

A  CONCEIT. 

Sweet!  in  the  flowery  gai-land  of  our  love. 
Where  fancy,  folly,  frenzy  interwove, 
Our  diverse  destinies,  not  all  unkind, 
A  secret  strand  of  purest  gold  entwined. 

While  bloomed  the  magic  flowers  we  scarcely 

knew. 
The  gold  was  there.     But  now  their  petals  strew 
Life's  pathway;  and  instead,  with  scarce  a  sigh. 
We  see  the  cold  but  fadeless  circlet  he. 

With  scarce  a  sigh!— and  yet  the  flowers  were 

fair, 
Fed  by  youth's  dew  and  love's  enchanted  air: 
Ay,  fair  as  youth  and  love;  but  doomed,  alasl 
Like  these  and  all  things  beautiful,  to  pass. 

But  this  bright  thread  of  unadulterate  ore — 
Friendship — will  last  though  Love  exist  no  more; 
And  though  it  lack  the  fi-agrance  of  the  wreath, — 
Unlike  the  flowers,  it  hides  no  thorn  beneath. 


THE  CHIEFTAIN'S   CORONACH. 

EDIXBUEGH,    SEPTEMBER,    1S66. 

Far    from  his  mountain-peaks   and    moorlands 

brown. 
Far  from  the  rushing  thunder  of  the  Spey, 
Amid  the  din  and  turmoil  of  the  town 
A  Highland  Chieftain  on  his  death-bed  lay; 
Dying  in  pride  of  manhood,  ere  to  gray 
One  lock  had  turned,  or  from  his  eagle  face 
And  stag-like  form  Time's  touch  of  slow  decay 
Had  reft  the  strength  and  beauty  of  his  race: 
And  as  the  feverish  night  drew  sadly  on, 
"Music!"  they  heard  him  breathe,  in  low  be- 
seeching tone. 

From  where  beside  his  couch  she  weeping  leant, 
IT  prose  the  fair-haired  daughter  of  his  love. 
And  touched  with  tremulous  hand  the  instrument. 
Singing,  with  tremulous  voice  that  vainly  strove 
To  still  its  faltering,  songs  that  wont  to  move 
His  heart  to  mirth  in  many  a  dear  home-hour; 
But  not  to-night  thy  strains,  sweet,  sorrowing 

dove, 
To  fill  the  hungering  of  his  heart  have  power! 
And  hark!  he  calls— aloud — with  kindling  eye, 
"Ah!  might  I  hear  a  pibroch  once  before  I  die!" 


432 


ROBEET  LEIGHTON. 


Was  it  the  gathering  silence  of  the  grave 
Lent  ghostly  prescience  to  his  yearning  ear? 
Was  it  the  pitying  God  who  heard,  and  gave 
Swift  answer  to  his  heart's  wild  cry?— For  clear, 
Though  far,  but  swelling  nearer  and  more  near. 
Sounded  the  mighty  war-pipe  of  the  Gael 
Upon  the  night-wind!     In  his  eye  a  tear 
Of  sadness  gleamed;  but  ilusht  his  visage  pale 
With  the  old  martial  rapture.     On  his  bed 
They  raised  him.  When  it  past— the  Mountaineer 
was  dead! 

Yet  ere  it  past,  ah!  doubt  not  he  was  bonie 

Away  in  spirit  to  the  ancestral  home 

Beyond  the  Grampians,  where,  in   life's   fresh 

morn, 
He  scaled  the  crag  and  stemmed  the  torrent's 

foam ; 
Where  the  lone  corrie  he  was  wont  to  roam, 
A  light-foot  hunter  of  the  deer!     But  where, 
Alas!  to-day,  beneath  the  cloudless  dome 
Of  this  blue  autumn  heaven,  the  clansmen  bear 
His  ashes,  with  the  coronach's  piercing  knell. 
To  sleep  amid  the  wilds  he  loved  in  life  so  well. 


SONG. 

There  is  a  wail  in  the  wind  to- night, 

A  dirge  in  the  plashing  rain, 
That  brings  old  yearnings  round  my  heart. 

Old  dreams  into  my  bi-ain. 
As  I  gaze  into  the  wintry  dark 

Through  the  blurred  and  blackened  pane: 
Far  memories  of  golden  hours 

That  will  not  come  again, — 
Alas! 

That  never  will  come  again. 

Wild  woodland  odours  wander  by- 
Warm  breath  of  new-mown  hay — 

I  hear  the  broad,  brown  river's  flow 
Half-hid  in  bowering  may; 

While  eyes  of  love  look  tlirough  my  soul, 
As  on  tiiat  last  sweet  day; 

But  a  chilly  shadow  floats  between 
That  will  not  pass  away — 

Ah,  no! 
That  never  will  pass  away. 


EOBEET    LEIGHTON. 


Born  1822  — Died  1869. 


RoBZRT  Leightox,  thc  eighth  of  a  family  of 
fourteen  children,  was  born  iu  the  I\I urraygate, 
Dundee,  February  20,  1822.  He  was  early 
deprived  of  his  father,  and  after  some  years  of 
widowhood  his  mother  married  iLr.  Fleming 
of  thc  "East  Friarton"  farm  in  Fife,  and 
removed  thither,  taking  with  her,  among  her 
younger  children,  Robert,  then  in  his  twelfth 
year.  It  Avas  at  this  period  that  he  got  the 
"wee,  wee  tasting  o'  the  herdic's  blitiiesome 
■ways,"  embodied  in  his  "Wee  Herd  Loon," 
but  they  were  soon  disturbed  by  the  untimely 
death  of  liis  mother,  when  the  farm  was  given 
up,  and  his  stepfather  retired  to  a  cottage  of 
liis  own  at  East  iS'^ewport.  This  pleasant  spot 
on  thc  banks  of  thc  Tay  was  ever  open  to 
liobert  and  his  brothers  and  sisters;  but  having 
to  fini.--h  his  education  at  the  Academj',  his 
settled  home  Avas  now  with  an  elder  brother  in 
Dundee. 

On  leaving  school  Robert  spent  some  time 
in  mercantile  pursuits  in  Dundee,  and  after- 


wards took  a  voyage  round  the  world  as  a 
supercargo,  going  to  Sydney  and  returning  via 
Valparaiso.  Shortly  after  his  return  in  1843, 
he  entered  the  service  of  the  Loudon  and  North 
Western  Railway  Co.  at  Preston,  as  clerk  in 
the  locomotive  department.  After  his  settle- 
ment there  he  contributed  upwards  of  a  dozen 
poems  to  a  small  pamphlet  entitled  A  Feast  of 
Literary  Crniahts  hi/  Foo  Foozle  and  Friends, 
ancient  citizens  of  Dundee.  Iu  1855  he  pub- 
lished a  volume  entitled  Rhymes  and  Poems  by 
7iW^<»,  containing  "Records"  one  to  nine,  with 
Scotch  and  other  poems,  and  in  ISGl  and  1866 
successive  volumes  were  published,  the  former 
containing  fifteen  "  Records,"  the  latter  twenty- 
five. 

While  residing  in  Preston  Leighton  married 
Miss  Elizabeth  Jane  Campbell  of  Liverpool, 
thc  "Eliza"  of  his  poem  "Reuben;"  and 
throughout  thc  "Records"  and  "Musings"  he 
frequently  alludes  to  the  happiness  of  this 
union.     In    1851   he   accepted    a   responsible 


EOBEET  LEIGHTON. 


433 


position  in  Ayr,  as  manager  of  a  branch  of  a 
Liverpool  house,  and  removed  tliere  with  liis 
family.  After  four  or  five  years  the  Ayrshire 
branch  was  amalgamated  witii  the  main  busi- 
ness in  Liverpool,  and  before  deciding  to  remain 
in  the  same  employment  Mr.  Leighton  took 
advantage  of  some  leisure  time  to  visit  his 
brother  William,  who  had  settled  in  America. 
After  some  months  spent  in  pleasant  travel  he 
returned  to  England,  and  shortly  resumed  his 
connection  with  his  former  employers,  travel- 
ling during  a  large  portion  of  the  year  in 
England,  Scotland,  and  Ireland.  It  was  on 
one  of  these  journeys  in  1867  that  during  a 
rough  drive  he  met  with  an  accident  which 
brought  on  almost  the  only  illness  he  had  ever 
experienced,  and  which  ultimately  proved  fatal. 
In  quest  of  relief  he  passed  some  time  in  tlie 
Isle  of  Bute.  During  his  residence  there  he 
produced  his  last  two  poems,  the  "Dandelion," 
and  the  "Bapteesement  o'  the  Bairn,"  which 
has  since  become  so  popular.  His  ease  was 
pronounced  incurable,  and  his  sufferings  became 
so  severe  that  it  was  with  the  utmost  difficulty 
he  was  able  to  reach  his  home  in  Liverpool. 
His  naturally  robust  constitution  only  pro- 
longed his  sufferings,  and  his  patience  under 
these  no  words  can  adequately  express.  Many 
friends  visited  him,  bringing  flowers,  the  most 
precious  con.solation  to  the  invalid  whose  soul 
hungered  for  that  sight  of  Nature  of  which  he 
could  only  dream,  or  sjjy  in  glimpses  from  his 


Avindow.  A  piece  of  the  rich  blossom  of  the 
whin  roused  him  to  an  ecstasy  by  its  sweet 
mountain  odour,  though  he  said  in  a  regretful 
tone,  "To  think  that  I  can  never  get  out 
amongst  the  Avhins  again!"  During  the  win- 
ter of  1868-69,  while  able  in  the  intervals  of 
relief  from  pain  to  give  attention  to  literary 
matters,  he  translated  from  a  shorthand  of 
his  own  poems  which  had  been  written  on  odd 
scraps  of  jjaper,  many  of  which  appear  in  the 
volume  published  in  1875.  After  a  period  of 
much  suffering  Mr.  Leighton  expired  on  Jlay 
10,  1869,  aged  forty-seven. 

Leighton's  poems  have  met  with  a  liearty 
reception  in  America.  The  American  Congress 
acknowledged  his  Sonnet  on  the  Death  of 
President  Lincoln,  by  a  copy  of  the  Tributes 
of  the  Nations  to  Abraham  Lincoln,  a  book 
which  was  always  regarded  by  Leighton  as  one 
of  his  most  valuable  possessions.  His  habit 
of  recording  either  in  diary  or  poem  the  inci- 
dents and  impressions  of  his  life,  was  not  only 
a  pleasure  to  his  friends,  but  occasionally 
brought  him  into  pleasing  communication  with 
various  celebrities.  Thus  Jenny  Lind,  upon 
receiving  from  a  friend  of  its  author  a  copy  of 
the  poem  addressed  to  herself,  writes,  "That 
your  'bashful  poet'  has  spoken  words  which 
even  to  my  loorn-out  ears  sounded  fresh,  per- 
haps you  will  kindly  let  him  know,  and  that  my 
highest  ambition  in  life  has  been  to  give  just 
such  an  impression  as  he  seems  to  have  received," 


THE    BAPTEESEMENT    0'  THE    BAIEN.i 


"Od,  Andra,  man!  I  doot  ye  may  be  wrang 
To  keep  the  bairn's  bapteesement  tiff  sae  lang. 
Svipposin'  the  fivver,  or  some  quick  mischance. 
Or  even  the  kinkhost,  whup  it  aff  at  once 
To  fire  and  brimstane,  in  the  black  domains- 
Of  unbelievers  and  unchristen'd  weans — 
I'm  sure  ye  never  could  forgie  yoursel', 
Or  cock  your  head  in  heaven,  wi'  it  in  hell." 
' '  Weesht,  Meggie,  weesht  I  name  not  the  wicked 
place, 

1  Hew  Aiiislie  says  of  this  poem:  "It  is  excellent,  and 
comes  in  good  time  to  give  record  to  a  Scotch  'institu- 
tion,' that  like  the  Holy  Fair  and  Halloween  are  now 
things  of  the  past;  "  and  another  of  Leighton's  admirers 
remarks  "that  nothing  in  the  form  of  Scottish  satirical 
humour  more  genuinely  gi-aphio  and  characteristic  lias 
appeared  since  the  days  of  Burns."— Ed. 

Vol.  II.— E  e 


I  ken  I'm  wrang,  but  Heaven  will  grant  us  grace. 
I  havena  been  unniindfu'  o'  the  bairn, 
Na,  thocht  on't  till  my  bowels  begin  to  yearn. 
But,  woman,  to  my  sorrow,  I  have  found 
Our  minister  is  anything  but  sound ; 
I'd  sooner  break  the  half  o'  the  commands 
Than  trust  a  bairn's  bapteesement  in  his  hands. 
I  wadna  say  our  minister's  depraved; 
In  fact,  in  all  resj^ects  he's  weel  behaved: 
He  veesits  the  haill  pairish,  rich  and  j)iiir; 
A  worthier  man,  in  warldly  ways,  I'm  sure 
"We  couldna  hae;  but,  och!  wae's  me,  wae's  me! 
In  doctrine  points  his  head  is  all  agley. 
Wi'  him  there's  no  Elect — all  are  the  .same; 
An  honest  heart,  and  conduct  free  frae  blame. 
He  thinks  mair  likely,  in  the  hour  o'  <leath. 
To  comfort  ane  than  a'  your  Bible  faith: 


434 


EOBEET   LEIGHTON. 


And  e'en  the  Atonement,  woman,  he  lichtlies  so, 
It's  doubtfu'  whether  he  beheves't  or  no! 
Redemption,  too,  he  almost  sets  aside, 
He  leaves  us  hopeless,  wandering  far  and  wide, 
And  whether  saved  or  damn'd  we  canna  tell, 
For  every  man  must  e'en  redeem  himsel'! 
Then  on  the  Resurrection  he's  clean  wrang; 
'  Wherefore,'  says  he, '  lie  in  your  graves  sae  lang  ? 
The  speerit  is  the  man,  and  it  ascends 
The  very  instant  that  your  breathing  ends; 
The  body's  buried,  and  will  rise  nae  mair, 
Though  a'  the  horns  in  heaven  should  rowt  and 

rair.' 
Sometimes  he'll  glint  at  Robbie  Burns's  deil, 
As  if  he  were  a  decent  kind  o'  chiel; 
But  to  the  doonricht  Satan  o'  the  Word, 
Wae's  me!  he  disna  pay  the  least  regard. 
And  Hell  he  treats  sae  brief  and  counts  sae  sma' 
That  it  amounts  to  nae  sic  place  ava. 
0  dear,  to  think  our  prayers  and  holy  chaunts. 
And  all  the  self-denyings  of  us  saunts, 
Are  not  to  be  repaid  by  the  delight 
Of  hearing  fi-om  that  region  black  as  night, 
The  yelling,  gnashing,  and  despairing  cry 
Of  wretches  that  in  fire  and  brimstane  lie! 
'Twill  never  do,  guidwife;  this  daft  divine 
Shall  ne'er  lay   hands   on  bairn   o'  yours   and 
mine." 

"  Ye're  richt,  gudeman,  rather  than  hands  like 
his 
Bapteese  the  bairn,  we'll  keep  it  as  it  is — 
For  aye  an  outlin'  wi'  its  kith  and  kin — 
A  hottentot,  a  heathen  steep'd  in  sin!" 

"Sin,  did  ye  say,  guidwife?  ay,  there  again 
Our  minister's  the  erringest  of  men. 
Original  sin  he  almost  lauchs  to  scorn. 
And  says  the  purest  thing's  a  babe  new  born, 
Quite  fi-ee  from  guile,  corruption,  guilt,  and  all 
The  curses  of  a  veesionary  fall — 
Yes,  'veesionary,'  was  his  very  word! 
Bapteese  our  bairn!  it's  morally  absurd!" 

"Then,  Andra,  we'll  just  let  the  baptism  be. 
And  pray  to  Heaven  the  bairn  may  never  dee. 
If  Providence,  for  ends  known  to  itsel', 
Has  ower  us  placed  this  darken'd  infidel. 
Let's  trust  that  Providence  will  keep  us  richt, 
And  aiblins  turn  our  present  dai'k  to  licht." 

"Meggie,  my  woman,  yc're  baith  richt  and 
wrang: 
Trust  Providence,  but  dinna  sit  ower  lang 
In  idle  hope  tliat  Providence  will  bring 
Licht  to  your  feet,  or  ony  ither  thing. 
The  Lord  heljis  them  th;it  strive  as  weel  as  trust, 
While  idle  faith  gets  nacthing  but  a  crust. 
So  says  this  heathen  man — the  only  truth 
We've  ever  gotten  frao  his  graceless  mooth. 
Let's  use  the  means,  and  Heaven  will  bless  the 

end; 
And,  Meggie,  this  is  what  I  now  intend- 
That  yon  and  I,  the  mom's  mom,  go  forth 
Bearing  the  baini  along  unto  the  north, 


Like  favoured  ones  of  old,  initil  wo  find 
A  man  of  upricht  life,  and  godly  mind, 
Sound  ill  the  faith,  matured  in  all  his  powers. 
Fit  to  bapteese  a  weel-born  bairn  like  ours. — 
Now  then,  the  panitch — flesh  maun  e'en  be  fed — 
And  I'll  wale  out  a  chapter; — syne  to  bed." 

"Eh,  but  the  mornin's  grand!   that  mottled 
gray 
Is  certain  promise  o'  a  famous  day. 
But  Meggie,  lass,  you're  gettin'  tired,  I  doot; 
Gie  me  the  bairn;  we'll  tak'  it  time  aboot." 

"I'm  no  that  tired,  and  yet  the  road  looks  lang; 
But  Andra,  man,  whar  do  you  mean  to  gang?" 

"  No  very  far;  just  north  the  road  a  wee, 
To  Leuchars  manse;  I'se  wan-ant  there  we'll  see 
A  very  saunt — the  Reverend  Maister  Whyte— 
Most  worthy  to  perform  the  sacred  rite; 
A  man  of  holy  zeal,  sound  as  a  bell, 
In  all  things  perfect  as  the  Word  itsel'; 
Strict  in  his  goings  out  and  comings  in; 
A  man  that  knoweth  not  the  taste  of  sin — 
Excejat  original.     Yen's  the  manse.     Wi'  him 
There's  nae  new  readin's  o'  the  text,  nae  whim 
That  veetiates  the  essentials  of  our  creed. 
But  scriptural  in  thought,  in  word,  and  deed.— 
Now  let's  walk  up  demurely  to  the  door. 
And  gie  a  modest  knock — one  knock,  no  more. 
Or  else  they'll  think  we're  gentles.     Some  ane's 

here. 
Stand  back  a  little,  Meggie,  and  I'll  speir 
If  Maister  Whyte — Braw  day,  my  lass!  we  came 
To  see  if  Mr.  Whyte—"    "He's  no  at  hame! 
But  he'll  be  back  some  time  the  nicht,  belyve; 
He  started  aff,  I  reckon,  aboot  five 
This  mornin',  to  the  fishin' — "     "  Save  us  a'! 
We're  ower  lang  here — come,  Jleggie,  come  awa. 
Let's  shake  the  very  dust  frae  aff  our  feet; 
A  fishin'  minister!     And  so  discreet 
In  all  his  ministrations!     But  he's  young — 
Maybe  this  shred  of  wickedness  has  clung 
This  lang  aboot  him,  as  a  warning  sign 
That  he  should  never  touch  your  bairn  and  mine — 
We'll  just  hand  north  to  Forgan  manse,  and  get 
Auld  Doctor  Maule — in  every  way  most  fit — 
To  consecrate  the  wean.     He's  a  divine 
Of  auld  experience,  and  stood  high  langsyne, 
Ere  we  were  born;  in  doctrine  clear  and  sound. 
He'll  no  be  at  the  fishin',  I'll  be  bound. 
Wae's  me,  to  think  the  pious  Maister  Whyte 
In  catchin'  troots  should  tak'  the  least  delight!" 

"But,  Andra,  man,  just  hover  for  a  bhnk, 
He  mayna  be  sae  wicked  as  we  think. 
What  do  the  Scriptures  say?    There  we  are  told 
Andrew  and  Peter,  James  and  John  of  old. 
And  others  mentioned  in  the  Holy  Word, 
Were  fishermen — the  chosen  of  the  Lord." 

"I'm  weel  aware  o'  that,  but  ye  forget. 
That  when  the  apostles  fished  'twas  wi'  the  net. 
They  didna  flee  about  like  Hieland  kerns, 
Wi'  hail'  lines  and  lang  wands  whupjiin'  the  burns; 


EGBERT   LEIGHTON. 


435 


No,  no,  they  fished  i'  the  lake  o'  GaHlee, 
A  Bible  loch,  almost  as  big's  the  sea. 
They  had  theii*  cobbles,  too,  v\'i'  sails  and  oars, 
And  plied  their  usefu'  trade  beyond  the  shores. 
Besides,  though  first  their  trade  was  catchin'  fish — 
An  honest  craft  as  ony  ane  could  wish  — 
They  gave  it  up  when  called  upon,  and  then, 
Though  they  were  fishers  still,  it  was  o'  men. 
But  this  young  Maister  Whyte  first  got  a  call 
To  fish  for  men,  and— oh,  how  sad  his  fall! — 
The  learned,  pious,  yet  unworthy  skoot 
Neglects  his  sacred  trust  to  catch  a  troot! 
Now  here  comes  Forgan  manse  amang  the  trees, 
A  cozy  spot,  weel  skoogit  frae  the  breeze. 
We'll  just  walk  ane  by  ane  up  to  the  door, 
And  knock  and  do  the  same's  we  did  before. 
The  doctor's  been  a  bachelor  a'  his  life; 
Ye'd  almost  tak'  the  servant  for  his  wife, 
She's  such  command  ower  a'  that's  said  and  dune — 
Hush!  this  maun  be  the  cheepin'  o'  her  shune — 
How  do  you  do,  mem  ?  there's  a  bonnie  daj^ 
And  like  to  keep  sae.     We've  come  a'  the  way 
Frae  Edenside  to  get  this  bairn  bapteesed 
By  doctor  Maule,  if  you  and  he  be  pleased." 

"  We've  no  objections;  but  the  Doctor's  gone 
A-shootin':  since  the  shootin'  time  cam'  on 
Ae  minute  frae  the  gun  he's  hardly  been." 

"The  Lord  protect  us!   Was  the  like  e'er  seen  ? 
A  shootin'  minister!     Think  shame,  auld  wife! 
Were  he  the  only  minister  in  P^ife 
He'd  never  lay  a  hand  on  bairn  o'  mine; 
Irreverent  poachin',  poother-an'-lead  divine! 
Let's  shake  the  dust  frae  aff  our  shune  again; 
Come,  Meggie,  come  awa;  I  hardly  ken 
Wliich  o'  the  twa's  the  warst;  but  I  wad  say 
The  shootin'  minister — he's  auld  and  gray, 
Gray  in  the  service  o'  the  kirk,  and  hence 
Wi'  age  and  service  should  hae  gathered  sense. 
Now  let's  consider,  as  we  stap  alang: 
Doon  to  the  Waterside  we  needna  gang: 
I'm  tauld  the  ministers  preach  naething  there 
But  cauld  morality— new-fangled  ware 
That  draps  all  faith  and  trusts  to  warks  alone, 
That  gangs  skin-deep,  but  never  cleaves  the  bone. 
We'll  just  hand  ower — for  troth  it's  wearin'  late — 
By  Pickletillim,  and  then  west  the  gate 
To  auld  Kilmeny — it  slants  haffhns  hame, 
Which,  for  the  sake  o'  this  toom,  grumbliu'  wame, 
I  wish  were  nearer.     Hech!  to  save  my  saul, 
I  never  can  get  ower  auld  Doctor  Maule ! 
It  plainly  cowes  all  things  aneath  the  sun! 
Whaur,  Meggie,  whaur's  your  Scripture  for  the 
gun  f 

"  Od,  Andra,  as  we've  come  alang  the  road 
I've  just  been  kirnin'  through  the  Word  o'  God, 
Baith  auld  and  new,  as  far  as  I  can  mind, 
But  not  the  least  iota  can  I  find. 
That  maks  the  Doctor  waur  than  Maister  Whyte, 
And  on  his  ain  auld  head  brings  a'  the  wyte." 

"It  does.    The  Word  gives  not  the  merest  hint 
0'  guns,  an'  poother's  never  mentioned  in't. 


They  had  their  bows  and  arrows,  and  their  sUngs, 
And  implements  o'  war — auld-fashioned  things, 
I  reckon — for  the  dingin'  doon  o'  toons. 
And  spears,  and  swords,  and  clubs  for  crackiu' 

croons; 
But  as  for  guns  and  shot,  puir  hares  to  kill. 
There's  nae  authority,  look  whaur  ye  will — 
Losh,  see!  the  sun's  gaen  red,  and  looks  askance; 
The  gloamin'  fa's;  but  here's  Kilmeny  manse." 
"  Hark,  Andra!  is  that  music  that  we  hear, 
Loader  an'  louder,  as  we're  drawin'  near  ? 
It's  naething  else!    I'se  wager  my  new  goon 
The  minister's  frae  hame,  and  some  wild  loon 
Comes  fiddlin'  to  the  lasses.     O,  the  jads! 
The  minister's  awa — they've  in  their  lads, 
And  turned  the  very  manse  into  a  barn, 
Fiddlin'  and  dancin' — drinkin'  too,  I'se  warran'! " 

"  Tod,  Meggie,  but  ye're  richt;   I  fear  ye're 
richt; 
And  here's  gray  gloamin'  sinkin'  into  nicht, 
While  we're  as  near  our  errand's  end  as  whan 
This  mornin'  wi'  the  sunrise  we  began. 
We'll  e'en  gang  roond  upon  the  kitchen  door, 
And  catch  the  ill-bred  herpies  at  their  splore! 
Hush!  saftly:  'od,  I  dinna  hear  their  feet, 
And  yet  the  fiddle  lilts  fu'  deft  and  sweet. 
It's  no  the  little  squeakin'  fiddle,  though; 
But  ane  that  bums  dowff  in  its  wame  and  low. 
They  hear  us  speakin' — here's  the  lassie  comin'. — 
The  minister's  frae  hame,  I  hear,  my  woman?" 
"  The  minister  frae  hame!  he's  nae  sic  thing; 
He's  ben  the  hoose  there,  playin'  himsel'  a  spring." 
"The  minister  a  fiddler!  sinfu'  shame! 
I'd  sooner  far  that  he  had  been  frae  hame. 
Though  he  should  live  as  lang's  Methusalem, 
I'll  never  bring  anither  bairn  to  him; 
Nor  will  he  get  the  ane  we've  brocht;  na,  na; 
Come,  Meggie,  tak'  the  bairn  and  come  awa; 
I  wadna  let  him  look  upon  its  face: 
Young  woman,  you're  in  danger;  leave  this  place ! 
Hear  how  the  sinner  rasps  the  rosiny  strings! 
And  nocht  but  reels  and  ither  warldly  springs! 
Let's  shake  the  dust  ance  mair  frae  aff  our  shune. 
And  leave  the  pagan  to  his  wicked  tune." 

"But,  Andra,  let's  consider:  it's  sae  late. 
We  canna  now  gang  ony  ither  gate, 
And  as  we're  here  we'll  better  just  hand  back 
And  get  the  bairn  bapteesed.    What  does  it  mak' 
Altho'  he  scrapes  a  fiddle  now  and  then  ? 
King  David  was  preferred  above  all  men, 
And  yet  'twas  known  he  played  upon  the  harp; 
And  stringed  instruments,  baith  fiat  and  sharp, 
Ai-e  mentioned  many  a  time  in  Holy  Writ. 
I  dinna  think  it  signifees  a  bit — 
The  more  especially  since,  as  we  hear. 
It's  no  the  little  thing  sae  screech  and  skeer 
That  drunken  fiddlers  play  in  barns  and  booths. 
But  the  big  gaucy  fiddle  that  sae  soothes 
The  speerit  into  holiness  and  calm, 
That  e'en  some  kirks  hae  thocht  it  mends  the 
psalm." 


436 


EGBERT   LEIGHTON. 


"Tempt  not  the  man,  0  woman!     Meggie,  I 
say- 
Get  thee  behind  us,  Satan! — come  away! 
For  he,  the  Evil  One,  has  aye  a  sicht 
Of  arguments,  to  turn  wrang  into  richt. 
He's  crammed  wi'  pleasant  reasons  that  assail 
Weak  woman  first,  and  maistly  aye  prevail; 
Then  she,  of  course,  must  try  her  wiles  on  man, 
As  Eve  on  Adam  did.     Thus  sin  began, 
And  thus  goes  on,  I  fear,  unto  this  day, 
In  spite  of  a'  the  kirks  can  do  or  say. 
And  what  can  we  expect  but  sin  and  woe, 
When  manses  are  the  hotbeds  where  they  grow  ? 
I  grieve  for  puir  Kilmeny,  and  I  grieve 
For  Leuchars  and  for  Forgan — yea,  believe 
For  Sodom  and  Gomorrah  there  will  be 
A  better  chance  than  ony  o'  the  three, 
Especially  Kilmeny.     I  maintain — 
For  a'  your  reasons,  sacred  and  profane, 
The  minister  that  plays  the  fiddle's  waur 
Than  either  o'  the  ither  twa,  by  far. 
And  yet,  weak  woman,  ye  wad  e'en  return 
And  get  this  fiddler  to  bapteese  our  bairn ! 
Na,  na;  we'll  t:ik'  the  bairn  to  whence  it  came. 
And  get  our  ain  brave  minister  at  hame. 
Altho'  he  may  be  wrang  on  mony  a  point, 
And  his  salvation  scheme  sair  out  o'  joint, 
He  lays  it  doon  without  the  slightest  fear. 
And  wins  the  heart  because  he's  so  sincere. 
And  he's  a  man  that  disna  need  to  care 
Wha  looks  into  his  life;  there's  naething  there, 
Nae  sin,  nae  slip  of  either  hand  or  tongue 
That  ane  can  tak'  and  say,  'Thou  doest  wrong.' 
His  theologic  veesion  may  be  skew'd; 
But,  though  the  broken  cistern  he  has  hew'd 
May  let  the  water  through  it  like  a  riddle. 
He  neither  fishes,  shoots,  nor  plays  the  fiddle." 


SCOTCH  WORDS. 

They  speak  in  riddles  north  beyond  the  Tweed. 
The  plain,  pure  English  they  can  deftly  read; 
Yet  when  without  the  book  they  come  to  speak. 
Their  lingo  seems  half  English  and  half  Greek. 

Their  jaws  are  chafU;  their  hands,  when  closed, 

arc  neives; 
Their  bread's  not  cut  in  slices,  but  in  shelves; 
Their  armpits  are  their  oxters;  palms  arc  htifs; 
Their  men  are  cJicikh;  their  timid  fools  are  riiiffs; 
Their  lads  are  callanfs,  and  their  women  ki miners; 
Good  lasses  deniij  queans,  and  bad  ones  limmers. 
They  thole  when  they  endure,  scart  when  they 

scratch; 
And  when  they  give  a  sample  it's  a  scratch. 
Scolding  i^jd/fiii',  and  a  long  palaver 
Is  nothing  but  a  hh'ther  or  a  huccr. 
This  room  they  call  the  hutt,  and  that  the  hen; 


And  what  they  do  not  know  they  dinna  hen. 
On  keen  cold  days  they  say  the  wind  hlavs  shell. 

And  when  they  wipe  their  nose  they  dicht  their 
bjihe; 
And  they  have  words  that  Johnson  could  not  spell. 

As  umpltm,  which  means — anything  you  like : 
While  some,  though  purely  English,  and   well 

known. 
Have  yet  a  Scottish  meaning  of  their  own: — 
To  prii/'s  to  plead,  beat  down  a  thing  in  cost; 
To  coff's  to  jiurchase,  and  a  cough's  a  host; 
To  crack  is  to  converse;  the  lift's  the  sky; 
And  bairns  are  said  to  greet  when  children  cry. 
When  lost,  folk  never  ask  the  way  they  want — 
They  speir  the  gale;  and  when  they  yawn  they 

</ai(nt. 
Beetle  with  them  is  clod;  a  flame's  a  lowe; 
Their  straw  is  strae;  chaff  cavjf',  and  hollow  howe; 
A  pickle  means  a  few;  muckle  is  big. 
And  a  piece  of  crockery  ware  is  called  a  pjig. 

Speaking  of  pigs — when  Lady  Delacour 
Was  on  her  celebrated  Scottish  tour. 
One  night  she  made  her  quarters  at  the  "  Crown," 
The  head  inn  of  a  well-known  county  town. 
The  chambermaid,  on  lighting  her  to  bed, 
Before  withdrawing,  curtsied  low,  and  said — 
"  This  nicht  is  cauld,  my  leddy,  wad  ye  i^leasG, 
To  hae  a  pig  i'  the  bed  to  warm  your  taes?" 
"A  pig  in  bed  to  tease!     What's  that  you  say? 
You  are  impertinent — away,  away!" 
"  Me  impudent!  no,  mem — I  meant  nae  harm. 
But  just  the  greybeard  pig  to  keep  ye  warm." 
"  Insolent  hussy,  to  confront  me  so! 
This  very  instant  shall  your  mistress  know. 
The  bell — there's  none,  of  course — go,  send  her 

here." 
"  My  mistress,  mem,  I  dinna  need  to  fear; 
In  sooth,  it  was  hersel'  that  bade  me  speir. 
Nae  insult,  mem;  we  thocht  ye  wad  be  gled, 
On  this  cauld  nicht,  to  hae  a  pig  i'  the  bed." 
"Stay,  girl;   your  words  are  strangely  out  of 

place. 
And  yet  I  see  no  insult  in  your  face. 
Is  it  a  custom  in  your  country,  then. 
For  ladies  to  have  pigs  in  bed  wi'  them?" 
"Oh,  quite  a  custom  wi'  the  gentles,  mem — 
Wi'  gentle  ladies,  ay,  and  gentle  men; 
And,  troth,  if  single,  they  wad  sairly  miss 
Their  het  pig  on  a  cauldrife  nicht  like  this." 
"  I've  seen  strange  countries — but  tliis  surely 

beats 
Their  rudest  makeshift  for  a  warming-pan. 
Su[)pose,  my  girl,  I  should  adopt  yo»n-  plan. 
You  would  not  put  the  pig  between  the  .sheets?" 
"Surely,  my  leddy,  and  nae  itherwhere: 
Please,  mem,  ye'll  find  it  do  the  maist  guid  there." 
"  Fie,  fie,  'twould  dirty  them,  and  if  I  keep 
In  fear  of  that,  you  k)iow,  I  shall  not  sleep." 
"  Ye'll  sleej)  far  better,  mem.     Tak'  my  advice; 
The  nicht  blaws  snell — the  sheets  arc  cauld  as  ice; 


JAMES   D.   BUENS. 


437 


I'll  fetch  ye  up  a  fine,  warm,  cozy  pig; 
I'll  mak'  ye  sae  comfortable  and  trig, 
Wi'  coortains,  blankets,  every  kind  o'  hap, 
And  warrant  ye  to  sleep  as  soond's  a  tap. 
As  for  the  fylin'  o'  the  sheets— dear  me, 
The  pig's  as  clean  outside  as  pig  can  he. 
A  weel-closed  mooth's  cneuch  for  ither  folk, 
But  if  ye  like,  I'll  put  it  in  a  poke." 
"But,  Effie— that's  yourname,  I  think  you  said- 
Do  you,  yourself,  now,  take  a  pig  to  bed  '." 
"  Eh!  na,  mem,  pigs  are  only  for  the  great, 
Wha  lie  on  feather  beds,  and  sit  up  late. 
Feathers  and  pigs  are  no  for  puir  riff-raff — 
Me  and  my  neibour  lassie  lies  on  cauff." 
"  What's  that— a  calf !   If  I  your  sense  can  gather, 
You  and  the  other  lassie  sleep  together,— 
Two  in  a  bed,  and  with  the  calf  between : 
That,  I  suppose,  my  girl,  is  what  you  mean?" 
"  Na,  na,  my  leddy — 'od  ye're  jokin'  noo — 
We  sleep  thegither,  that  is  very  true  — 
But  nocht  between  us:  wi'  our  claes  all  aff, 
Except  our  sarks,  we  lie  upon  the  cauff." 
"  Well,  well,  my  girl!  I  am  surprised  to  hear 
That  we  of  English  habits  live  so  near 
Such  barbarous  customs.— Effie,  you  may  go: 
As  for  the  pig,  I  thank  you,  but— no,  no  — 
Ha,  ha!  good  night— excuse  me  if  I  laugh— 
I'd  rather  be  without  both  pig  and  calf." 

On  the  return  of  Lady  Delacour, 
She  wrote  a  book  about  her  northern  tour. 


Wherein  the  facts  are  graphically  told, 
That  Scottish  gentlefolks,  when  nights  are  cold. 
Take  into  bed  fat  pigs  to  keep  them  warm; 
While  common  folk,  who  share   their  beds   in 

halves — 
Denied  the  richer  comforts  of  the  farm- 
Can   only  warm   their  sheets  with  lean,  cheap 

calves. 


INCENSE  OF  FLOWERS. 

This  rich  abundance  of  the  rose,  its  breath 

On  which  I  almost  think  my  soul  could  live, 
This  sweet  ambrosia,  which  even  in  death 
Its  leaves  hold  on  to  give. 

Whence  is  it  ?    From  dank  eartbor  scentless  air .' 

Or  from  the  inner  sanctuaries  of  heaven  ? 
We  probe  the  branch,  the  root— no  incense  there— 
0  God,  whence  is  it  given '{ 

Is  it  the  essence  of  the  morning  dew, 
Or  distillation  of  a  purer  sphere — 
The  breath  of  the  immortals  coming  through 
To  us  immortals  here? 

Exquisite  mystery,  my  heart  devours 
The  hving  inspiration,  ami  I  know 
Sweet  revelations  with  the  breath  of  flowers 
Into  our  beings  flow. 


JAMES    D.    BUENS 


BoEN  1823  — Died  1864. 


Rev.  James  Drummond  Burns,  M.A.,  tlic 
author  of  many  admired  poems,  chiefly  of  a 
sacred  character,  was  born  in  Edinburgh,  Feb. 
18, 1823.  He  was  educated  at  Heriof  s  Hospital 
and  the  Higli  School,  and  afterwards  entered 
the  University  of  Edinburgh,  where  he  gradu- 
ated with  honours.  On  completing  his  theo- 
logical studies  at  the  Free  Church  College,  he 
was  ordained  in  1845  to  the  ministry  at  Dun- 
blane. 

Never  of  a  robust  constitution,  his  assiduous 
labours  soon  broke  down  his  healtli  and  obliged 
him  in  1847  to  seek  a  more  genial  climate  in 
the  island  of  Madeira.  He  came  home  during 
the  following  summer,  but  only,  to  tlie  sorrow 
of  all,  to   resign   liis   much-loved   charge  at 


Dunblane;  the  state  of  his  health  not  permit- 
ting him  to  continue  his  labours  in  Scotland. 
He  was  appointed  to  the  charge  of  the  Presby- 
terian Church  at  Funchal,  Madeira,  and  car- 
ried on  his  ministrations  there,  almost  without 
interruption,  for  the  next  five  years.  Before 
returning  to  Britain  in  1853,  he  made  a  tour 
through  Spain  and  Italy,  tlie  records  of  which 
were  expanded  into  a  goodly  sized  MS.  volume, 
which,  however,  was  not  published.  After  a 
few  months'  ministration  at  Brighton  and  in 
Jersey,  he  accepted  the  call  presented  to  him 
by  the  Presbyterian  Church  of  Hampstead, 
near  London.  In  this  quiet  sphere  he  laboured 
for  eight  years,  with  much  acceptance  to  a 
devoted  flock.      In  1SG4    his  rapidly  failing 


438 


JAMES   D.   BUENS. 


health  compelled  him  once  more  to  seek  a 
milder  climate,  and  he  i^rocccded  to  Mentone 
on  the  ^Mediterranean,  Avhere,  after  a  short 
sojourn  in  Switzerland,  he  returned  to  die, 
Xov.  27,  1S64. 

In  1854  Mr.  Burns  published  his  volume  of 
poetry  under  the  title  of  TIte  Vision  of  Pro- 
X>hec'j  and  other  Poems,  which  was  well  re- 
ceived and  has  passed  through  two  editions. 
lie  also  published  two  small  books,  Tlie  Even- 
ing Hymn  and  The  Heavenly  Jerusalem,  both 
of  wiiicli  have  been  highly  appreciated.  He 
contributed  a  good  many  articles  both  in  prose 
and  verse  to  tlie  Family  Treasury,  and  wrote 
occasionally  in  other  periodicals.  But  to  his 
highly  strung  and  sensitive  temperament, 
authorship  was  a  somewhat  exhausting  task, 
and  during  his  later  years  he  was  obliged  to 
lay  the  pen  aside  almost  entirely — except  for 


his  ministerial  work.  The  last  work  written 
by  the  late  Dr.  James  Hamilton  of  London 
was  a  memoir  of  Vlv.  Burns. 

Hugh  Miller  says: — "  We  are  greatly  mis- 
taken ifMr.  Burns  be  not  a  genuine  poet,  skilled, 
asbecomesa  scholar  and  a  student  of  classic  lore, 
in  giving  to  his  verse  the  true  artistic  form, 
but  not  the  less  born  to  inherit  the  'vision  and 
the  faculty'  which  cannot  be  acquired.  .  .  . 
The  vein  of  strong  sense  which  runs  through 
all  the  poetry  of  Mr.  Burns,  and  imparts  to 
it  solidity  and  coherency,  is,  we  think,  not 
less  admirable  than  the  poetry  itself,  and  is, 
we  are  sure,  quite  as  little  common.  .  .  . 
There  runs  through  Mr.  Burns's  volume  a  rich 
vein  of  scriptural  imagery  and  allusion,  and 
much  oriental  description — rather  quiet,  how- 
ever, than  gorgeous — that  bears  in  its  unex- 
aggeratcd  sobriety  the  impress  of  truth." 


PORTO    SANTO, 

AS  SEEN  FROM  THE  NORTH  OF  MADEIRA.'' 


The  sun  is  dim, — upon  the  sea 
A  sultry  mist  hangs  heavily, — 

Tlie  water,  aii',  and  sky 
Wear  each  the  same  dull,  sober  gleam; 
So  tiiat  one  element  they  seem. 

Confused  upon  the  eye. 

Beyond  these  dusky  clumps  of  pine 
Tiie  sea  slopes  upward  to  the  line 

Of  light  that  streaks  the  west; 
The  waves  are  murmuring  faint  and  far. 
And  heaving  languidly, — they  are 

The  very  type  of  rest. 

Glance  northward  through  the  haze,  and  mark 
That  sliadi)wy  island  floating  dark 

Amidst  the  seas  serene; 
It  seems  some  fair  enchanted  isle, 
Like  that  wliich  saw  ^Miranda  smile 

When  Ariel  sung  unseen. 

0  happy,  after  all  their  fears, 
Were  tiiosc  old  Lusian  mariners 

Who  hailed  that  land  the  first, — 
Upon  whose  seared  and  acliing  eyes, 
With  an  enrapturing  surprise, 

Its  bloom  of  verdure  burst! 

Tlieir  anchor  in  a  creek,  shell-paven, 
Tbpy  dropped— and  hence  the  "Holy  Haven" 
They  named  the  welcome  land; 


The  breezes  strained  their  masts  no  more, — 
And  all  around  the  sunny  shore 
AVas  summer,  laughing  bland. 

They  wandered  on  through  green  arcades. 
Where  fruits  were  hanging  in  the  shades. 

And  blossoms  clustering  fair; 
Strange  gorgeous  insects  shimmered  by. 
And  from  the  brakes  sweet  minstrelsy 

Entranced  the  woodland  air. 

Years  passed,  and  to  the  island  came 
A  mariner  of  unknown  name. 

And  grave  Castilian  speech; 
The  spirit  of  a  great  emprise 
Aroused  him,  and  with  flashing  eyes 

He  paced  the  i)ebbled  beach. 

What  time  the  sun  ivas  sinking  slow, 
And  twilight  spread  a  rosy  glow 

Around  its  single  star, 
His  eye  tiie  western  sea's  expanse 
Would  search,  creating  by  its  glance 

Some  cloudy  land  afar. 

1  Written  in  Miideira,  aiul  suggested  b^'  tlie  view  of 
the  neighbouring  island  of  Porto  !<anto,  07ie  of  the  first 
colonized  by  the  Portugiiese  adventurers  of  the  fifteenth 
century.  Colunibna  iiiarrifcd  a  daughter  of  Bartolomeo 
Perestrello,  the  first  governor  of  this  island,  and  after 
Ills  marriage  lived  iii  it  for  some  time  with  his  father- 
in-law. —Ed. 


JAMES   D.   BUENS. 


439 


He  saw  it  when  translucent  even 

Shed  mystic  light  o'er  earth  and  heaven, 

Dim  shadowed  on  tiie  deep; 
His  fancy  tinged  each  passing  cloud 
Witii  tlie  fine  phantom,  and  he  bowed 

Before  it  in  his  sleep. 

He  hears  gray-bearded  sailors  tell 
How  tlie  discoveries  befel 

That  glorify  their  time; 
"And  fortii  I  go,  my  friends,"  he  cries, 
"To  a  severer  enterprise 

Than  taslced  your  glorious  prime. 

"  Time  was  when  these  green  isles,  that  stud 
The  expanse  of  this  familiar  flood. 

Lived  l)ut  in  fancy  fond. 
Earth's  limits, — think  you  here  they  are? 
Here  has  the  Almighty  fixed  his  bar. 

Forbidding  glance  beyond  ? 

"Each  shell  is  murmuring  on  the  shore. 
And  wild  sea-voices  evermore 

Are  sounding  in  my  ear; 
I  long  to  meet  the  eastern  gale, 
And  with  a  free  and  stretching  sail 

Through  virgin  seas  to  steer. 

"Two  galleys  trim,  some  comrades  stanch, 
And  I  with  hopeful  heart  Avould  launch 

Upon  this  shoreless  sea. 
Till  I  have  searched  it  through  and  through 
And  seen  some  far  land  looming  blue, 

My  heart  will  not  play  free." 

Forth  fared  he  through  the  deep  to  rove, — 
For  months  with  angry  winds  he  strove, 

And  passions  fiercer  still. 
Until  he  found  the  long-sought  land, 
And  leaped  upon  the  savage  strand 

AVith  an  exulting  thrill. 

The  tide  of  life  now  eddies  strong 
Through  that  broad  wilderness,  where  long 

The  eagle  fearless  flew; 
Where  forests  waved,  fair  cities  rise, 
And  science,  art,  and  enterprise 

Their  restless  aims  pursue. 

There  dwells  a  people,  at  whose  birth 
The  shout  of  freedom  shook  the  earth, — 

Whose  fame  tlirough  uU  the  lands 
Has  travelled, — and  before  whose  eyes, 
Bright  with  their  glorious  destinies, 

A  proud  career  expands. 

I  see  their  life  by  passion  wrought 
To  intense  endeavour,  and  my  thought 
Stoops  backward  in  its  reach 


To  him  who,  in  that  early  time, 
llevolvcd  his  enterprise  sublime 
On  Porto  Santo's  beach. 

Methinks  that  solitary  soul 
Held,  in  its  ark,  this  radiant  roll 

Of  human  hopes  upfurled, — 
That  there  in  germ  this  vigorous  life 
■Warj  slieathed,  which  now  in  earnest  strife 

Is  working  through  the  world. 

Still  on  our  way,  with  care-worn  face, 
Abstracted  eye,  and  sauntering  pace, 

May  pass  one  such  as  he. 
Whose  mind  heaves  with  a  secret  force. 
That  shall  be  felt  along  the  course 

Of  far  futurity. 

Call  him  not  fanatic  or  fool. 
Thou  Stoic  of  the  modern  school ; 

Columbus-like,  his  aim 
Foints  forward  with  a  true  presage, 
And  nations  of  a  later  age 

May  rise  to  bless  his  name. 


DISCOYERY   OF   THE   NORTH-WEST 
PASSAGE. 

Strait  of  111  Hope!  thy  frozen  lips  at  last 
Unclose,  to  teach  our  seamen  how  to  sift 
A  passage  where  blue  icebergs  clash  and  drift, 

And  the  shore  loosely  rattles  in  the  blast. 

We  hold  the  secret  thou  hast  clenched  so  fast 
For  ages, — our  best  blood  has  earned  the  gift, — 
Blood  spilt,  or  hoarded  up  in  patient  thrift, 

Through  sunless  months  in  ceaseless  peril  passed. 

But  what  of  daring  Franklin  ?     Who  may  know 
The  pangs  that  wrung  that  heart  so  proud  and 
brave. 

In  secret  wrestling  with  its  deadly  woe, 

And  no  kind  voice  to  reach  him  o'er  the  wave  ? 

Now  he  sleeps  fast  beneath  his  shroud  of  snow. 
And  the  cold  Polo-star  only  knows  his  grave. 

Alone,  on  some  sharp  cliff  I  see  him  strain. 
O'er  the  white  waste,  his  keen,  sagacious  eye. 
Or  scan  the  signs  of  the  snow-muffled  sky, 

In  hope  of  quick  deliverance, — but  in  vain; 

Then,  faring  to  his  icy  tent  again, 

To  cheer  his  mates  with  his  familiar  smile, 
And  talk  of  home  and  kinsfolk,  to  beguile 

Slow  hours,  which  freeze  the  blood  and  numb  the 
brain. 

Long  let  our  hero's  memory  be  enshrined 
In  all  true  British  hearts !     He  calmly  stood 

In  danger's  foremost  rank,  nor  looked  behind. 
He  did  his  work,  not  with  the  fevered  blood 


440 


JAMES   D.   BURNS. 


Of  battle,  but  with  hard-tried  fortitude, 
In  peril  dauntless,  and  in  death  resigned. 

Despond  not,  Britain!     Should  this  sacred  hold 
Of  freedom,  still  inviolate,  be  assailed. 
The  high,  unblenching  spirit  which  j^-evailed 

In  ancient  days  is  neither  dead  nor  cold. 

Men  are  still  in  thee  of  heroic  mould,— 

Men  whom  thy  grand  old  sea-kings  would  have 

hailed 
As  worthy  peers,  invulnerably  mailed, 

Because  by  duty's  sternest  law  controlled. 

Thou  yet  wilt  rise,  and  send  abroad  thy  voice 

Among-  the  nations,  battling  for  the  right, 

In  the  unrusted  armour  of  thy  youth; 

And  the  oppressed  shall  hear  it  and  rejoice, 
For  on  thy  side  is  the  resistless  might 
Of  freedom,  justice,  and  eternal  truth! 


THE  WANDERER. 

Though  long  the  wanderer  may  depart, 

And  far  his  footsteps  roam, 
He  clasps  the  closer  to  his  heart 

The  image  of  his  home. 
To  tiiat  loved  land,  where'er  he  goes, 

His  tend'rest  thoughts  are  cast, 
And  dearer  still  through  absence  grows 

The  memory  of  the  past. 

Though  nature  on  another  shore 

Her  softest  smile  may  wear, 
The  vales,  the  hills  he  loved  before 

To  him  are  far  more  fair. 
The  heavens  that  met  liis  childhood's  eye, 

All  clouded  tliougli  tliey  be, 
Seem  brighter  tlian  the  sunniest  sky 

Of  climes  beyond  the  sea. 

So  Faitli,  a  stranger  on  the  cartli, 

Still  turns  its  eye  above; 
The  child  of  an  immortal  birth 

Seeks  more  tlian  mortal  love. 
The  scenes  of  eartli,  though  very  fair, 

Want  home's  endearing  spell; 
And  all  his  heart  and  hope  are  wiicrc 

His  God  and  Saviour  dwell. 

He  may  beliold  them  dimly  here, 

And  see  them  as  not  nigh. 
But  all  lie  loves  will  yet  appear 

Unclouded  to  his  eye. 
To  that  fair  city,  now  so  far, 

Rejoicing  he  will  come, 
A  better  ligiit  tlian  Ikthlehcm's  star 

Guides  every  wanderer  home. 


RISE,  LITTLE  STAR! 

Rise,  little  star ! 
O'er  the  dusky  hill, — 
See  the  bright  coui-se  open 
Thou  hast  to  fulfil. 

Climb,  little  star! 
Higher  still  and  higher, 
AVith  a  silent  swiftness. 
And  a  pulse  of  fire. 

Staml,  little  star! 
On  the  peak  of  heaven ; 
But  for  one  brief  moment 
Is  the  triumph  given. 

Sink,  little  star! 
Yet  make  heaven  bright. 
Even  while  thou  art  sinking. 
With  thy  gentle  light. 

Set,  little  star! 
Gladly  fade  and  die, 
With  the  blush  of  morning 
Coming  up  the  sky. 

Each  little  star 
Crieth,  Life,  0  man! 
Should  have  one  clear  purpose 
Shining  round  its  span. 


FRIENDS  I  LOVE. 

Friends  I  love  may  die  or  leave  me, 

Friends  I  trust  may  treacherous  prove; 
But  Thou  never  wilt  deceive  me, 

0  my  Saviour!  in  Thy  love. 
Change  can  ne'er  this  union  sever. 

Death  its  links  may  never  part; 
Yesterday,  to-day,  for  ever, 

Thou  the  same  Redeemer  art! 

On  the  cross,  love  made  Thee  bearer 

Of  transgressions  not  Thine  own; 
And  that  love  .still  makes  Thee  sharer 

In  our  sorrows  on  the  throne. 
From  Thy  glory  Thou  art  bending 

Still  on  earth  a  pitying  eye. 
And  'mid  angels'  songs  ascending, 

Hcarcst  every  mourner's  cry. 

In  the  days  of  worldly  gladness, 
Cold  and  proud  our  hearts  may  be; 

But  to  wiiom,  in  fear  and  sadness. 
Can  wc  go  but  unto  Thee? 


WILLIAM   MURDOCH. 


441 


From  that  depth  of  gloom  and  sorrow, 
Where  Thy  love  to  man  was  shown, 

Every  bleeding  heart  may  borrow 
Hope  and  strength  to  bear  its  own. 

Though  the  cup  I  drink  be  bitter, 

Yet  since  Thou  hast  made  it  mine, 
This,  Thy  love,  will  make  it  sweeter 

Tiian  the  world's  best  mingled  wine. 
Darker  days  may  yet  betide  me. 

Sharper  sorrows  I  may  prove; 
But  the  worst  will  ne"er  divide  me, 

0  my  Saviourl  from  Thy  love. 


CHASTENING. 

0  Thou  whose  sacred  feet  have  trod 

The  thorny  path  of  woe, 
Forbid  that  I  should  slight  the  rod, 

Or  faint  beneath  the  blow. 

My  spirit  to  its  chastening  stroke 

I  meekly  would  resign, 
Nor  murmur  at  the  heaviest  yoke 

That  tells  me  I  am  Thine. 

Give  me  the  spirit  of  Thy  trust. 

To  suffer  as  a  son, — 
To  say,  though  lying  in  the  dust, 

My  Father's  will  be  done! 

I  know  that  trial  works  for  ends 
Too  high  for  sense  to  trace, — 

That  oft  in  dark  attire  He  sends 
Some  embassy  of  grace. 

May  none  depart  till  I  have  gain'd 
The  blessing  which  it  bears; 

And  learn,  though  late,  I  entertain'd 
An  angel  unawares. 

So  shall  I  bless  the  hour  that  sent 

The  mercy  of  the  rod, 
And  build  an  altar  by  the  tent 

Where  I  have  met  with  God. 


THE  DEATH   OF   A   BELIEVER. 

Acts  xii. 

The  apostle  sleeps,— a  light  shines  in  the  prison,— 

An  angel  touched  his  side, 
"Arise!"  he  said,  and  quickly  he  hath  risen, 

His  fettered  anns  untied. 

The  watchmen  saw  no  Ught  at  midnight  gleam- 
ing,— 

They  heard  no  sound  of  feet; 
The  gates  fly  open,  and  the  saint,  still  dreaming, 

Stands  free  upon  the  street. 

So  when  the  Christian's  eyelid  di-oops  and  closes 

In  nature's  parting  strife, 
A  friendly  angel  stands  where  he  reposes 

To  wake  him  up  to  Ufe. 

He  gives  a  gentle  blow,  and  so  releases 

The  spirit  from  its  clay; 
From  sin's  temptations,  and  from  life's  distresses. 

He  bids  it  come  away. 

It  rises  up,  and  from  its  darksome  mansion 

It  takes  its  silent  flight. 
And  feels  its  freedom  in  the  large  expansion 
Of  heavenly  air  and  light. 

Behind,  it  hears  Time's  iron  gates  close  faintly,— 

It  is  now  far  from  them. 
For  it  has  reached  the  city  of  the  saintly, 

The  New  Jerusalem. 

A  voice  is  heard  on  earth  of  kinsfolk  weeping 

The  loss  of  one  they  love; 
But  he  is  gone  where  the  redeemed  are  keepmg 

A  festival  above. 

The  mouraers  thi'ong  the  ways,  and  from  the 
steeple 

The  funeral  bell  tolls  slow; 
But  on  the  golden  streets  the  holy  people 

Are  passing  to  and  fro; 

And  saying  as  they  meet,  "  Rejoice!  another 

Lontc  waited  for  is  come; 
The  Saviour's  heart  is  glad;  a  younger  brother 

Hath  reached  the  Father's  home !" 


WILLIAM    MUEDOCH. 


William  Murdoch,  the  son  of  a  Faisley 
shoemaker,  was  born  in  that  town,  February 
•24,  1823.     By  the  side  of  his  father's  bench  in 


their  humble  home  at  the  "Townhead"  of 
Paisley,  he  learned  to  read,  and  he  says  in  a 
note  to  the  Editor,  "I  remember  the  rapturous 


442 


WILLIAM  MURDOCH. 


delight  I  experienced  while  reading,  beside  my 
father's  bench  in  the  evenings,  my  first  novel, 
Roderick  Eandom,  spelling  the  muckle  words 
to  have  the  assistance  of  his  pronunciation." 
Among  the  first  uses  to  which  'William  put 
his  pen  after  learning  to  w^rite  was  to  indite 
rhymes;  and  in  his  fourteenth  year  he  was 
gratified  by  hearing  a  hymn  of  his  own  composi- 
tion sung  in  the  Sabbath-school,  and  by  being 
told  by  one  of  the  teachers  that  "it  was  a 
bonnie  and  a  godly  composition."  He  pursued 
his  father's  vocation  of  a  souter,  attending  at 
the  same  time  an  evening  school,  and  occupy- 
ing any  leisure  moments  he  could  command  in 
his  favourite  amusement  of  rliyming.  In  his 
twenty-first  year  he  married,  and  at  the  same 
time  his  father  became  blind  and  could  no 
longer  Avork  at  his  trade,  in  which  helpless  con- 
dition he  remained  for  eight  years,  and  had 
nothing  to  depend  upon  but  the  exertions  of 
his  son.  "Our  circumstances  during  these 
years,"  writes  Murdoch,  "were  pretty  tight- 
laced,  but  we  'warsled  and  toiled  thro'  the 
fair  and  the  foul,'  to  the  best  of  our  ability, 
and  finally  succeeded  in  laying  his  honoured 


head  in  the  grave  free  of  debt,  on  Nov.  19, 
1852." 

Two  years  after  Murdoch  emigrated  to  New 
Brunswick.  Before  leaving  Paisley  he  was 
entertained  in  public  and  received  a  handsome 
sum  of  money  from  his  fellow-townsmen.  In 
April,  1855,  he  was  appointed  to  take  charge 
of  the  gas-work  on  Partridge  Island,  which 
supplies  the  lighthouse.  Here  he  remained 
for  three  years,  during  which  he  had  consider- 
able leisure  time,  and  composed  "The  Bag- 
pipes," and  many  other  of  his  best  known 
poems  and  songs.  In  1860  he  returned  to  St. 
John,  and  published  a  small  volume,  entitled 
Poems  and  Songs,  h)/  William  Murdoch.  A 
second  edition,  enlarged  and  improved,  ap- 
peared in  1872.  He  again  resumed  his  old 
vocation,  at  which  he  continued  until  the 
summer  of  1865,  when  he  obtained  a  place  on 
the  editorial  staff  of  the  Morning  Netvs,  pub- 
lished at  St.  John,  New  Brunswick.  Mr. 
ilurdoch  has  recently  completed  a  Scottish 
poem  of  some  three  thousand  lines,  entitled 
"A  Fireside  Drama,"  which  he  proposes  to 
publish  at  an  early  day. 


THE    BAGPIPES. 


Let  ither  poets  rave  and  rant, 
How  fiddles  can  the  saul  enchant, 
How  harps  and  organs  lift  the  sant 

To  heaven  aboon; 
For  me,  my  lugs  I  winna  grant 

To  siclike  din. 

The  swelling  hom,  and  sounding  drum, 
Yield  pleasing  notes  nae  doubt  to  some, 
And  chields  wha  at  pianos  thrum, 

Think  nought's  sae  braw; 
But  Scotland's  skirling  bagpipes'  bum 

Is  worth  them  a'. 

0,  weel  I  lo'e  the  martial  strains. 

That  swell'd  oiu-  forbears'  hearts  and  veins, 

And  led  them  on  thro'  reeking  plains 

0'  death  and  gore, 
To  drive  oppression,  and  its  chains, 

Frae  Scotia's  shore. 

Foul  fa'  the  Scot  o'  modern  days, 
Wha  kens  o'  Scotland's  foi-mcr  waes, 
Can  tamely  sit,  while  Donald  plays 

A  pibroch  peal; 
Nor  feels  his  bosom  in  a  blaze 

O'  patriot  zeal. 


In  yore,  when  Roman  lads  were  boun' 

To  rieve  us  o'  our  royal  crown, 

Frae  Highland  hills  our  sires  came  doun 

To  deadly  gripes; 
Fir'd  by  the  bauld  inspiring  soun' 

0'  Scotland's  pipes. 

And  weel  the  Dane  and  Roman  chiels 
Ken'd  when  they  hoard  the  bagpipe's  peals, 
That  Donald  was  upon  their  heels 

In  martial  raw; 
Sae  faith  they  took  to  southern  fiel's 

And  were  na  slaw. 

The  Saxon  thocht  he  mieht  afford 
To  reign  supremo,  as  Scotland's  lord; 
Sae  pour'd  his  troops,  horde  after  horde, 

On  Scottish  plains; 
And  claim'd  dominion  by  the  sword, 

O'er  our  domains. 

His  flags  were  waving  on  ilk  height, 
When  stern,  undaunted,  Wallace  wight, 
His  claymore  wav'd  for  freedom's  right 

And  Scotland's  weal; 
And  dar'd  proud  Edward's  vaunted  might 

In  raony  a  fiel'. 


WILLIAM  MURDOCH. 


443 


He  led  his  men  to  battle's  brunt, 
The  pipers  marching  at  the  front, 
Wi'  stii-ring  peal  and  solemn  grunt 

They  cheer'd  the  way, 
Nor  tarried,  be't  for  brose  or  strunt, 

Till  bang'd  the  fae. 

And  syne,  when  Bruce  display'd  his  ranks 
For  battle  on  red  Bannock's  banks, 
He  plac'd  the  pipers  at  the  flanks, 

Wha  blew  sae  weel. 
That  trembhng  seiz'd  the  southron  shanks, 

And  play'd  the  dell. 

They  couldna  bide  the  clours,  and  paicks, 
That  shower'd  frae  our  Lochaber  aix; 
They  shook,  as  coward  only  shakes 

When  touch'd  by  steel. 
Then  curs'd  our  land  o'  hills  and  cakes, 

And  fled  the  fiel'. 

And  when  that  shout  o'  victory  rose. 
Which  rent  the  veil  o'  Scottish  woes, 
The  swelling  pibroch  spurr'd  our  foes 

To  quicker  bound. 
And  stamp'd  the  land  where  Bannock  flows 

As  sacred  ground. 

Thy  bagpipes,  Scotland,  lang  hae  been 
Thy  vera  best  and  truest  frien'. 
On  bluidy  field  or  dewy  green. 

At  gloamings  gray. 
When  lads  and  lasses  wad  convene 

To  dance  and  play. 

When  charm'd  by  our  dear  bagpipes'  din, 
What  ither  race  beneath  the  sun 
Can  match  our  hardy  Highland  kin 

At  reel  or  jig? 
They  loup,  and  fling,  and  jink,  and  rin, 

Nor  ever  lig. 

But  change  the  tune  to  martial  air, 
Theii-  shouts  will  mak'  the  mountains  rair; 
Their  courage  danger  ne'er  could  scare, 

W^hen  Scotland's  guid 
Requir'd  their  helps,  or  aiblins  mair. 

Their  very  bluid. 

Just  sound  one  swelling  pibroch  peal. 
And  say  Victoria  needs  their  steel, 
Nae  twa  ways  then;  ilk  hardy  chiel 

His  kilt  puts  on, 
And  bids  his  native  hills  fareweel 

Without  a  groan. 

And  when  they  meet  their  country's  faes, 

Then-  courage  kindles  to  a  blaze; 

See  Scotland's  gallant,  daring  "Grays" 

And  Forty-twa, 
Lead  on  the  charge,  that  wing'd  the  days 

0'  Bonna's  fa'. 


"  These  kilted  savages,"  he  swore, 
"That  came  from  Scotland's  rocky  shore- 
Stem,  as  their  fathers  were  in  yore, 

W^ith  dirk  and  plaid — 
Have  grieved  my  gallant  heroes  more 
Than  ought  beside." 

And  see  them  on  the  Crimean  plains. 
Where  slavery  still  eternal  reigns; 
Nae  odds  could  cool  their  boiling  veins, 

Nor  quench  their  zeal; 
The  rust  of  cowardice  ne'er  stains 

The  Scottish  steel. 

My  country's  pipes!  while  life  is  mine 
I'll  love  thy  strains,  as  air  divine; 
Link'd  as  ye  are  wi'  auld  langsyne. 

My  Scottish  heart, 
Tho'  frae  you  sunder'd  by  the  brine, 

Will  never  part. 

And  when  on  death's  cold  bier  I'm  laid. 
Let  pipers  round  me  serenade; 
And  wrap  me  in  a  Scottish  plaid 

For  sheet  and  shroud; 
And  o'er  my  grave  be  tribute  paid 

One  PIBROCH  LOUD. 


ADDEESS  TO  MY  AULD  BLUE 
BONNET. 

Let  fools  wi'  muckle  purses  haver 

'Bout  hats  o'  silk,  or  costly  beaver. 

And  flirts  o'  beaux  and  menseless  chaps 

Brag  o'er  their  one-pound-foui-  Hght  naps; 

But  nana  o'  them  deserves  a  sonnet 

Sae  much  as  you,  my  auld  blue  bonnet. 

For  mony  years  noo  past  and  gane 

Ye've  happ'd  my  pow  frae  wind  and  rain; 

The  equinoxial  gales  micht  blaw. 

The  lammas  tide  in  torrents  fa'; 

Auld  winter  too  micht  show  his  form. 

Deep  wrapp'd  in  clouds,  and  cloth'd  in  storm, 

^Yi'  frost,  hail,  snaw,  and  blashy  sleet. 

Shroud  nature  like  a  -winding  sheet. 

But  capp'd  by  thee,  my  bonnet  blue. 

His  storms  as  yet  I've  wudd'led  tlii-o', 

Nor  car'd  I  for  his  wrath  a  bodle. 

Ye  lent  sic  comfort  to  my  noddle. 

Since  first  ye  left  thy  native  toon, 

Sae  fam'd  for  nicht-caps  and  for  shoon, 

Richt  mony  ups  and  downs  I've  seen, 

Wi'  pleasant  blinks  at  times  between; 

I've  tasted  bliss,  I've  shed  saut  tears, 

I've  sprung  frae  youth  to  manhood's  years, 

I've  wander'd  far,  I've  wander'd  wide, 

Frae  hame,  and  a'  I  lov'd  beside; 

But  thanks  to  fate,  I'm  here  again. 

Snug  seated  by  my  ain  hearthstaue. 


444 


WILLIAM  MURDOCH. 


Dear  comrade  of  my  youthful  glee, 
What  memories  fond  are  linkVl  \vi'  thee! 
What  joyous  transports  have  I  felt 
When  at  the  shrine  of  love  I  knelt, 
And  sued,  nor  did  I  sue  in  vain. 
For  Meg^s  love  in  return  again. 

0  happy,  mair  than  hapjsy  days, 

When  'mang  fair  Cart's  green  banks  and  braes, 
On  gloamings  gray  I  wont  to  stroll, 
Wi'  her  whose  love  enwrapt  my  soul. 

1  sigh'd  a'  day,  and  dream'd  a'  nicht. 
And  she,  poor  thing,  was  never  richt, 
Till  baith  grew  tir'd  o'  living  single. 
And  bairns  noo  ramp  around  our  ingle. 
An'  still  I  bless  the  page  o'  life 

That  gied  me  Peggy  for  a  wife. 

My  guid  auld  frien',  it  mak's  me  wae, 

That  fashions  should  be  changing  sae; 

In  youth  ye  was  my  very  pride. 

Ye  was  sae  braw,  sae  blue,  and  wide; 

Gang  whar  I  micht,  be't  up,  be't  down, 

Ye  was  my  comforter  an'  crown. 

Ilk  height  and  howe,  ilk  moss  and  moor, 

'Tween  this  and  Scotland's  southern  shore. 

And  far  awa  'mong  Highland  shiels, 

I've  trod  wi'  thee  and  blister'd  heels; 

But  noo,  alake!  my  guid  auld  frien', 

Nae  gate  wi'  thee  daur  I  be  seen. 

Or  modem  folks  will  jibe  and  joke. 

And  ca'  thee  beggar's  aumos  pock. 

Ochon-a-nee!  and  lack-a-day! 

That  e'er  we  should  gi-ow  auld  or  gray; 

Poor  worn-out  men,  and  tlireadbare  claes. 

Are  no  the  things  for  noo-a-days; 

When  young,  and  strong,  and  fit  for  use. 

They're  aye  made  welcome  in  the  house, 

But  ance  turn  auld,  be't  man  or  bonnet. 

The  fire  or  hook,  they're  taught  to  shun  it. 

By  youthful  pomp,  and  youthful  pride. 

Like  auld  worn  boots  they're  cast  aside, 

Or  aiblins  sent,  for  guid  or  ill. 

To  almshouse  or  the  carding  mill: 

Sae  gae  your  wa's,  ye're  out  o'  date, 

And  e'en  maun  just  submit  to  fate : 

My  conscience  winna  let  me  steer  ye. 

And  fashion  says  I  maunna  wear  ye, 

Sae  we  maun  part!  and  nae  remeid. 

But  buy  a  beaver  in  your  stead. 

And  swap  you  wi'  some  gangrel  body, 

For  tea-cup,  or  a  dish  for  crowdy: 

But  aye  whene'er  I  glance  upon  it, 

I'll  mind  o'  you— MY  AULD  BLUK  BONNET. 


THE   HIGHLANDER'S   WIFE. 

Steek  the  door  like  guid  baims,  an'  creep  close 
to  the  fire. 
This  nicht  fills  my  bosom  wi'  dread; 


The  snaw's  driftin'  sair  o'er  the  hill,  an'  the  win' 
Like  a  demon  rairs  at  the  lum  head. 

The  puir  weary  traveller,  whae'er  he  may  bo, 
God  sen'  him  a  beild  dry  an'  warm; 

And  the  mariner  tossing  afar  o'er  the  sea — 
0 !  .shield  him  frae  shipwreck  or  harm. 

The  stars  are  shut  out  frae  the  face  of  rhe  sky. 

That  us'd  sae  to  cheer  me  at  e'en, 
For  they  brocht  to  my  mind  the  blythe  hinncy 
days, 

When  wi'  Donald  I  stray'd  'neath  their  sheen. 
But  he's  noo  far  awa'  amidst  danger  an'  strife, 

Whaur  bluid  flows  in  torrents  like  rain, 
I  ken  that  his  heart's  wi'  his  bairns  and  his  wife; 

But  I  fear  he'll  ne'er  see  them  again. 

In  the  dreams  o'  last  nicht  my  dear  Donald  I  saw, 

Love's  tears  sparkled  bright  in  his  e'en; 
Yet  I  felt  as  if  death  held  him  back  frae  my  arms. 

An'  a  bluidy  shroud  hang  us  between. 
He  spak'  na  a  word;  but  0!  sairly  I  fear 

His  heart-strings  are  cut  by  the  glaive; 
Wer't  no  for  my  bairns  I  could  rush  to  my  dear 

Through  the  portals  o'  death  and  the  grave. 

Dinna  greet,  my  sweet  bainis,  I'll  be  cheerf  u'  the 
morn — 
'Tis  the  sough  o'  the  wind  mak's  me  wae, 
An'  the  thocht   that    your  faither  may  never 
return 
Frae  the  bluid-thirsty  Muscovite  fae; 
But  aiblins  I'm  wrang,  for  God  wha  can  baud 

The  vast  sea  in  the  howe  o'  his  han', 
Can  shield  him  frae  scaith,  an'  may  yet  sen'  him 
back 
To  his  wife,  baims,  an'  dear  native  Ian'. 

God!    what  did  I  hear?  'twas  my  Donald's  ain 
voice. 
Borne  alang  on  the  wings  o'  the  blast — 
He  said — "Flora,  I've  come  noo  to  join  you  for 
aye. 
Haste,  dearest,  and  follow  me  fast." 
0  Heavens!  I  see  him,  mair  pale  than  the  snaw. 

The  bluid's  gushing  out  frae  his  broo; 
I'm  coming,    dear  Donald— fareweel    my  lov'd 
baims! 
I'm  coming  to  Heaven  an'  you. 

Thus  wail'd  the  brave  Highlander's  heart-stricken 
wife. 

In  her  cot  'mang  the  heather-clad  cairns, 
Then  frantic  arose,  clasp'd  her  hands  o'er  her 
heart, 

Swoon'd  and  died  in  the  arms  of  her  bairns. 
Next  day  brought  the  tidings  of  sorrow  and  woo 

That  Donald,  the  flower  of  his  clan, 
Afar  'midst  the  Crimean  deserts  of  snow, 

Fell,  lighting  for  freedom  and  man. 


JAMES   SMITH. 


445 


JAMES    SMITH. 


There  have  been  literary  printers  from  the 
days  of  Benjamin  Franklin  down  to  our  own 
time,  which  has  produced  among  others  James 
Smith,  the  author  of  numerous  tender  and 
touching  poems  in  tiie  Scottish  dialect.  He 
was  born  in  Edinburgh,  March  2,  1824,  and  in 
early  life  was  apprenticed  to  a  printer,  a  busi- 
ness which,  together  with  proof-reading,  he 
pursued  in  his  native  city  until  1S69,  when 
he  was  appointed  librarian  to  the  Edinburgh 
iMechanics"  Library,  a  position  which  he  stUl 
continues  to  fill. 

In  1865  Mr.  Smith's  poems  appeared  in  a 
quarto  volume,  a  few  copies  of  which  were  set 
up  and  pulled  at  the  press  by  the  author,  when 
manager  of  a  law-printing  establishment,  dur- 
ing one  of  the  long  vacations.  "  There  is,"  says 
Cowpcr,  "'a  pleasure  in  poetic  pains  which  only 
poets  know,"  and  only  printers,  it  may  be  sup- 
posed, can  experience  the  joy  of  setting  up 
"copy "'  of  their  own  composition.  In  1866  the 
first  published  edition  of  his  poems  appeared, 
entitled  Poems,  Somjs,  and  Ballads,  which  has 
since  passed  through  three  editions.  Alluding 
to  his  poetical  eflforts  the  author  says:  "They 
arefor  themost  part  children  of  impulse — verses 
prompted  by  the  immediate  influence  of  what- 
ever feeling  happened  to  predominate  at  the 
time,  and  having  little  or  no  pretension  to 
elaborate  study, — that  being  rendered  well-nigh 


impossible  by  the  exigencies  of  a  life  of  inces- 
sant toil,  and  by  the  anxieties  that  harass, 
more  or  less,  every  man  struggling  for  those 
dependent  on  him.  The  author  would  not 
have  it  inferred  that  he  craves  the  reader's  in- 
dulgence on  this  ground,  or  that  he  advances 
it  as  a  plea  for  mollifying  the  impartial  verdict 
of  criticism.  He  only  mentions  it  as  a  fact, 
which  it  is  but  fair  any  one  who  may  peruse 
these  pages  should  know." 

Mr.  Smith  is  also  the  author  of  Humorous 
Scotch  Stories,  Jenny  Blair  s  Maunderlnrjs, 
Hahbie  and  Madge,  Peggy  Pinhertons  Recol- 
lections, and  ArcJile  and  Bess,  five  amusing- 
little  volumes  containing  graphic  descriptions 
of  the  customs  and  conversations  of  the  Scottish 
peasantry.  On  May-day,  1875,  a  number  of 
the  poet's  friends  and  admirei's,  including  the 
Earl  of  Rosebery,  presented  him  with  a  hand- 
some silver  salver  and  two  hundred  sovereigns 
as  a  tribute  of  their  esteem. 

A  critic  has  truthfully  .«aid  that  "James 
Smith  is  unmistakably  a  poet — musical,  ten- 
der, and  true.  "With  a  sense  of  humour  which, 
from  Carlyle  downwards,  is  almost  universally 
seen  bound  up  with  a  great  sadness,  he  com- 
bines a  pathetic  sweetness  and  a  command  of 
wailing  melody  sure  to  find  its  way  to  the 
popular  heart,  and  to  make  him  a  househol  1 
favourite." 


WEE    COCKIELORUM. 


There's  the  spunkie  o'  the  toun; 

Tak  my  word,  he's  worth  the  seein'; 
AVas  there  ever  sic  a  loun, 

A'  his  duds  in  tatters  fleein'? 
On  he  darts,  like  lichtnin'  flashin', 
Swift  his  dumpy  bare  feet  splashin'. 
Through  the  rain  in  torrents  dashin' — 
Wee  Cockielorum. 

Turnin'  on  the  water  crans; 

Breakin'  windows;  cowpin'  shutters; 
Fp  amang  the  chimley  cans; 

Doun  amang  the  dubs  an"  gutters; 


Xever  oot  o'  fechts  an'  quarrels; 
Plague  o'  wives  an'  nervous  carles; 
Eanger  o'  the  sugar  barrels — 
Wee  Cockielorum. 

Kippin'  frae  the  schule,  the  rogue, 
Carritch  sailin'  doun  the  syver; 
Linkin'  ower  the  Hunter's  Bog, 

Fleein'  high  his  ha'p'ny  diver; 
Whiles  at  Leith,  in  harbour  nookies, 
Sprauchlin'  wi'  his  worms  an'  hookies, 
C'atehin'  podlies,  eels,  an'  flookics — 
Wee  Cockielorum. 


446 


JAMES   SMITH. 


Piinnin",  jumpin',  stottin'  ba's, 

Plaviii'  shinty,  wlia  can  match  him? 
Firin'  whins,  an'  frichtnin'  craws; 

Eangers  tryin'  sair  to  catch  him; 
Eiever  dire  o'  neeps  an'  berries, 
Pears  an'  apples,  plooms  an'  cherries, 
Palps  an'  bools,  an'  taps  an'  peeries — 
AVee  Cockielorum. 

Blithe  when  Queen's  birth-day  comes  roun', 
Liltin'  on  his  bawbee-whistle; 

Kilties,  fogies,  braw  dragoons, 
Makin'  sic  a  joyfu'  bustle; 

Bauld  at  nicht  wi'  jinglin'  pockets, 

Firin'  crackers,  squeebs,  an'  rockets; 

Black  wi'  pouther  to  the  sockets — 
Wee  Cockielorum. 

Speelin'  trees,  an'  hcrryin'  nes+s 

(Fine  the  auld  birds  ken  his  habits); 

Cats  the  birkie  aye  molests; 

Fond  o'  duggies,  doos,  an'  rabbits; 

Kind  to  bits  o'  weanies  tottin' ; 

Keen  o'  soomin',  divin',  floatin'; 

Aft  on  seaside  cuddies  trottin' — 
Wee  Cockielorum. 

Proud  when  stormy  tempests  blaw; 

Winter  haps  wi'  scorn  deridin'; 
Strampin'  cheery  through  the  snaw; 

Owre  the  Loch  wi'  ardour  slidin'. 
Cauld  an'  hunger  tame  the  roguie; 
Hame  through  closes  dark  an'  foggy, 
Thinkin'  on  his  parritch-coggie— 
Wee  Cockielorum. 

Puir  wee  man !  'tis  hard  for  thee. 

Reckless  faithcr,  feckless  mither; 
Laddie  wi'  the  sparklin'  e'e — 
Sturdy,  stuffy  little  brithcr! 
Soon  may  thou,  true  wisdom  learnin', 
Ca'  thy  girr  wi'  mair  discernin', 
Manhood's  noblest  honours  earnin' — 
Wee  Cockielorum. 


WEE  JOUKYDAIDLES. 

Wee  Jonkydaidlcs, 

Toddlin'  oot  an'  in; 
Oh,  but  she's  a  cuttie, 

Makin'  sic  a  din! 
Aye  sae  fou  o'  mischief, 

An'  minds  nae  what  I  say: 
My  very  heart  gangs  loup,  loup, 

Fifty  times  a  day ! 


Wee  Joukydaidles — ■ 

Where's  the  stumpie  noo  1 
She's  tumblin'  i'  the  cruivie, 

An'  lauchin'  to  the  soo! 
Noo  she  sees  my  angry  e'e, 

An'  aff  she's  like  a  hare! 
Lassie,  when  I  get  ye, 

ril  scud  ye  till  I'm  sair! 

Wee  Joukydaidles — 

Noo  she's  break  in'  dishes — 
Noo  she's  soakit  i'  the  burn, 

Catchin'  little  fishes; 
Noo  she's  i'  the  barnyard, 

Playin'  wi'  the  fouls — 
Feedin'  them  wi'  butter-bakes, 

Snaps,  an'  sugar-bools. 

Wee  Joukydaidles — 

Oh,  my  heart  it's  broke! 
She's  torn  my  braw  new  wincey. 

To  mak'  a  dolly's  frock. 
There's  the  goblet  owre  the  fire! 

The  jaud!  she  weel  may  rin! 
No  a  tattie  ready  yet. 

An'  faither  comiu'  in! 

AVee  Joukydaidles — 

Wha's  sae  tired  as  me! 
See!  the  kettle's  doun  at  last! 

AVae's  me  for  my  tea! 
Oh!  it's  angersome,  atweel, 

An'  sune'll  mak'  me  gray; 
My  very  heart  gangs  loup,  loup, 

Fifty  times  a  day ! 

Wee  Joukydaidles — 

AVhere's  the  smoukie  noo'? 
She's  hidin'  i'  the  coal-hole, 

Cryin'  "Keekybo!" 
Noo  she's  at  the  fireside, 

Pu'in'  pussy's  tail — 
Noo  she's  at  the  broun  bowl 

Suppin'  a'  the  kail! 

AVee  Joukydaidles — 

Paidlin'  i'  the  shower — 
There  she's  at  the  windy! 

Hand  her,  or  she's  owre! 
Noo  she's  slippit  frac  my  sicht: 

AVhere's  the  wean  at  last? 
In  the  byre  amang  the  kye, 

Sleepin'  soun'  an'  fast! 

AA^ec  Joukydaidles — 
For  a'  ye  gi'e  me  pain, 

Ye're  aye  my  darlin'  tottic  yet — 
My  aiu  wee  wean! 


JAMES   SMITH. 


447 


An'  gin  I'm  spared  to  ithcr  days- 
Oh,  m;iy  tliey  come  to  pass — 

I'll  see  my  bonnie  bainiie 
A  braw,  braw  lass! 


BURD  AILIE. 

Burd  Ailie  sat  doun  by  the  -wimplin'  burn, 

\Vi'  the  red,  red  rose  in  her  hair; 
An'  bricht  was  the  glance  o'  her  bonnie  black  e'e, 

As  her  heart  throbbed  fast  and  sair. 
An'  aye  as  she  look'd  on  ilk  clear  wee  wave, 

She  murmur'd  her  trne  hive's  name, 
An'  sigh'd  when  she  thocht  on  the  distant  sea, 

An'  the  ship  sae  fai-  frae  hame ! 

The  robin  flew  hie  owre  the  gowden  broom. 

An'  he  warbled  fu'  cheerilie. 
"  Oh,  tell  me — oh,  tell  me,  thou  bonnie  wee  bird. 

Will  I  ever  my  true  luve  see  'i " 
Then  saftly  an'  sweetly  the  robin  sang: 

"  Pair  Ailie!  I'm  laith  to  tell; 
For  the  ship's  i'  the  howe  o'  a  roaring  wave. 

An'  thy  luve's  i'  the  merUn's  cell!" 

"Oh,  tell  me — oh,  tell  me,  thou  bonnie  wee  bird. 

Did  he  mind  on  the  nicht  langsyne, 
Wlien  we  plichted  our  troth  by  the  trystin'  tree? 

Was  his  heart  aye  true  to  mine?" 
"Oh,  fond  an'  true,"  the  sweet  robin  sang; 

' '  But  the  merlin  he  noo  maun  wed ; 
For  the  sea-weed's  twined  in  his  yellow  hair, 

An'  the  coral's  his  bridal  bed!" 

Burd  Ailie  lay  low  by  the  wimplin'  burn, 

Wi'  the  red,  red  rose  in  her  hair; 
But  gane  was  the  glance  o'  her  bonnie  black  e'e. 

An'  the  robin  sang  nae  mair. 
For  an  angel  cam'  doun  at  the  fa'  o'  the  nicht. 

As  she  murmur'd  her  true  luve's  name; 
An'  took  her  awa'  frae  a  broken  heart, 

And  the  ship  that  wad  ne'er  come  hame! 


DOUN  FAIR  DALMENY'S  ROSY  DELLS. 

Doun  fair  Dalmeny's^  rosy  dells, 

Sweet  Mary  wander'd,  sad  an'  wae; 
The  sunlicht  faded  owre  the  lea. 

An'  cheerless  fell  the  simmer  day. 
The  warblin'  mavis  sang  nae  mair. 

As  aft  she  sighed,  in  heavy  sorrow: 
"  0  lanely,  lanely  lies  my  luve; 

An'  cauld's  the  nicht  that  brings  nae  morrow !  " 


1  The  estate  of  the  Eiirl  of  Rosebery,  a  few  miles 
from  Edinburgh. 


"  By  j-onder  hoary  castle  wa'," 

Where  murmurs  deep  the  dark  blue  sea, 
I  wearied  sair  the  langsomc  nicht. 

Till  tears  bedimm'd  my  sleepless  e'e. 
The  boat  gaed  doun  by  C'ramond's  isle — 

0  weary  fa'  that  nicht  o'  sorrow! 
For  lanely,  lanely  lies  my  luve; 

An' cauld's  the  nicht  tliat  brings  nae  morrow!" 

"0  foaming  waves,  that  took  mj-  luve — 

My  ain  true  luve,  beyond  compare! 
0  will  I  see  his  winsome  form, 

And  hear  his  dear  lo'ed  voice  nae  mair  ? " 
Fu'  deep  the  snaw-white  surges  moaned: 

"  0  sair's  the  burden  o'  thy  sorrow; 
For  lanely,  lanely  lies  thy  luve, 

An'  cauld's  the  nicht  that  brings  nae  morrow!" 

She  wander'd  weary  by  the  shore. 

An'  murmur'd  aft  his  name  sae  dear; 
Till  owre  Dalmeny's  dewy  dells 

The  silver  moon  shone  sweet  an'  clear. 
An'  saft  the  trembling  breezes  sigh'd, 

As  far  she  strayed,  in  hopeless  sorrow: 
"  0  lanely,  lanely  lies  thy  luve; 

An'  cauld's  the  nicht  that  brings  nae  morrow!" 


THE  LINTWHITE. 

A  lintwhite  sat  in  her  mossy  nest, 

A 6  eerie  morn  in  spring. 
An'  lang  she  look'd  at  the  cauld  gray  lift, 

AVi'  the  wee  birds  under  her  wing. 
An'  aye  as  she  lookit,  wi'  shiveria'  breist, 

Sae  waesomely  she  sang: 
"  0  tell  me  true,  ye  winds  that  blaw, 

AVhy  tarries  my  luve  sae  lang? 

"  I've  soclit  him  doun  i'  the  fairy  glen, 

An'  far  owre  the  lanely  lea — • 
I've  socht  him  doun  i'  yon  saft  green  yird, 

An'  high  on  the  birken  tree; — 
I've  socht  till  the  wee  things  cried  me  hame, 

Wi'  niony  a  heavy  pang; 
0  tell  me  true,  ye  winds  that  blaw, 

AVhy  tarries  my  luve  sac  lang?" 

"0  waly!"  the  norland  breezes  moan'd; 

"Sae  weel  may  thy  heart  be  sair; 
For  the  hawk's  awa'  wi'  thy  ain  true  luve, 

An'  he'll  sing  thee  a  sang  nae  mair! 
Fu'  wae  was  his  fate  on  yon  auld  aik  tree, 

That  aft  wi'  his  warblin'  rang! 
Noo  speir  nae  mair,  wee  shiverin'  bird, 

AVhy  tarries  thy  luve  sae  lang?" 

-  The  ruins  of  Larubougle  Castle. 


4J-8 


JAMES   SMITH. 


The  lintwliitc  flew  frae  licr  mo.si?y  nest, 

For  she  couUlna  tliole  the  sting; 
An'  she  flicliter'd  east,  an'  she  flichter'd  west, 

Till  she  droukit  her  downy  wing; 
An'  aye  as  slie  flutter'd  the  lee-lang  day, 

Sae  wild  an'  sae  shrill  she  sang: 
"0  tell  me— tell  me  true,  ye  winds, 

Why  tarries  my  luve  sae  lang?" 


LILLY  LORN. 

Lilly  Lorn  gacd  doun  the  shaw, 

Far  frae  her  minnie's  dwellin'; 
An'  lang  she  stray'd  wi'  restless  e'e, 

Till  curfew  bells  were  knellin'; 
An'  aye  the  warblers  blithely  sang, 

In  notes  baith  sweet  an'  mony; 
For  Lilly  Lorn  was  young  an'  fair, 

An"  Lilly  Lorn  was  bonnie! 

She  socht  her  lordly  lover's  ha', 

An'  moan'd  in  vain  her  sorrow; 
Till  dew  lay  on  her  silken  hair. 

An'  cheerless  dawn'd  the  morrow. 
Then  twinin,'  sad  a  rowan  wreath, 

She  sabbit  "  Fause  Glenlyonl" 
Syne  wander'd  through  the  gowden  mist. 

As  westlin'  winds  were  sighin'! 

"  Gae  hame,  gae  hame,  sweet  Lilly  Lorn!' 

She  heard  the  cushet  wailin'; 
"Ye' re  cauld  an'  lancly  i'  the  shaw. 

Far  frae  yer  minnie's  dwellin'." 
The  tears  ran  doun  her  bonnie  face. 

To  hear  the  cushet  cry  in'; 
But  aye  she  twin'd  the  rowan  wreath, 

An'  sabbit  "  Fause  Glenlyon  !" 

She  laid  her  doun  beneath  a  birk, 

Wi'  cauld  an'  deidly  shiver; 
An'  sigh'd  ance  mair  Glenlyon's  name, 

Syne  clos'd  her  e'en  for  ever. 
An'  saft  an'  wae  the  warblers  sang, 

In  notes  baith  sweet  an'  mony; 
For  Lilly  Lorn  was  young  an'  fair, 

An'  Lilly  Lorn  was  bonnie! 


CLAP,  CLAP  HAXDIES. 

Clap,  clap  bandies! 

Clap  hands  again; 
Mammy's  sonsy  tot-tot, 

Mammy's  bonnie  wean! 


I'll  buy  ye  a  fishie, 
In  a  little  dishie: 
Clap,  clap  bandies, 
;My  wee  wean! 

Clap,  clap  handles! 

Deddy's  comin'  ben 
Wi'  siller  bells  an'  coral  shells. 

Three  score  an'  ten; 
A'  to  gie  his  laddie — 
His  bonnie  wee  bit  laddie: 
Clap,  clap  bandies, 

Deddy's  comin'  ben! 

Clap,  clap  bandies! 

Craw,  cocky,  craw. 
Blithely  to  my  wee  bird. 

Cocky  leerielaw! 
Craw  awa'  sae  cheery 
To  mammy's  bonnie  dearie; 
Clap,  clap  bandies! 

Cocky  leerielaw! 

Clap,  clap  bandies, 

]\Iy  muckle  man: 
I'll  buy  ye  a  coachy 

To  ride  thro'  a'  the  Ian'! 
AVi'  a  mappie  an'  a  puggie, 
An'  a  bonnie  barkin'  duggie: 
Clap,  clap  bandies, 

My  muckle  man! 

Clap,  clap  bandies, 

Ivissy  mammy  noo! 
Eh!  Where's  my  sugar-ploom! 

Eh!  Where's  my  doo! 
Cuddle  in,  my  trootie — 
Mammy's  tootie-lootie! 
Clap,  clap  bandies! 

Kiss}'  mammy  noo! 

Clap,  clap  bandies! 

Lammie  dear  to  me! 
May  ye  never  grieve  my  heart. 

Or  dim  yer  deddy's  e'e! 
Lauch  awa',  my  petty — 
Mammy's  pretty  pretty: 
Clap,  clap  bandies! 

Lammie  dear  to  me! 


THE  IIAPvEBELL   BLOSSOMED 
RAIJELY. 

Bonnie  Jcanie  sleepit  in  a  lancsome  rushy  dell, 

Sweet  sang  the  mavis  on  the  birken  tree; 
An"  she   dreamt  she  saw   her  dearie    in    the 
lanesome  rushy  dell. 


GEORGE   MAC   DONALD. 


449 


AVi'  a  lassie  by   liis  side,   but,  lier  name  slic 

coiiUlna  tell; 
For  lier  hame  was  in  yon  bonnie  land  \\  here 

happy  spirits  dwell — 
An'  the  harebell  blossom'd  rarely. 

Sair  her  iieart  was  thrabbin'  as  .she  lookit  at 

the  twa — 
Sweet  sans:  the  mavis  on  the  birken  tree; 
An'  aye  at  ilka  fond  woid  her  buirdly  luve 

let  fa", 
A  gowden  ray  o'  glory  stream'd  in  beauty  owre 

them  a'; 
While  the  siller-bells  were  chimin'  tlu"o'  the 

lanely  leafy  sjiaw — 
An'  the  harebell  blossom'd  rarely. 

"Xow,  by  Our  Lady's  benison,  dear  maiden, 

ye  11  be  mine!  "  — 
Sweet  sang  the  mavis  on  the  birken  tree; 
She  waved  her  angel   wings  an'  sigh'd,   Avi' 

glance  o'  love  divine, 
Then   clasp'd   her   lily    hands,  an'    said,    "I 

daurna  weel  be  thine; 
For   Fm  a  bride   in  heaven,   an'   my  love  I 

winna  tyne"  — 
An'  the  harebell  blossom'd  rarely. 

"  'Mang  myrtle  groves  my  lover  dwells  in  yon 
dear  land  sac  fair  "  — 


Sweet  sang  the  mavis  on  the  birken  tree — 
"Where  the  radiant  beams  o' glory  kiss  the 

balmy  simmer  air; 
Where  the  crystal  seas  o'  emerald  are  shinin' 

evermair; 
Where  the  birds  arewarblin'  bonnily,  for  nocht 
o'  sorrow's  there"- — 
An'  the  harebell  blos.som'd  rarely. 

Saft  sigh'd  the  wind  amang  the  shady  bowers 

sae  green — 
Sweet  sang  the  mavis  on  the  birken  tree— 
Her  sunny  locks  were  waved  aside — a  rosy  face 

was  seen; 
"Twas  the  face  o'  bonnie  Jeanie,  wi'  her  .spark- 

lin'  lauchiii'  ecn; 
Syne  she  faded   frae  his  bosom  in  a  cloud  o' 

siller  sheen — 
An'  the  harebell  blossom'd  rarely. 

Lichtlv  Jeanie  waukent  as  the  dewv  gloamin' 
"fell— 
Ilush'd  was  the  mavis  on  the  birken  tree — 
Oh  the  joy  that  filled  her  tender  breast  uae 

tongue  could  ever  tell, 
For  the  bonnie  angel  o'  her  dream  was  Jeanie's 

bonnie  sel'; 
Sae  she  wandei-'d   blithely  singin'  owre    the 
lanesome  rushy  dell — 
An"  the  harebell  blossom'd  rarely. 


GEOEGE    MAC    DONALD. 


Geoegs  jrAC  DoxALD,  One  of  the  most 
popular  of  living  Scottish  poets  and  novelists, 
was  born  at  Huntly,  Aberdeenshire,"  December 
10,  1824.  He  early  gave  tokens  of  his  future 
literary  distinction,  for  we  are  told  that  when 
a  boy  at  school  he  would  sometimes  attract  a 
circle  of  listeners  to  his  improvised  tales.  On 
leaving  school  he  entered  King's  College,  Aber- 
deen, where  he  took  the  degree  of  A.I\[.  He 
was  educated  for  the  Congregational  Church, 
of  which  his  father  was  a  stanch  supporter,  but 
lie  afterwards  became  a  member  of  the  Church 
of  England. 

Mr.  ]\Iac  Donald  first  became  known  to  the 
literary  world  by  the  publication  of  "Within 
and  Without,"  a  dramatic  poem  with  a  dedica- 
torv  sonnet  to  the  author's  Avife,  which  appeared 

Vol.  II.— F  f 


in  1855,  and  was  received  with  almost  universal 
favour.  It  is  a  thrilling  story  in  verse,  inter- 
spersed with  many  sweet  and  tender  .songs, 
such  as  "Love  me,  Beloved."  It  was  followed 
in  1857  by  A  Hidden  Life,  and  other  Poems, 
containing  a  number  of  exquisite  lyrics;  and  in 
1867  by  The  Disciple,  and  other  Poems.  These 
collections,  with  some  other  poems  and  prose 
writings,  have  been  published  in  ten  hand.<ome 
pocket  volumes,  entitled  Works  of  Fancy  and 
Iniaginntlon.  Some  of  ilac  Donald's  poems,  as 
the  "Disciple,"  "The  Gospel  Women,"  and  the 
"Organ  Songs,"  will,  should  he  write  no  more, 
long  keep  his  memory  green.  Alec  Forbes  of 
Hoirglcn,  David  Ehjinbrod,  Bobcrt  Falconer, 
and  his  other  numerous  prose  works,  have  been 
e.\tremely  popular  on  both  sides  of  the  Atlantic. 


450 


GEOEGE   MAC   DONALD. 


He  is  especially  successful  in  his  writings  for 
the  young.  He  is  also  favourably  known  as 
a  lecturer  on  literary  topics,  and  in  the  winter 
of  1872-73  he  visited  the  United  States  for  the 
purpose  of  lecturing  in  the  principal  cities  of 
the  North.  A  few  years  since  Mr.  Mac  Donald 
received  the  degree  of  LL.D.  from  tiie  Univer- 
sity of  Aberdeen.  Occasionally  he  appears  in 
the  pulpit. 


It  has  been  trutlifully  said  that  in  all  his 
writings, both  prose  and  verse,  Mr.Mac  Donald's 
powers  of  mind  and  heart  are  consecrated  to 
the  service  of  humanity.  "His  works  display 
delicate  perception  of  character  and  poetical 
sympathy  with  nature;  but  above  all,  and 
foremost  evidently  in  tlie  writer's  thought,  is 
the  earnest  aspiration  to  reveal  the  conditions 
and  beauties  of  a  pure  spiritual  life." 


THE  SHEEP  AND  THE  GOAT. 

The  thousand  streets  of  London  gray 

Eepel  all  country  sights; 
But  bar  not  winds  upon  their  way, 
Nor  quench  the  scent  of  new-mown  hay 

In  depth  of  summer  nights. 

And  here  and  there  an  open  spot, 
Still  bare  to  light  and  dark, 

"With  grass  receives  the  wanderer  hot; 

There  trees  are  growing,  houses  not — 
They  call  the  place  a  park. 

Soft  creatures,  with  ungentle  guides, 

God's  sheep  from  hill  and  plain, 
Flow  thitherward  in  fitful  tides, 
There  weary  lie  on  woolly  sides, 
Or  crop  the  grass  amain. 

And  from  dark  alley,  yard,  and  den, 

In  ragged  skirts  and  coats, 
Troop  hither  tiny  sons  of  men, 
Wild  things,  untaught  of  word  or  pen — 

The  little  human  goats. 

In  Eegent's  Park  one  cloudless  day, 

An  overdriven  sheep. 
Arrived  from  long  and  dusty  way, 
Throbbing  with  thirst  and  hotness  lay, 

A  panting  woollen  heap. 

But  help  is  nearer  than  we  know 

For  ills  of  every  name: 
Ragged  enough  to  scare  the  crow. 
But  with  a  heart  to  pity  woe, 

A  quick-eyed  urchin  came. 

Little  he  knew  of  field  or  fold, 
Yet  knew  what  ailed;  liis  cap 

Was  ready  cup  f<ir  water  cold; 

Though  rumpled,  stiiined,  and  very  old. 
Its  rents  were  small — good  hap! 

Sliaping  the  rim  and  crown  he  went. 
Till  crown  from  rim  was  deep. 


The  water  gushed  from  pore  and  rent; 
Before  he  came  one  half  was  spent — 
The  other  saved  the  sheep. 

0  little  goat,  born,  bred  in  ill, 

Unwashed,  half- fed,  unshorn! 
Thou  to  the  sheep  from  breezy  hill 
Wast  bishop,  pastor,  what  you  will, 
In  London  dry  and  lorn. 

And  let  priests  say  the  thing  they  please, 

]\ly  hope,  though  very  dim. 
Thinks  he  will  say  who  alway  sees. 
In  doing  it  to  one  of  these 

Thou  didst  it  unto  him. 


AN   OLD   SERMON   WITH  A   NEW 
TEXT. 

My  wife  contrived  a  fleecy  thing 

Her  husband  to  infold, 
For  'tis  the  pride  of  woman  still. 

To  cover  from  the  cold: 
My  daughter  made  it  a  new  text 

For  a  sermon  very  old. 

The  child  came  trotting  to  her  side, 

Ready  with  bootless  aid: 
"Lily  will  make  one  for  papa," 

The  tiny  Avoman  said: 
Her  mother  gave  the  needful  things, 

AVith  a  knot  upon  tiie  thread. 

"The  knot,  mammal^it  won't  come  through. 

Mamma!  mamma!"  she  cried. 
Her  mother  cut  away  the  knot. 

And  she  was  satisfied. 
Pulling  the  long  thread  through  and  through. 

In  fabricating  pride. 

Her  mother  told  me  this:  I  caught 
A  glimpse  of  something  more: 


GEORGE   MAC   DONALD. 


451 


Great  meanings  often  hide  themselves 

AVitli  little  words  before; 
And  1  brooded  over  the  new  text. 

Till  the  seed  a  sermon  bore. 

Nannie,  to  you  I  preach  it  now — 

A  little  sermon,  low : 
Is  it  not  thus  a  thousand  times. 

As  through  tlie  world  we  go. 
When  we  pull,  murmur,  fret,  and  cry, 

Instead  of  "  Yes,  Lord,"  "N'o"] 

For  all  the  rough  things  that  we  meet. 

Which  will  not  move  a  jot — 
The  hindrances  to  heart  and  feet — 

The  Crook  in  every  Lot — 
What  mean  they,  but  that  children's  threads 

Have  at  tlie  end  a  knot? 

For  circumstance  is  God's  great  web — 

He  gives  it  free  of  cost, 
But  we  must  make  it  into  clothes 

To  shield  our  hearts  from  frost: 
Shall  we,  because  the  thread  holds  fast. 

Count  all  our  labour  lost? 

If  he  should  cut  away  the  knot. 

And  yield  each 'fancy  wild. 
The  hidden  life  within  our  hearts — 

His  life,  the  undefiled — 
Would  fare  as  ill  as  I  should  fare 

From  the  needle  of  my  child. 

'  For  as  the  cordage  to  the  sail ; 
As  to  my  vei'se  the  rhyme; 
As  mountains  to  the  low  green  earth — 

So  fair,  so  hard  to  climb; 
As  call  of  striking  clock,  amid 
The  quiet  flow  of  time; 

As  sculptor's  mallet  to  the  birth 

Of  the  slow-dawning  face; 
As  knot  upon  my  Lily's  thread. 

When  she  would  work  apace; 
God's  Xaij  is  such,  and  worketh  so 

For  his  children's  coming  grace. 

Who  knowing  his  ideal  end, 
Such  birthright  would  refuse? 

What  makes  us  what  we  have  to  be 
Is  the  only  thing  to  choose: 

We  neither  know  his  end  nor  means. 
And  yet  his  will  accuse! 

This  is  my  sermon.      It  is  preached 

Against  all  fretful  strife. 
Chafe  not  with  anytliing  that  is, 

Xor  cut  it  with  thy  knife. 
Ah!  be  not  angry  with  the  knot 

That  holdeth  fast  thy  life. 


WHAT  MAKES  SUMMER? 
A  child's  questiox. 

Winter  froze  the  brook  and  well; 
Fast  and  fast  the  snow-flakes  fell : 
Children  gathered  round  the  hearth, 
Made  a  summer  of  tlicir  mirth. 
One — a  child  so  lately  come 
That  his  life  was  yet  one  sum 
Of  delights — all  games  and  rambles, 
Nights  of  dreams,  and  days  of  gambols — 
Thought  aloud:   "  I  wish  I  knew 
What  makes  summer — that  I  do!" 
And  the  answer  to  his  question 
Held  the  truth,  half  in  suggestion. 

'Tis  the  sun  that  rises  early, 
Shining,  shining  all  day  rarely; 
Drawing  up  the  larks  to  meet  him, 
Earth's  bird-angels,  wild  to  greet  him; 
Drawing  up  the  clouds,  to  pour 
Down  again  a  shining  shower; 
Drawing  out  the  grass  and  clover — 
Blossoms  breaking  out  all  over; 
Drawing  out  the  flowers  to  stare 
At  their  father  in  the  air — 
He  all  light,  they  how  much  duller! 
Yet  son-suns  of  every  colour; 
Drawing  out  the  flying  things — 
Out  of  eggs,  fast  flapping  wings; 
Out  of  lumps  like  frozen  snails. 
Butterflies  with  splendid  sails; 
Drawing  buds  from  all  the  trees; 
From  their  hives  the  busy  bees; 
Living  gold  from  earthy  cracks — 
Beetles  with  their  burnished  backs; 
Drawing  laughter  out  of  water. 
Smiling  small  suns  as  he  taught  her; 
Sending  winds  to  every  nook. 
That  no  creature  be  forsook; 
Drawing  children  out  of  doors, 
On  two  legs,  or  on  all  fours; 
Drawing  out  of  gloom  and  sadness, 
Hope  and  blessing,  peace  and  gladness; 
Making  man's  heart  sing  and  shine 
With  his  brilliancy  divine. 

Slow  at  length,  adown  the  west, 
Lingering,  he  goes  to  rest; 
Like  a  child,  who,  blissful  yet, 
Is  unwilling  to  forget. 
And,  though  sleepy,  heels  and  head. 
Thinks  he  cannot  go  to  bed. 
Even  when  down  behind  the  hill. 
Back  his  bright  look  shineth  still, 
AVhose  keen  glory  with  the  night 
Makes  the  lovely  gray  twilight. 


452 


GEOEGE   MAC   DONALD. 


Drawing  out  the  downy  owl, 
With  his  musical  bird-howl; 
Drawing-  out  tlic  leathery  bats — 
]Mice  they  are,  turned  airy  cats — 
Koiselesa,  sly,  and  slippery  things, 
Swimming  through  the  air  on  wings; 
Drawing  out  the  feathery  moth, 
Lazy,  drowsy,  very  loath : 
She  by  daylight  never  flits — 
Sleeps  and  nurses  her  five  wits; 
Drawing  light  from  glow-worms'  tails, 
Glimmering  green  in  grassy  dales; 
Drawing  children  to  the  door. 
For  one  goodnight-frolic  more. 

Then  the  moon  comes  up  the  hill, 
AVide  awake,  but  dreaming  still; 
Soft  and  slow,  as  if  in  fear 
Lest  her  path  should  not  be  clear. 
Like  a  timid  lady  she 
Looks  around  her  daintily. 
Begs  the  clouds  to  come  about  her, 
Tells  the  stars  to  shine  without  her; 
But  when  we  are  lying  like  dead, 
Sleeping  in  God's  summer-bed. 
She  unveiled  and  bolder  grown 
Climbs  the  steps  of  her  blue  throne, 
Stately  in  a  calm  delight, 
[Mistress  of  a  whole  fair  night, 
Drawing  dreams,  lovely  and  wild, 
(Jut  of  father,  mother,  child. 

But  wliat  fun  is  all  about, 
AVhen  the  humans  are  shut  out! 
iS'ight  is  then  a  dream  opaque. 
Full  of  creatures  wide  awake! 
Noiseless  then  on  feet  or  wings, 
Out  they  come,  all  moon-eyed  things' 
Mice  creep  out  of  cracks  in  boles; 
I  don't  know — but  mayn't  the  moles 
Come  up  stairs  to  open  their  eyes'? 
Stars  peep  from  their  holes  in  the  skies;- 
There  they  sparkle,  pop,  and  play — 
Have  it  all  their  own  wild  way; 
Fly  and  frolic,  scamper,  glow — 
Treat  the  moon,  for  all  her  show, 
State,  and  opal  diadem, 
Like  a  nursemaid  watching  them. 

"Tis  the  sun  both  day  and  night, 
Shining  here,  or  out  of  sight — 
'Tis,  I  say,  that  fire  of  his 
'flakes  the  summer  what  it  is. 
He,  across  dividing  fate 
Seeks  the  moon  disconsolate. 
Like  a  lonely  lady  high 
In  a  turret  of  the  sky; 
Comforts  her  with  comfort  such 


That  she  gives  us  her  too-much. 

Even  when  all  his  light  is  gone. 

Still  his  warmth  is  working  on, 

With  a  hidden  gentle  might 

Stretching  summer  through  the  night. — 

But  the  nightingale — ah,  rare! 
Turns  it  all,  mighty  and  fair. 
To  a  diamond  hoop  of  song, 
Which  he  trundles  all  night  long. — 

When  I  heard  him  last,  he  sang 
That  the  woody  echoes  rang — 
Loud  the  secret  out  did  call 
In  a  wordless  madrigal: 
Through  the  early  summer  wood, 
All  the  creatures  understood. 

What  without  a  word  he  spoke, 
I  will  tell  the  older  folk. 
Making  it  articulate. 
Less  divine  and  more  sedate: 
Here's  the  song  the  creatures  heard 
From  the  tiny,  mighty  bird: 

Beautiful  mother  is  busy  all  day — 
So  busy  she  neither  can  sing  nor  say ; 
But  lovely  thoughts,  in  a  ceaseless  flow, 
Through  her  eyes,  and  her  ears,  and  her  bosom 

go- 
Motion,  sight,  and  sound,  and  scent, 
Weaving  a  royal,  rich  content. — 

But  when  night  is  come,  and  her  children 
sleep. 
And  beautiful  mother  her  watch  would  keep  — 
AVith  glowing  stars  in  her  dusky  hair, 
Down  she  sits  to  her  music  rare; 
And  her  instrument  that  never  fails. 
Is  the  hearts  and  the  throats  of  her  nightin- 
gales. 


BABY. 


Where  did  y.«u  come  from,  baby  dear? 
Out  of  the  everywhere  into  here. 

A\'hcrc  did  you  get  those  eyes  so  blue? 
Out  of  the  sky  as  I  came  through. 

AVhat  makes  tlic  light  in  them  sparkle  and  spin? 
Some  of  the  starry  spikes  left  in. 

Where  did  you  get  that  little  tear  ? 
]  found  it  waiting  when  I  got  here. 

What  makes  your  forehead  so  smooth  and  high? 
A  soft  hand  stroked  it  as  I  went  by. 


GEORGE   MAC   DONALD. 


453 


Wliat  makes  your  chock  like  a  warm  white  rcse  ? 
I  saw  something  bjttor  than  any  one  knows. 

Whence  that  three-cornered  smile  of  bUss  ? 
Three  angels  gave  me  at  once  a  kiss. 

Where  did  you  get  this  pearly  ear  ? 
God  spoke,  and  it  came  out  to  hear. 

^\^lere  did  you  get  those  amis  and  hands? 
Love  made  itself  into  bonds  and  bands. 

Feet,  whence  did  you  come,  you  darling  things? 
From  the  same  box  as  the  cherubs'  wings. 

How  did  they  all  just  come  to  be  j'ou  ? 
(jrod  thought  about  me,  and  so  I  grew. 

But  how  did  j-ou  come  to  us,  you  dear? 
God  thought  about  you,  and  so  I  am  here. 


O   L.VSSIE  AYOXT   THE  HILL! 

0  lassie  ayont  the  hill, 

Come  ower  the  tap  o'  the  hill, 
Come  ower  the  tap  wi'  the  breeze  o'  the  bill. 

For  I  want  ye  sair  the  nicht. 

I'm  needin'  ye  sair  the  nicht, 
For  Fm  tired  and  sick  o'  mysel'. 

A  body's  sel'  's  the  sairest  weicht: 
O  lassie,  come  ower  the  hill! 

Gin  a  body  end  be  a  tboclit  o'  grace, 

And  no  a  sel'  ava! 
I'm  sick  o"  my  held  and  my  ban's  and  my  face, 

O  my  tbochts  and  mysel'  an'  a'. 

Fm  sick  o'  the  war!'  an'  a'; 
The  win'  gangs  by  wi'  a  hiss; 

Throu  my  starin'  een  the  sunbeams  fa'. 
But  my  weary  hert  they  miss. 

0  lassie  ayont  the  hill! 

Come  ower  the  tap  o'  the  bill. 
Come  ower  the  tap  wi'  the  breeze  o'  the  bill: 
Bidena  ayont  the  bill. 

For  gin  I  but  saw  yer  bonnie  beid, 

And  the  sunlicbt  o'  ycr  hair. 
The  ghaist  o'  mysel'  Avad  fa'  doun  deid, 

1  wad  be  mysel'  nae  mair. 
I  wad  be  mysel'  nae  mair, 

Filled  o'  the  sole  remeid — ■ 

81ain  by  the  arrows  o'  licbt  frac  ycr  hair. 
Killed  by  yer  body  and  beid. 

O  lassie  ayont  the  bill!  &c. 

Mysel'  micht  wauk  up  at  the  saft  fitfa' 
0'  my  bonnie  depairtin'  dame; 


But  gin  she  lo'cd  me  ever  sae  sma', 
I  micht  bide  it — the  weary  same; 
Xoo,  sick  o'  my  body  and  name. 

Whan  it  lifts  its  upsettin'  beid, 

I  turn  frae  the  claes  that  cover  my  frame. 

As  gin  tliey  war  roun'  the  deid. 

0  lassie  ayont  the  hill!  &c. 

But  gin  ye  lo'ed  me  as  I  lo'e  you, 

I  wad  ring  my  ain  deid  knell; 
Thespectre  wadmeltjsbot  through  and  through 

Wi'  the  shine  o'  your  sunny  sel'. — - 

By  the  shine  o'  yer  sunnj-  sel'. 
By  the  licbt  aneath  yer  broo, 

I  wad  dee  to  mysel',  ring  my  ain  deid-bell, 
And  live  for  ever  in  you. 

0  lassie  ayont  the  hill ! 

Come  ower  the  tap  o'  the  bill, 
Come  ower  the  tap  wi'  the  breeze  o'  the  Inll. 

For  I  want  ye  sair  the  nicht. 

I'm  needin'  ye  sair  the  nicht. 
For  I'm  tired  and  sick  o'  mysel'. 

A  body's  sel'  's  the  sairest  weicht: 
0  lassie,  come  ower  the  liill ! 


THE  WAESOME  CARL. 

There  cam  a  man  to  our  toon-en'. 

An'  a  wacsome  carl  was  be; 
Snipie-nebbit,  and  crookit-mou'd. 

And  gleyt  o'  ae  blinterin  ee. 
Muckle  be  spied,  and  miiekle  be  spak. 

But  the  owercome  o'  bis  sang. 
Whatever  the  tune,  Avas  aye  the  same: — 
There's  nane  o'  ye  a'  but's  wrang. 
Ye're  a'  wrang,  and  a'  wrang, 
And  a'thegitlier  a'  wrang; 
There's  no  a  man  aboot  the  toon 
But's  a'tbegither  a'  wrang. 

That's  no  the  gait  to  fire  the  breid. 

Nor  yet  to  brew  the  yill; 
That's  no  the  gait  to  baud  the  pleuch, 

Nor  yet  to  ca'  the  mill: 
That's  no  the  gait  to  milk  the  coo, 

Nor  yet  to  spean  the  calf; 
Nor  yet  to  tramp  the  girnel-meal — 

Ye  kenna  yer  wark  by  half! 
Ye're  a'  wrang,  &c. 

The  minister  wasna  fit  to  pray. 

And  lat  alane  to  preach; 
He  nowtber  had  the  gift  o'  grace. 

Nor  yet  the  gift  o"  speech. 


454 


GEORGE   MAC   DONALD. 


He  mind't  liim  o"  Balaam's  ass, 

Wi'  a  differ  ye  may  ken: 
The  Lord  he  opened  the  ass's  mou', 

The  minister  opened's  ain. 
He's  a'  wrang,  &c. 

The  puir  precentor  cudna  sing, 

He  gruntit  like  a  swine; 
The  verra  elders  cudna  pass 

The  ladles  till  his  min'. 
And  for  the  rulin' -elder's  grace, 

It  wasna  worth  a  horn; 
He  didna  half  uncurse  the  meat, 

Kor  pray  for  mair  the  morn. 
He's  a'  wrang,  &c. 

And  aye  he  gied  his  nose  a  thraw. 

And  aye  he  crook't  his  mou'; 
And  aye  he  cockit  up  his  ee, 

And  said — Tak  tent  the  noo. 
We  snichert  hint  oor  loof,  man. 

But  never  said  him  nay; 
As  gin  he  had  been  a  prophet,  man, 

AVe  loot  him  say  his  say: 
Ye're  a'  wrang,  &c. 

Quo'  oor  gudeman:  The  crater's  daftl — 

Heard  ye  ever  sic  a  claik? 
Lat's  see  gin  he  can  turn  a  han'. 

Or  only  luik  and  craik. 
It's  true  we  maunna  lippen  till  him — 

He's  fairly  crack  wi'  pride; 
But  he  maun  live — we  canna  kill  him — 

Gin  he  can  work,  he  s'  bide. 
He  was  a'  wrang,  &c. 

It's  true  it's  but  a  laddie's  turn, 

But  we'll  begin  wi'  a  sma'  thing: 
There's  a'  thae  weyds  to  gaither  and  burn- 

And  he's  the  man  for  a'  thing  I — 
'We  yokit  for  yon  heich  peat-moss — 

There  was  peats  to  cast  and  ca' — 
Weel  rid,  we  reckon,  o'  him  and  his 

Lang  tongue  till  gloamin'-fa'; 
But  we're  a'  wrang,  &c. 

For,  losh!  or  it  was  denner-time, 

The  toon  was  in  a  low! 
The  reek  rase  up  as  it  had  been 

Frae  Sodom-flames,  I  vow. 
We  lowst  and  rade  like  mad,  for  byre 

And  ruck  war  blazin'  fell, 
As  gin  the  deil  had  brocht  the  fire 

To  mak  anitiier  hell! 

'Twas  a'  wrang,  &c. 

And  there,  on-luikin',  the  carl  stude, 
Wi'  's  ban's  aneath  his  tails; 


To  see  him  maisthan'  drave  us  wud. 

We  ill  could  baud  oorsels. 
It's  a'  your  wite;  I  tauld  ye  sae; 

Ye're  a'  wrang  to  the  last: 
What  gart  ye  burn  thae  deevilich  weyds 
AVhan  the  win'  blew  frae  the  wast? 
Ye're  a'  wrang,  and  a'  wrang, 
And  a'thegither  a'  wrang; 
There's  no  a  man  in  a'  the  warl' 
But's  a'thegither  a'  wrang. 


TIME  AXD   TIDE. 

As  I  was  walkin'  on  the  strand, 

I  spied  ane  auld  man  sit 
On  ane  auld  black  rock ;  and  aye  the  waves 

Cam  washin'  up  its  lit; 
His  lips  they  gaed  as  gin  they  wad  lilt. 

But  his  sang  he  cud  only  say; 
An'  it  was  but  an  owercome,  waesome  and 
dreigh — 
0'  the  words  he  had  nae  mae: 
Robbie  and  Jeannie  war  twa  bonnie  bairns; 
They  played  thegither  i'  the  gloamin's  hush: 
Up  cam  the  tide  and  the  mune  and  the  sterns, 
And  pairtit  the  twa  wi'  a  glint  an'  a  gush." 

"What  can  the  auld  man  mean,"  quo'  I, 
"Sittin'  o'  the  auld  black  rock? 
The  tide  creeps  up  wi'  a  moan  an"  a  cry, 

And  a  hiss  'maist  like  a  mock. 
The  words  he  mutters  maun  be  the  en' 

0'  some  weary  dreary  sang — 
A  deid  tiling  floatin'  aboot  in  his  brain, 
'At  the  tide  will  no  lat  gang." 
"  Robbie  and  Jeannie  war  twa  bonnie  bairns; 
They  played  thegither  i'  the  gloamin's  hush: 
Up  cam  the  tide  and  the  mune  and  the  sterns. 
And  pairtit  the  twa  wi'  a  glint  an'  a  gush." 

"Hoo  pairtit  it  them,  auld  man?"  I  said; 
"  Was't  the  sea  cam  up  ower  Strang? 
But  gin  thegither  the  twa'  o'  them  gaed. 

Their  pairtin'  wasna  lang. 
Or  was  ane  ta'en,  and  the  ither  left — 

Ane  to  sing,  ane  to  greit? 
It's  unco  sair  to  be  sae  bereft — 
But  there's  ithcr  tides  at  yer  feet." 
"Robbie  and  .Jeannie  war  twa  bonnie  bairns, 
And  they  played  thegither  i'  the  gloamin's 
hush : 
Up  cam  the  tide  and  the  mune  and  the  sterns. 
And  pairtit  the  twa  wi'  a  glint  an'  a  gush." 

"Was't  the  sea  o'  .«pace  wi'  its  tide  o'  time? 
Sic  droonin'  's  waur  to  bide; 


GEOEGE   MAC   DONALD. 


455 


But  Death's  a  diver,  ?cckiii'  ye 

Aueatli  its  chokiu'  tide; 
And  ye'll  gaze  again  in  ither's  ce, 

Far  abune  space  and  time." 
Never  ae  word  lie  answered  me, 

But  he  ciianged  a  word  in  liis  rhyme: 
"Robbie  and  Jeannie  war  twa  bonnie  l)airns, 
And  they  played  thegither  upo'  the  shore: 
Up  cam  the  tide  and  the  mune  and  the  sterns, 
And  pairtit  the  twa  for  evermore." 

"May  be,  auld  man,  'twas  the  tide  o"  change 
That  crap  at  ween  the  twa? 
llech!  that's  a  droonin'  awfu'  strange, 

And  waur  than  ane  an'  a!" 
lie  said  nae  mair.     I  luikit,  and  saw 

The  lips  nae  mair  cud  gang; 
Ane  o'  the  tides  had  ta'en  him  awa' — 
An'  ower  him  I  croont  his  ain  sang: 
"  Iiobbie  and  Jeannie  war  twa  bonnie  bairns, 
And  they  played  thegither  upo'  the  shore : 
Up  cam  the  tide  and  the  mune  and  the  sterns, 
And  souft   them  awa'    throu   a   mirksome 
door!" 


ANNIE  SHE'S  DOWIE. 

Annie  she's  dowie,  and  Willie  he's  wae. 
"What  can  be  the  maitter  wi'  siccan  a  twae — 
For  Annie  she's  fair  as  the  first  o'  the  day. 
And  Willie  he's  honest  and  stalwart  and  gay? 

Oh!  the  tane  has  a  daddy  is  poor  and  is  proud, 
And  the  tither  a  minnie  that  cleiks  at  the  goud: 
They  lo'ed  ane  anither,  and  said  tlieir  say — 
But  the  daddy  and  minnie  they  pairtit  the  twae. 


A   PARABLE:  TELL   ME. 

"  Traveller,  what  lies  over  the  hill? 

Traveller,  tell  to  me: 
Tiptoe-higli  on  the  window-sill, 

Over  I  cannot  see." 

"My  child,  a  valley  green  lies  there, 

Lovely  with  trees,  and  shy; 
And  a  tiny  brook  that  says — '  Take  care, 

Or  I'll  drown  you  by-andby.'" 

"And  what  comes  next?" — "A  little  town, 

And  a  towering  hill  again; 
More  hills  and  valleys,  up  and  down. 

And  a  river  now  and  then." 


"And  what  comes  next?" — "A  lonely  moor. 

Without  one  beaten  way; 
And  slow  clouds  drifting  dull  before 

A  wind  that  will  not  stay." 

"And  then?" — "Dark  rocks  and  yellow  sand, 

Blue  sea  and  a  moaning  tide." 
And  then  1" — "More  sea,  more  sea,  more  land, 

AVith  rivers  deep  and  wide." 

"And  then?" — "Oh — rock  and  mountain  and 
vale, 

Ocean  and  shores  and  men. 
Over  and  over— a  weary  tale — 

And  round  to  your  home  again  1" 

"And  is  that  all?     From  day  to  day— 

As  with  a  long  chain  bound — 
Oh!  never  to  get  rigiit  away. 

But  go  round  and  round  and  round?" 

"  No,  no;  I  have  not  told  the  best — 

Neither  the  best  nor  the  end : 
On  summer  eves,  away  in  the  west, 

You  may  see  a  stair  ascend, 

"  Built  of  all  colours  of  lovely  stones — 

A  stair  up  into  the  sky. 
Where  no  one  is  weary,  and  no  one  moans, 

Or  wants  to  be  laid  by." 

"  Is  it  far  away?"     "  I  do  not  know. 

You  must  fix  your  eyes  thereon. 
And  travel,  travel,  through  thunder  and  snow, 

Till  the  Aveary  way  is  gone. 

"All  day,  though  you  never  see  it  shine. 
You  must  travel,  nor  turn  aside. 

Through  blinding  sunlight  and  moonbeams 
fine. 
And  mist  and  darkness  wide." 

"  When  I  am  older."     "  Nay,  not  so." 
"I  have  hardly  opened  my  eyes!" 

"He  who  to  the  old  sunset  would  go, 
Starts  best  with  the  young  sunrise." 

"But  the  stair— is  it  very  very  steep?" 

"Too  steep  for  you  to  climb; 
You  must  lie  at  the  foot  of  the  glorious  heap, 

And  patient  wait  your  time." 

"How  longl"     "Nay,  that  I  cannot  tell." 

"In  wind,  and  rain,  and  frost?" 
"It  may  be."     "Ah!— ah!"     "  It  is  well 
That  you  should  count  the  cost. 

"Yea,  travellers  many  on  you  will  stand." 

"  That  will  be  hard  to  bear." 
"But  One  with  wounded  foot  and  hand 

Will  carry  you  up  the  stair." 


456 


ANDEEW  J.   SYMINGTON. 


ANDEEW    J.     SYMINGTON. 


Andrew  Jajies  Symixgton  was  born  in 
Paisley,  July  27,  1825.  His  father,  Robert 
Brown  Symington,  was  a  merchant,  and  three 
of  iiis  father's  brothers  were  clergymen.  His 
mother's  name  Avas  JMargaret  Macalaster,  a 
woman  of  sterling  worth  and  refined  taste. 
On  leaving  the  grammar  school  where  he  was 
educated  Andrew  joined  the  firm  of  his  father, 
which  business  he  and  an  elder  brother  con- 
ducted in  Glasgow  nntil  recently,  when  he  re- 
tired from  the  firm. 

From  an  early  period  Mr.  Symington  has 
been  devoted  to  literary  and  artistic  studies,  and 
during  leisure  hours  has  enjoyed  the  personal 
intercourse  and  correspondence  of  many  emi- 
nent scientific  men,  artists,  and  men  of  letters. 
In  1848  be  published  a  volume  of  poems  en- 
titled Harebell  Chimes,  or  Summer  Memories 
and  2Iusin(js.  In  18.o5  a  volume  entitled 
Genevieve  and  other  Poems  was  printed  for 
private  circulation.  This  was  followed  in  1857 
by  two  volumes  entitled  The  BeaiUifid  in  Na- 
ture, Art,  and  Life,  on  which  the  author  was 
engaged  for  the  greater  part  of  ten  years.  In 
1859,  induced  bv  an  ardent  love  of  northern 


literature  and  antiquities,  he  visited  Iceland, 
and  afterwards  published  the  results  of  his 
travels  in  "Pen  and  Pencil  Sketches  of  Faroe 
and  Iceland,  with  an  appendix  containing 
translations  from  the  Icelandic,  and  fifty-one 
illustrations  by  Linton,  from  drawings  by  the 
author."  In  1862  a  second  eiWi'iow  oi  Harehell 
Chimes  appeared,  containing  many  additional 
poems:  and  in  1870  his  latest  volume  was 
issued,  entitled  "The  Reasonableness  of  Faith  : 
with  an  Appendix  containing  Hymns  and 
Verses  of  Consolation  and  Hope." 

In  1851  Mr.  Symington  travelled  in  France, 
Germany,  Switzerland,  and  the  north  of  Italy. 
He  also  spent  some  time  in  the  United  States 
during  the  years  1874-75,  when  he  contri- 
buted to  some  of  the  leading  magazines  and 
journals.  In  1863  he  was  elected  a  Fellow  of 
the  Royal  Society  of  Northern  Antiquaries, 
Copenhagen.  His  poetrj^  has  found  many 
admirers.  Harebell  Chimes,  when  first  pub- 
lished, was  highly  praised  by  Samuel  Rogers; 
and  another  eminent  critic  has  said,  "Every 
line  in  the  volume  is  in  fullest  .sympathy  with 
what  is  lovely  and  honest,  and  of  good  report." 


OX  HEAPJXG  JESSICA  PLAY  SAVEET  MUSIC. 


Shapes  of  loveliness,  like  angel-drcams, 
Float  before  my  all-entranced  sense: 

List'ning  to  sweet  melody  that  streams, 
"With  a  deep  and  soul-like  influence, 

From  thj'  fingers;  as  they,  o'er  the  keys, 
Run  thro'  mazes  intricate  and  wild; 

Now,  evolving  mystic  harmonies — 
Now,  a  simple  air  for  laughing  child. 

Every  passion  o'er  the  heart  doth  sweep, 
Calling  forth,  as  from  a  spirit  lyre. 

Sympathetic  tones  of  meaning  deep, 
Love — Hope — Fear — or  Patriotic  fire. 

TIark!  Beethoven  wields  his  potent  wand- 
Floods  of  wild  unearthly  melody 

Roll,  in  mighty  waves — majestic — grand, - 
Now,  in  ripples,  o'er  a  moonlit  sea! 


Sweet  andante!  passionate  and  low. 
Wail  of  saddest,  plaintive  loveliness: 

Hearts  are  melted,  tears  of  pitj^  flow 
For  a  gentle  love-lorn  maid's  distress. 

Now,  a  dazzling  wild  chromatic  nm 

Modulates  into  a  dulcet  air, 
StaiTy  minors  melting  every  one 

In  a  murmuring  cadence,  rich  and  rare! 

Cheerful  scenes  before  the  fancy  spread ; 

Weary  pilgrim — sun-changed  .sailor  hoy- 
Home  returneth,  long  given  up  as  dead; 

Sorrow  merging  into  tears  of  joy. 

Lowering,  gathers  fast  the  thunder  cloud- 
Murky  vapours  on  the  tempest  flee — 

Peal  on  peal  reverberating  loud; 

Lightnings  glimmer  on  the  darkling  sea. 


ANDEEW  J.   SYMINGTON. 


457 


Xow,  in  lonelj'^  depth  of  forest  drear, 
Branches  creak— oak  trees  uprooted  he: 

Dirge-hke  waihngs  fall  upon  the  ear, 

Storm-blasts  winging  thi'o"  a  troubled  sky. 

Weird-like— horrible — witch,  kobold,  sprite; 

Goblin,  fiend,  and  imp  of  every  kind 
Whirlwind-mingled— changing  in  moonlight, 

Troop,  fautascjue,  before  my  wondering  mind! 

Strange  sonata!  with  tlw  varied  tone. 

Dream-like  riseth  many  a  changeful  scene — 

Boundless  waste  of  sand,  in  desert  lone, 
With  an  island-hke  oasis  green. 

Now,  I  hear  brave  Korner's  prayer  rise, 
']\Iid  the  cannon's  roar,  from  thickest  fray: 

Wafted,  like  sweet  incense,  to  the  skies, 
In  th'  empyrian  blue,  it  fades  away! 

Harmonies!  how  gorgeous — massive — bold! 

Falling  worlds,  like  hail,  are  tempest  driven — 
Wonders  thicken— giant  strains  unfold — 

Panting — are  we  now  in  earth  or  heaven? 

Weary  sun  sinks  slowly  in  the  west; 

Through  the  boles  shoot  gleams  of  crimson  hght: 
Glowing  all,  with  gold  and  amethyst, 

Like  a  minster- window  stained  bright: 

Seemeth  all,  like  old  cathedral  pile 
Shook  by  sound  of  mighty  instrument 

Pealing  hallelujahs:  through  each  aisle 
Rolls  the  murmui-ing  accompaniment. 

Dying  now,  in  wild  JEolian  swells, 
Gently  floating,  on  the  fitful  breeze, 

Like  a  faery  chime  of  blue  harebells. 

Heard  in  dreams,  beneath  the  forest  trees. 

When,  in  robe  of  sheeny  gossamer, 
Cometh  forth  the  gentle  faery  Queen : 

Rainbow  of  sweet  sounds  o'er-arching  her: 
Dapper  elves  light  tripping  o'er  the  greea. 

Sparkling  notes,  a  brilliant  starry  shower! 

Now,  a  gentle  fall  of  golden  rain — 
Dewy  fragrance  breathes  from  every  fiower — 

Joyous  bu-ds  are  carolling  again! 

Child-like,  here,  the  laughing  dancing  brook 
Gurgles,  flowing  clear  and  musical: 

There,  o'er  shehang  rock  in  shad\'  nook, 
Leaps  a  silvery  tinkling  waterfall. 

Music!  how  the  witching  spell  doth  sweep 
O'er  my  soul  with  more  than  magic  sway : 

Waking  thoughts,  long  hid  in  memory  deep, 
Urging  now  towards  the  far  away ! 

Lost  in  deep  "abyssmal  agonies:" 
Yearning  ever — ah !  it  is  not  given 

Here  to  fathom  soul-like  harmonies — 

Music's  power  shall  be  revealed  in  Heaven! 


THE  DKEAJI   IIAPvP. 

Methought  I  was  alone,  and  feelings  strange 
Of  utter  dreariness  weighed  on  my  spirit. 
The  stars  were  sparkling  clear,  but  they  on  me 
Shed  no  sweet  influence.     Nature's  secrets  all 
V/ere  locked  from  me,  and  sealed  as  with  seven 

seals; 
Nor  inner  light  was  there  whereby  to  read 
Her  mysteries.     I  sadly  wandered  on 
Li  silence,  questioning  the  universe 
And  my  own  soul :  imijenetrable  clouds, 
Heavy  and  dark,  seemed  resting  upon  both. 
Which  even  the  stars— the  beauteous  friendly 

stars 
Now  (quivering  in  the  brook  which  crosseil  my 

path — 
Could  no-wise  dissipate. 

Now,  dreamj'  sounds, 
As  from  jEoHan  harp,  faint,  sweet  and  low, 
From  the  far  distance,  trembled  into  being, 
Aye  waxing  nearer,  clearer,  in  the  air, 
Swelling  in  dulcet,  breezy,  murmuring  chords. 
Angels,  descending,  bore  with  them  a  harp — 
The  w-aving  of  their  pinions  pulsing  waves 
Of  sound  hi  ripples  through  the  summer  air — 
And,  to  my  tranced  ear  its  heavenly  tones 
Were  tones  of  peace.     The  nearing  harp  itself 
Was  of  rare  beauty— the  device  was  this: — 
On  either  side,  an  alabaster  cross 
Of    snowy    whiteness    twined    with   dew-sprcnt 

flowers, 
Roses  of  Sharon — Lilies  of  the  vale : 
Above — a  rainbow  s])anned  from  cross  to  cross. 
From  whose  seven  colours,  seven  golden  chords 
Stretched  downwards  to  a  circle,  embleming 
Eternity — each  chord  from  its  own  colour — 
And  through  the  circle,  in  the  azure  skj', 
A  white  dove  with  an  olive  branch  was  seen 
Descending.     Through  the  golden  chords  there 

shone. 
As  if  through  furnace  bars,  a  dull  blood-red 
Apocalyptic  sun,  shorn  of  its  rays. 
Above  the  rainbow,  in  the  deep  serene — 
As  'twere  the  key-note  of  the  whole  deface — 
The  morning-star  shed  lambent  peaceful  light. 

The  dream  I  felt  to  be  symbolical 
Of  the  great  universal  harmonies, 
( For  in  the  music  these  expressed  themselves) 
All  cent 'ring  in  pure  Christianity; 
And  of  that  time,  when  Love's  great  tidal  wave 
Shall  sweep  the  world,  and  bring  its  Sabbath  rest. 

Melodious  strains  of  penetrating  sweetness 
Now  waxed  louder,  richer,  till — o'erpowered, 
Dissolving  in  luxurious  pain,  delight 
Ineffable— I  should  have  died,  had  they 
Not  then,  all  but  insensibly,  become 
Softer  and  fainter;  angels  and  the  harp 
In  distance  dimming  gradually  away; 


458 


ANDEEW   J.   SYMINGTON. 


Its  tones  all  fading  in  ethereal  beauty, 
Till  lost  in  dreamy  morkiulus. 

Rapt, 
I  there  stood  gazing  upward,  after  it 
Had  long  ceased  to  be  heard:  The  heavy  cloud 
Was  lifted  from  my  spirit;  all  shone  clear, 
For,  through  the  chords  and  colours  Seven,  had 

streamed 
Into  my  tranced  soul  one  ray  of  light 
From  the  Seventh  Heavens:  and  therein  vibrate 

still 
The  echoes  of  that  heavenly  harmony, 
Even  though  the  dream  has  long  since  passed 

away! 


SUMMER   EYEXIXG. 

How  sweet  this  summer  eve, 
To  sit  amidst  the  golden  furze  and  broom, 

Sister,  with  thee! 
To  hear  at  once  the  insects'  drowsy  hum. 

And  murmur  of  the  sea! 

Shore-like  those  purple  hills 
Seem  to  that  boundless  Hood  of  golden  light 

Which  fires  the  west: 
Yon  roseate  clouds,  so  pure,  so  peaceful,  might 

Be  islands  of  the  blest. 

The  butterfly  and  the  bee 
Still  light  upon  the  flowers;  that  mellow  note 

Is  sweet  to  hear. 
Which  floatcth  warbled  from  the  mavis'  throat 

In  tones  wild,  rich,  and  clear. 

The  sun-glare  falling  on 
The  soa,  then  streams  along  this  fragrant  bank 

Where  tufted  stems 
Of  spiry  sorrel-sccd,  translucent,  rank, 

Show  bright  as  ruby  gems. 

Wild  Goatfell's  rocky  peaks 
Rise  clear-defined  against  the  glowing  sky, 

Though  dim  and  gray: 
A  vapour,  floating  from  its  summits  high, 

De-films,  and  melts  away! 

On  Kelburne's  woody  heights. 

The  sunbeams  slant  their  parting  golden  rays 
Of  mellow  light: 

Around,  now  falls  a  thin  empurpled  haze — 
The  spirit  veil  of  night- 
Through  which  one  star  alone. 

O'er  Bute's  fair  isle,  is  trembling  on  the  deep— 
The  star  of  love; — 

All  nature  seemeth  lulled  in  balmy  sleep, 
While  spirits  watch  above! 


And,  sister,  spirits  may. 
For  aught  we  know,  surround  us  everywhere. 

In  heavenly  sheen; 
Sphere-music-like,  with  presence  pure  and  rare. 

Aye  watching  though  unseen. 

Yon  dream-like  moon  becomes, 
Upsailing  in  the  blue,  more  bright  and  clear; 

And  mark  the  wake 
Left  by  that  little  boat,  whose  oar  we  hear. 

As  in  a  placid  lake. 

Sweet,  even  the  double  call 
Of  corn-craik,  in  the  green-eared  fields  behind. 

When  joy  intense, 
From  everj'  sound,  or  flower,  on  summer  wind 

Floats,  filling  heart  and  sense. 

In  scenes  thus  bright  and  fair, 
Some  read  the  glory  of  the  type  alone. 

And  have  no  eye 
For  deep  and  spirit  meanings,  traced  thereon, 

All  pointing  to  the  sky. 

The  beauty  of  the  star. 
Or  dew-drop,  twinkling  on  the  open  flower. 

In  clear  sunshine. 
Is  but  the  impress  of  a  higher  power. 

Beneficent — Divine! 

Night  stealeth  on  apace; 
And,  sister,  homewards  wending,  let  us  pray 

That  there  be  given 
Us  hearts  to  love  God's  beauteous  works  alway; 

With  pure  high  thoughts  of  heaven! 


BERTRAM'S   LAST   PICTURE. 

A  youth  lay  prisoned  in  a  cavern  dark 
Which  bordered  on  the  desert:  near  there  passed, 
With  wild  flowers  in  her  hair,  a  radiant  maiden 
Surrounded  with  bright  glory,  like  a  saint. 
Which  falling   through  the  bars   in  chequered 

light 
Revealed  his  woe-wcm  face.     Heart,  brain,  and 

soul 
Were  in  that  wistful  look;  and  yet  his  eyes, 
Though  sad,  were  calm.     In  them  one  read  that 

love. 
Pure  and  intense,  which  gladly  wovild  have  given 
All  things,  even  life  itself,  for  her  sweet  sake. 
He  knew  she  saw  him  not,  yet  strangely  spelled 
As  night-mared,  he  could  neither  move,  speak, 

cry; 
Nay,  almost  seemed  as  if  he  would  have  feared 
To  startle  her,  by  words,  in  that  lone  place, 
Though  free  to  speak,  and  speaking  would  have 

brought 
Light,  peace,  and  joy— so  reverent  was  his  love. 


DAVID  WINGATE. 


459 


Lilies  and  pansies  sprung-  beneath  her  feet; 
Stars  trembled  o'er  her;  rainbow-vistas  arched 
Her  opening  path,  evanishing  where'er 
She,  passing,  left  all  in  the  gloom  behind  her. 

Leaning  his  weary  head  upon  his  hand 
The  youth  saw  only  her — and  she  was  passing  by, 
Passing  from  him,  like  music  all  too  sweet 
E'er  to  be  heard  by  mortal  ears  again. 

Such  was  the  picture— Bertram's  last;  first  seen 
Upon  his  easel  that  bright  autumn  morn. 
We  trembling  forced  his  studio  door  and  found 
Him  lying  dead,  with  eyes  still  fixed  upon 
The  radiant  vision  he  had  conjured  up. 
A  golden  sunbeam  touched  his  dreamless  brow: 
Some  white  moss-roses,  dropping  in  a  glass, 
Had  shed  their  fragrant  leaves  upon  his  breast. 
And  all  was  peace.     They  say  the  canvas  told 
The  story  of  his  life:  it  may  be  so, 
For  many  lives  are  sad: — But  who  can  tell? 


HOW  MUCH   OW'ST   THOU! 

"  How  much  ow'st  thou?" 
Is  said  to  each,  by  the  great  Lord  of  earth  and 

heaven ; 
For  uU  of  good  we  have  is  only  lent,  not  given. 

"  How  much  ow'st  thou?" 
The  children  of  this  world  are  prudent  in  their 

day. 
And  gather  wealth,  from  which  they  soon  must 

pass  away. 

"  How  much  ow'st  thou?" 
Should'st  thou,  with  hopes  beyond  the  grave — a 

child  of  light — 
Less  eager  strive  than  they  whose  only  goal  is 

niiiiit  ? 


"  How  much  ow'st  thou?" 
Be  here  a  good  and  faithful  steward,  just  and  wise, 
So  shalt  thou  lay  up  lasting  treasure  in  the  skies. 

"  How  much  ow'st  thou  ?" 
Though  poor  thy  earthly  lot,  yet  seek  thou,  in 

His  sight. 
The  blessing  of  the  "inasmuch,"  or  widow's  mite. 

' '  How  much  ow'st  thou  ? " 
The  Master's  time  is  not  thine  own  to  waste  or 

spend ; 
Work  while  'tis  called  to-day: — the  longest  day 

must  end. 

"  How  much  ow'st  thou  ?" 
The  influence  He  gives  thee,  be  it  great  or  small. 
In  thy  good  Master's  service  seek  to  use  it  all. 

"  How  much  ow'st  thou?" 
Each  talent — genius,  intellect,  or  gift — of  thine. 
If  consecrated,  star-like,  will  the  brighter  shine. 

"  How  much  ow'st  thou?" 
O'er  all  thou  hast  and  art,  a  faithful  steward  be, 
That,  when  the  Lord  appears,  "  well  done  "  may 
welcome  thee! 

" How  much  ow'st  thou?" 
Some  trench  on   sleep  and   health  to  gain   an 

earthly  goal: 
As  earnest  be,  to  lay  up  treasure  for  thy  soul. 

"  How  much  ow'st  thou?" 
So  live,  that,  when  clay  dwellings  fall,  the  soul 

may  rise 
And  soar  to  everlasting  mansions  in  the  skies. 

"  How  much  ow'st  thou?" 
The  Lord  from  heaven,  who  spake  this  parable, 

is  He 
Who  "shall  appear"  as  Judge, — who  gave  His 

life  for  thee. 


DAVID    WINGATE. 


David  Wingate  was  born  at  Cowglen,  in  the 
parish  of  Eastwood,  Renfrewshire,  January  4, 
182S.  His  father,  wlio  Avas  employed  in  tlie 
colliery  at  Cowglen,  was  killed  there  when 
David  was  in  his  fifth  year.  In  his  sixth 
year  he  was  sent  to  the  parish  school,  and  was 
put  to  work  in  the  coal-pit  at  nine!  In  1850 
he  was  married,  and  the  same  year  he  first  had 
the  honour  of  public  notice,  when  a  few  of  his 
pieces  appeared,  witli  a  flattering  notice  by 


the  author  of  Rambles  Round  Glasgow,  in  the 
Glasgow  Citizen.  In  1862  Blackwood  &  Sons 
of  Edinburgh  publislied  a  volume  of  AVin- 
gate's  poems,  which  were  favourably  received. 
In  his  preface  the  poet  says:  "I  confess 
that  I  sec  no  reason  why  I  should  write  a 
preface,  and,  unadvised,  would  probably  iiave 
left  it  unwritten.  But  some  friends — men  of 
learning  and  taste — assure  me  it  is  absolutely 
necessary.     Wliat  can  I  say?     Shall  I  tell  you 


460 


DAVID   WINGATE. 


I  have  no  learning?  The  book  itself  will  tell 
you  that.  Shall  1  whine,  and  say  to  my  critic, 
'  Have  mercy  on  me  1— think  of  my  position  in 
life?'  No,  indeed!  On  the  contrary  I  sa}-, 
Weigh  the  book  alone:  my  peculiar  circum- 
stances (if  they  be  peculiar)  have  no  right  to 
go  in  with  it.  If  I  have  sung  badly,  or  thought 
sillily,  let  it  be  no  excuse  for  me  that  I  am, 
and  have  been,  a  collier  since  my  ninth  year. 
Probably  the  fact  of  my  being  a  collier  should 
have  been  suppressed  altogether;  but  I  thought. 
If  any  reader  wishes  to  kuow  what  I  am,  the 
information  is  here  for  him.  If  the  book  has 
any  merit  apart  from  whatever  that  fact  may 
suggest,  it  may  live;  if  not,  it  deserves  to  die." 


The  profits  derived  from  the  sale  of  this 
book  enabled  its  author  to  attend  the  School 
of  Mining  at  Glasgow  for  a  year  and  a  half, 
and  for  many  years  he  has  occupied  the  respon- 
sible position  of  a  colliery  manager.  In  1866 
he  issued   a  second  volume,  entitled  Annie 

Wfir,  and  other  Poems.  Of  this  collection  the 
Athenanim  spoke  in  high  commendation,  and 
in  alluding  to  the  author  said,  "  The  earnest- 
ness with  which  he  has  cherished  his  sense 
of  beauty  through  a  life  of  severe  and  peril- 
ous toil  demands  from  us  sympathy  and  re- 
spect." Mr.  "Wingate  has  been  a  frequent  con- 
tributor to  Blackwood's  Magazine  and  Good 

Words. 


THE    STREAMLET. 


Lately  in  the  songless  gloaming 

Of  a  sunny  winter  day, 
StroU'd  I  by  a  stream  that,  nameless. 
Free  from  finny  tribes  and  fameless, 

Wander'd  on  its  Clyde-ward  way. 

Vacantly  its  windings  tracing, 

From  its  freshness  nought  I  sought — 

Nothing  wish'd  in  verse  to  treasure; 

Love,  or  hate,  or  care,  or  pleasure, 
Craved  or  won  no  passing  thought. 

Like  a  lullaby  its  music 

Hose  beside  me,  and  my  .soul. 
To  resist  its  spell  unarmour'd. 
Scarcely  hearing  what  it  murmur'd — 
Yielded  to  its  soft  control. 

Like  a  dreamless  midnight  slumber, 
Pass'd  away  the  fruitless  hour; 

Memory  kept  her  lamp  extinguished; 

Fancy  for  the  time  relinquished 
All  her  world-creating  power. 

Nought  I  of  the  young  moon's  presence. 

Nor  the  first  star's  rising  knew. 
Till  a  robin — like  a  spirit — 
I  could  less  observe  than  licar  it. 
Close  before  me  flitting  ilew. 

Suddenly  the  darkness  deepen'd — • 
Presence  to  the  moon  was  given; 

Night's  first  star  was  twinkling  o'er  me; 

Burning  mine-heaps  glared  before  me. 
On  the  knowcs  like  Mars  in  heaven. 

Trees  that  slept  as  erst  I  pass'd  them 
Now  to  graceful  wavings  stirr'd; 


For  my  reverie  was  broken, — 
Some  all-potent  charm  was  spoken 
In  the  flitting  of  that  bird. 

And  the  stream  itself,  how  alter'dl 

Full  of  life  it  onward  dash'd: 
Music  mingled  with  its  wimple, 
Jloons  and  stars  in  every  dinqile 

Broke  and  shimmer'd,  danced  and  flash'd. 

"  In  its  babble  there's  a  sermon," 
Mutter'd  1,  and  straight  began, 
Nothing  of  my  folly  weening, 
Something  of  its  hidden  meaning 
To  interpret  as  it  I'an. 

Pausing  oft,  intently  listening. 

All  my  wits  to  work  were  thrown; 
But  the  language  of  its  streaming. 
Though  of  most  familiar  seeming, 
Was,  to  me,  a  tongue  unknown. 

Yet  the  low  and  dreamy  murmur 

Of  its  dimly  rippling  flow, 
And  the  whisper  of  its  laving 
liound  the  last  year's  rushes,  waving 

In  the  shadow  to  and  fro, 

Wotild  not  from  my  thoughts  be  driven — 

Would  like  human  sayings  seem; 
Though  the  language  of  its  streaming 
Did  not  seem  so  much  the  dreaming 
As  the  reading  of  a  dream. 

"Yes,"  I  said,  "there  is  a  sermon 
Utter'd  in  its  gentle  roll; 
But  I  must  interpret  poorly. 


DAVID   WINGATE. 


461 


For  the  strange-tongued  talker  surely 
Speaks  the  promptings  of  my  soul." 

All  at  once  my  memory  wander'd 

Backward  far  along  the  past; 
Boyhood's  ventures  and  achievements, 
Manhood's  troubles  and  bereavements, 

Came  before  me  crowding  fast. 

And  the  while  my  memory  travell'd 

Early  love  and  joys  among, 
I.ol  the  stream  a  lyric  quoted, 
Syllables  and  rhymes  I  noted. 

And  I  knew  the  song  it  sung. 

IS^ever  was  there  such  a  preacher! 

Now  my  soul  was  filled  with  glee; 
Smitten  now  with  fear  and  wonder, 
■When  aloud  it  seem'd  to  thunder 

Things  but  known  to  Heaven  and  me. 

Xow,  'tis  an  accusing  spirit, 

Torturing  while  it  holds  in  thrall; 

Like  an  angry  eye  it  glisten.s, 

No  delightful  reminiscence 
Suffering  memory  to  recall. 

Xow  a  flattering  nymph,  my  merits 

Telling  o'er  with  siren  art. 
Could  a  meed  so  sweetly  number'd 
Leave  asleep  the  pride  that  slumber'd, 

Cloak'd  and  hidden  in  my  heart? 

Now,  while  round  its  boulders  rushing, 

AVitch-like,  in  my  ears  it  dinn'd 
Thoughts  of  suicide  once  utter'd, 
Curses  deep  in  madness  mutter'd; 
Tales  of  sins  in  secret  sinn'd. 

Feelings  nourish'd  in  the  struggle 
For  existence,  o'er  it  conn'd, 
"Mine's  a  care  that  has  no  waning, 
Sin  is  not  in  my  complaining," 
Like  a  wearied  slave  it  groan'd. 

Then,  while  with  an  almost  voiceless 

Jlotion  gliding  underneath, 
Budless  brambles  o'er  it  bending, 
From  its  breast  there  seem'd  ascending 

AVailings  of  decay  and  death, 

Lispings  of  long  silent  voices 

Thrill'd  me,  and  four  names  most  dear, 
AVhisper'd  low  in  anguish'd  falter — 
Agnes,  Mary,  Cath'rine,  Walter, 

In  its  murmur  I  could  hear. 

Then  where  rounded  pebbles  glisteu'd, 

Scarcely  cover'd  in  the  stream. 
All  its  sweetlv  mur;ni;r'd  storv 


Was  of  love,  and  hope,  and  glory, 
Brighter  than  the  brightest  dream. 

^fusing  as  1  homeward  hasted 

Through  Garscadden's  flowerless  vales, 
This  appear'd  a  truth  the  surest — 
They  whose  hearts  and  lives  are  purest 

Hear  from  streams  the  sweetest  talcs. 


OCTOBEU. 

A  song  for  dun  October, 

That  tints  the  woods  wi'  broon, 
And  fills  wi'  pensive  rustling 

The  wooded  dells  aroun' ; 
While  lintie,  merle,  and  mavis 

Xae  langer  pipe  wi'  pride, 
Nor  larks  wi'  song  salute  us 

On  the  green  hill-side. 
Auld  nests  are  now  beginning 
To  peep  frae  woods  fast  thinning. 
And  wi'  nae  thocht  o'  sinning 

T^airds  death  are  scatterin'  wide; 
While  some  are  grumblin'  sairly 
0'  fields  that  yield  but  sparely; 
But  nature  yet  looks  rarely 

On  the  green  hill-side. 

What  though  our  posie  borders 

In  waefu'  plight  are  seen. 
Though  stocks  and  staring  dahlias 

Hue  tint  their  summer  sheen? 
Thy  hoary  dawns,  October, 

They  ne'er  were  meant  to  bide, — 
Unlike  the  halesome  clover 

On  the  green  hill-side. 
Though  robin's  town-notes  swelling 
0'  summer's  flight  are  telling, 
A  sober  thought  compelling 

That  nane  would  seek  to  hide. 
Shall  we  at  hame  sit  chaunnering, 
0'  frost  and  famine  maundering. 
While  wiser  folks  are  wandering 

On  the  green  hill-side? 

We'll  see  the  souchin'  pceswccps 

Li  gatherin'  flocks  prepared. 
To  leave  the  glens  and  meadows, 

AVhare  love's  delights  tliey  shared; 
Their  cheerfu'  cries  we'll  hear  nae 

As  ower  our  heads  they  glide, 
Poor  birds!  they  part  in  silence 

Wi"  the  green  hill-side. 
And  though  nae  lambkins'  gambols 
ilav  cheer  us  on  our  rambles, 


462 


DAVID   WINGATE. 


0'  hips,  and  haws,  and  brambles 
Ilk  brake  we'll  reive  wi'  jn-ide, 

xVnd  pu'  the  lingering  gowan, 

Whare,  late,  the  cluster'd  rowan, 

In  scarlet  grandeur  glowin', 
Graced  the  green  hill-side. 

AA'hen  streams  the  gouden  sunset 

Frae  'tween  the  hills  and  cluds; 
AVhile  hangs  the  double  rainbow 

Aboon  the  sparkling  Avoods, 
In  the  herald  lull  that  tells  us 

The  storm-king  by  will  ride, 
Oh!  wha  would  haste  in  terror 

Frae  the  green  hill-side? 
What  though  the  cluds  close  o'er  us, 
And  glens  grow  dark  before  ns, 
Sume  bush  frae  blustering  Boreas 

Will  ample  beil'  provide; 
While  thoughts  we  lang  shall  treasure- 
The  bairns  o'  purest  pleasure — 
Shall  leap  in  canty  measure 

On  the  green  hill-side. 

Oh  ye  -wha  life  are  wearin' 

Amid  the  city's  smeek — 
It's  no'  in  noisy  taverns 

Ye  pleasure's  face  should  seek, 
'^lang  "social  tankards  foamin'" 

She  cares  nae  lang  to  bide; 
But  weel  she  lo'es  the  freshness 

0'  the  green  hill-side. 
For  summer's  flight  she  cares  nae; 
And  winter's  frown  she  fears  nae; 
To  slight  poor  toil  she  dares  nae, 

Nor  frae  him  seeks  to  hide; 
By  buriiies  murmuring  sweetly, 
At  morn  or  e'en  she'll  meet  ye, 
And  wi'  a  smile  will  greet  ye 

On  the  green  hill-side. 


THE  DEEIN'   FISHER. 

Gang,  Jenny,  bring  my  fishing-book, 

And  lay't  doon  by  my  side, 
That  I  ancc  mair  may  view  the  lines 

And  flees  that  were  my  pride; 
I'll  spread  them  out  upon  the  mat. 

And  sort  them  anc  by  aiic, 
And  think  I'm  on  some  burnie's  bank, 

Some  cloudy  day  in  June. 

And  have  I  on  ye  spent,  my  flees, 

Sae  mony  hours  in  vain? 
And  will  ye  ne'er  in  haun's  o'  mine 

Deceive  a  trout  again? 


Maun  I  ne'er  mair  in  Avon  drook 

Your  wings,  my  bonnie  flees. 
Nor  fin'  the  caller  water  plash 

Sae  kindly  owcr  my  knees? 

There,  Jenny,  lay  them  by  again, 

I'm  jist  like  ony  wean, 
Wi'  trifles  for  a  moment  pleased, 

Wi'  trifles  filled  wi'  pain. 
Oh,  sirs!  but  they've  a  weary  time 

On  creeping  doom  wha  wait, 
Expectin'  morn  and  e'en  to  hear 

His  trumpet  at  the  gate. 

Dear  Jenny,  we  in  wedlock's  yoke 

Hae  drawn  thegither  wccl ; 
Though  ae  trout  meltit^  frae  a  tak', 

Ye  didna  often  squeel. 
Ye  ne'er  wi'  gloomy  leuks  against 

I\Iy  only  pleasure  stood, 
Nor  grudged  an  antrin  idle  day 

AVhen  streams  were  in  the  tid. 

In  vain  the  shirra  warn't  me,  Jen', 

In  vain  he  fin't  me  sair; 
To  hae  our  hard- won  siller  back 

I  us't  my  rod  the  mair. 
I  ken  I  should  the  salmon  spared 

That  socht  oor  streams  to  spawn; 
But  them  that  law  forbids  to  fisli 

Maun  tak' jist  when  they  can. 

But,  Jenny,  noo  it's  owcr;  nae  mair 

I'll  paidle  in  the  Clyde, 
Nae  mair  my  rod  ower  Avon  wave 

Wi'  a'  a  fisher's  pride. 
Thy  stream.  Carbarns,  I'll  roop  nae  mair. 

Nor  up  the  water  steer. 
And  frae  thy  dark  deep  pools,  Dalserf, 

The  pike  in  triumph  bear. 

This  worl'  is  jist  a  river,  Jen', 

Wi'  human  shoals  aye  thrang; 
Some  strugglin'  aye  against  the  stream, 

Some  cannie  borne  alang. 
And  Death  stauns  ower't  wi'  otter-line, 

Oot  liftin'  ten  by  ten. 
Syne  whare  we're  taen,  or  hoo  we're  us't. 

We  guess,  but  naething  ken. 

And  I  am  jist  a  puir  lean  trout 

That  in  the  pan  wad  burn. 
And,  strugglin'  past  the  otter-line, 

Am  liftit  in  my  turn. 
Oh!  but  to  leeve  and  shield  the  bairns. 

When  want  or  winter  ca's, 


1  MeU:t—v.a.i  exchanged  for  whisky. 


DAVID  WINGATE. 


4G3 


I  wad  gie  a'  tliat  ever  swam 
'Tween  Ailsa  and  the  Fa's. 

Aj',  Jenny,  wecl  the  tear  o'  grief 

May  shimmer  in  tliy  e'e: 
Though  wee  and  feckless,  1  hac  been 

A  kin'  guidman  to  thee. 
lie's  coming  fast,  tliat  creditor 

Wha  maun  hae  a'  tiiat's  awn; 
I  see  the  settin'  sun,  but  when 

Or  whare  will  come  the  dawn? 

Oh,  Jenny,  when  the  time  comes  roun' 

To  lay  me  'neath  the  swaird, 
Say  will  ye  try  and  get  me  laid 

In  auld  Cam'nethan  yaird  I 
For  when  the  last  lood  trumpet  note 

Frae  death's  grip  sets  me  free, 
I  like  to  think  I'll  rise  and  hae 

The  water  in  my  e'e. 


A   DAY   AMANG   THE   IIAAVS. 

AVhen  the  beech-nuts  fast  are  drappin', 

And  the  days  are  creepin'  in. 
When  ilk  carefu'  mither's  thinkin' 

O'  the  winter's  hose  and  shoon ; 
When  the  mornin'  bells  loud  ringin' 

To  the  Fast-day  worship  ca's, 
Out  comes  the  city  callan' 

For  his  day  amang  the  haws. 
0'  the  dangers  that  await  him 

Ne'er  a  troublous  thought  has  he, 
Nought  cares  he  for  the  tearin' 

He  his  claes  is  sure  to  gie; 
But  the  light  o'  comin'  pleasure 

On  his  heart  like  sunshine  fa's, 
For  dear  as  stolen  waters 

Is  a  day  amang  the  haws. 

Frae  the  mill  where  stourie  "jennies" 

Ivound  him  aye  are  whirrin'  thrang; 
Or  the  forge  where  pondrous  "Condies" 

Dunt  and  dirl  the  hale  day  lang; 
Or  the  press-room's  inky  regions, 

And  the  gaffer's  cufFand  ire; 
Or  the  needle,  or  the  lingle, 

On  he  plods  through  mud  and  mire. 
Frae  the  lane  where  A^ice  holds  revel. 

Where  beneath  fair  Virtue's  shield, 
Like  birds  escaped  the  snarer. 

Aye  a  gratefu'  few  find  beild; 
Frae  the  stench  that  kens  nae  sweetenin'. 

And  the  din  that  has  nae  pause, 
To  the  freshness  and  the  freedom 

0'  a  day  amang  the  haws. 


Think  ye  thus? — "The  graceless  callan' 

To  the  kirk  should  rather  gang; 
Does  his  mither  never  warn  him 

That  sic  Fast-day  traikin's  wrang? 
If  her  heart  is  for  him  pleadin', 

Kennin'  weel  how  sair  he's  wrought. 
For  tiie  customs  o'  her  faithers 

Has  she  ne'er  a  reverend  thought?" 
Oh,  rather  thus  excuse  her: 

"She  was  born  amang  the  hills, 
And  she  minds  the  autumn  grandeur 

0'  the  thorns  beside  the  rills; 
There  are  memories  fresh  frae  girlhood 

Crowdin'  fast  to  plead  his  cause, 
And  she  canna  keep  the  callan' 

Frae  his  day  amang  the  haws." 

Like  a  flood  the  rain's  been  pourin', 

But  the  sun  beams  through  at  last. 
As  amang  a  host  o'  ithers 

Frae  the  toun  he  hastens  fast; 
On  the  whinny  slopes  o'  Cathkin, 

Or  on  Pollock's  woody  knowes, 
He  already  roams  in  fancy 

Where  he  kens  the  haw-tree  grows. 
On  the  bitter  blast  that's  brewin' 

He  looks  west  wi'  hopefu'  e'e. 
For  he  kens  the  woods  frae  keepers 

In  sic  weather  will  be  free. 
If  the  bells  around  him  ringin' 

Whisper  whiles  o'  broken  laws, 
"  Oh!  "  he  thinks,  "there's  surely  pardon 

For  ae  day  amang  the  haws." 

Fu'  boldly  has  he  ventured. 

And  in  darin'  weel  has  thriven; 
He  the  ripest,  richest  branches 

Frae  the  sweetest  trees  has  riven. 
See  his  jacket  hangs  in  tatters, 

Ower  his  hands  the  bluid-draps  steal; 
But  his  mither  mends  fu'  neatly, 

And  his  scarts  again  will  heal. 
Frae  his  hair  the  rain  is  dreepin', 

But  he  never  thinks  o'  harm. 
For  pleasure,  wanderin'  wi'  him, 

^Vi'  her  mantle  keeps  him  warm. 
How  his  heart  wi'  pride  is  swellin'. 

As  he  near  the  city  draws. 
For  he  kens  he  comes  joy-laden 

Frae  his  days  amang  the  haws. 

Wha  thinks  he  frae  his  ramble 

Winna  better  come,  but  worse, 
Wi'  its  memory  hangin'  ower  him 

Like  an  angry  father's  curse? 
In  nature's  face  what  is  there 

That  a  city  bairn  should  fear? 
In  the  woodland's  autumn  whisper 

Is  there  ought  he  shouldna  hear? 


464 


DAVID   WINGATE. 


"Wlia  kens  wliat  heavenly  music 

May  be  stirred  his  breast  within, 
As  the  sapless  leaf's  faint  rustlin' 

Turns  the  sparklin'  e'e  aboon, 
While  liis  fancy  paints  the  Painter 

0'  the  million-tainted  shaws, 
And  the  poet-spark  is  kindled 

In  his  soul,  amang  the  haws? 

Oh  I  keepers,  spare  the  eallan' — 

And  sweet  dreams  ye  shall  not  lack — 
For  the  wee  things'  sake  that  weary 

Wait  the  wanderer's  coming  back; 
They  hae  shared  the  city's  hardships. 

And  o'  plenty  little  ken — 
Let  them  taste  in  rich  abundance 

0'  the  spoils  o'  hill  and  glen. 
Owre  the  priceless  feast  they'll  linger, 

Till  their  lips  and  teeth  grow  brown; 
Or  wi'  the  ruddy  treasure 

In  their  bosoms  cuddle  down. 
Oh.  there's  nane  the  joy  can  measure, 

That  a  boon  sae  sma'  may  cause! 
Tears  are  dried  and  sorrow's  lightened 

AVi'  a  day  amang  the  haws. 

And  ye  wha's  lot  is  coosten 

Aye  amang  the  caller  air, 
Wha  on  a  gift  sae  common 

May  a  thought  but  seldom  wair. 
Oh!  think  if  Heaven  had  placed  ye 

Far  frae  glen  and  mountain  stream, 
"Where  the  Avoods  are  things  o'  fancy. 

And  the  yorlin's  sang  a  dream — 
Oh!  think  how  ye  would  weary 

But  to  hear  ae  laverock  sing, 
And  to  watch  the  matron  peesweep 

Cliase  the  hawk  with  daring  wing — 
How  wild  would  be  your  longin' 

For  the  breeze  on  hills  that  blaws! 
How  muckle  would  ye  venture 

For  ae  day  amang  the  haws! 


JOHN   FROST. 
(suggested  by  the  prattle  of  a  child.) 

01),  mither,  John  Frost  cam'  yestreen, 

And  ower  a'  the  garden  he's  been, 
He's  on  the  kail-stocks, 
And  my  twa  printed  frocks 

That  Mary  left  out  on  the  green. 
Yestreen, 

John  Fro.-,t  foun'  them  out  on  the  green. 

And  he's  been  on  the  trees,  the  auld  loon, 
And  heaps  o'  brown  leaves  shookcn  doon; 


He's  been  flecin'  a'  nicht, 

Frae  the  dark  to  the  licht, 
And  missed  nae  a  house  in  the  toun. 
The  auld  loon — 
He's  missed  nae  a  house  in  the  toun. 

And,  mither,  he's  killed  every  flee — 
Noo  ane  on  the  wa's  ye'U  no  see; 

On  the  windows  there's  nane. 

For  the  last  leevin'  ane 
Fell  douu  frae  the  rape  in  oor  tea, 
Puir  thing! — 
Just  drappit  doun  dead  in  oor  tea. 

And,  mither,  the  path's  frostit  a'; 
If  ye  gang  the  least  fast  ye  jist  fa'. 

Oh,  yc  ne'er  saw  sic  fun! 

I  got  ae  eurran'-bun. 
And  wee  Annie  Kenzie  got  twa. 

Daft  wee  thing; 
She  jist  slade  a  wee  bit  and  got  twa. 

And  my  auntie  her  een  couldnae  close. 
For  she  said  her  auld  bluid  he  just  froze. 

He  cam'  in  below  the  claes. 

And  he  nippit  oor  taes — 
And  he  maist  taen  awa  Bobby's  nose, 

Puir  wee  man; 
Sure,  he  couldnae  dae  wantin'  his  nose. 

And  my  uncle  was  chitterin'  to  death. 
And  John  Frost  wadna  let  him  get  breath; 

And  the  fire  wadna  heat 

Uncle's  twa  starvin'  feet, 
Till  the  soles  o'  his  socks  were  burned  bailh, 

Birslet  brown, 
And  the  reek  comin'  oot  o'  them  baitli. 

liut  what  brings  John  Frost  here  ava, 
Wi'  his  frost  and  his  cranreugh  and  snaw? 

It's  a  bonnie-like  thing! 

He  just  waff't  his  lang  wing, 
And  a'  oor  wee  flowers  flew  awa'. 

Every  ane; 
And  Pioss's  red  dawlies  and  a'. 

And,  mither,  he  gangs  through  the  street, 

Just  looking  for  weans  wi'  bare  feet; 
And  he  nips  at  their  heels. 
And  the  skin  afF  them  peels. 

And  thinks  it's  fine  fun  when  llicy  greet, 
The  auld  loon; 

He  nips  them  the  mair  when  they  greet. 

Wi'  his  capers  the  folk  shouldua  thole. 
D'ye  ken? — He  breathed  in  through  a  bole 
Wliare  a  wee  lassie  lay. 


JOHN   YEITCH. 


465 


And  she  dee't  the  next  day, 
And  they  laid  her  doiin  in  the  kirk-liole, 

I'liir  wee  lamb^ 
And  covered  her  in  tlie  kirk  hole. 

But  guess  what  my  auntie  tell't  me? 

She  says  the  wee  weans,  when  they  dee, 
Flee  awa'  ower  the  moon. 
And  need  nae  clacs  nor  shoon. 

To  a  place  wliare  John  Fro'^t  they'll  ne'er  see, 


Far  awa' — 
To  a  place  whare  John  Frost  daurna  be. 

And  she  says  our  wee  Katie  gaed  there, 

And  she"ll  never  be  hoastin'  nae  mair. 
Sure,  we'll  gang  there  ana'— 
AVe'U  flee  up  and  no  fa' — 

And  we'll  see  her  jist  in  her  wee  chair — 
And  she'll  lauch 

In  her  bonnie  wee  red  cushioned  chair. 


JOHN    VEITCH. 


John  Yeitch,  LL.D.,  Professor  of  Logic  and 
Ehetoric  in  the  University  of  Glasgow,  was 
born  at  Peebles,  Oct.  24,  1829.  He  was  edu- 
cated first  at  the  grammar-school  of  his  native 
town,  and  in  18i5  entered  the  University  of 
Edinburgh,  where  he  completed  the  Arts  cur- 
riculum, and  distinguished  himself  especially 
as  a  student  in  logic  ami  moral  philosophy. 
Shortly  after  the  completion  of  his  course  the 
university  presented  him  with  the  honorary 
degree  of  M.A.,  and  afterwards  that  of  LL.D. 

At  the  request  of  the  Stewart  trustees,  Mv. 
Yeitch  wrote  the  memoir  of  Dugald  Stewart 
for  the  new  edition  of  that  author's  Collected 
Works,  published  in  1858.  On  the  death  of 
Sir  W.  Hamilton  in  1856,  he  acted  as  joint 
editor  with  Dean  Mansel  in  superintending 
the  publication  of  the  "  Lectures  on  Metaphy- 
sics and  Logic  by  Sir  W.  Hamilton,  Bart.," 
published  in  1859-60;  and  in  1869  he  pub- 
lished a  "  Memoir  of  Sir  AV.  Hamilton,"  whose 
assistant  he  had  been.  He  is  also  the  author 
of  a  translation  of  the  "Works  of  Descartes, 
with  an  Introductory  Essay,"  and  of  "Lucre- 


tius and  the  Atomic  Theory."  In  1860  Dr. 
Yeitch  was  appointed  to  the  chair  of  Logic  and 
Rhetoric  in  the  L'niversity  of  St.  Andrews, 
and  in  1864  he  received  the  same  appointment 
in  the  University  of  Glasgow,  Avhich  he  now 
holds. 

Besides  the  above-mentioned  works,  which 
testify  to  his  ripe  scholarship.  Professor  Yeitch 
has  won  a  place  among  the  poetic  brotherhood 
by  the  publication  in  1872  of  a  volume  entitled 
Hillside  Rhymes,  followed  in  1875  by  another 
entitled  The  Tweed,  and  other  Poems.  Of  the 
former  volume  a  critic  says: — "Let  any  one 
who  cares  for  line  reflective  poetry  read  for 
himself  and  j  udge.  Besides  the  solid  substance 
of  thought  which  pervades  it,  he  will  find  here 
and  there  those  quick  insights,  those  spon- 
taneous felicities  of  language,  which  distin- 
guish the  man  of  natural  power  from  the  man 
of  mere  cultivation.  .  .  .  Next  to  an  autumn 
day  among  the  hills  themselves,  commend  us 
to  poems  like  these,  in  which  so  much  of  the 
finer  breath  and  spirit  of  those  pathetic  hills 
is  distilled  into  melody." 


CADEMUIR. 

(fkom    the    tweed.) 


Dear  hill !  of  ever-changing  light  and  shade, 
And  faded  battle-fame  in  by-gone  time, 
'Tis  thine  to  charm  as  thou  canst  awe  the  soul. 
Let  me  but  speak  thee  as  I've  seen  thee  oft 
On  a  sweet  day  in  early  June;  o'erhead. 

Vol.  II.— G  g 


White  streaks  of  wind-slashed  clouds  calmed  on 

the  blue; 
Around,  the  hill  spring-green,  save  where  the  soil 
Is  pranked  with  tiny  tomientil  that  loves 
The  mountain  slopes,  and  yellow  violets 


466 


JOHN   VEITCH. 


Of  nnnliko  mien,  that  groupe  themselves  afield 
In  gentle  sisterhoods;  rock-rose,  dear  child 
Of  sun-smote  heights,  unfolds  its  fluttering  flowers 
Of  gold  beside  the  heather  dark  and  slow 
To  greet  the  sun;  in  watered  hollows  green 
The  slender  cardaminc,  first  lilac  hued, 
Then  growing  white  and  pure  'neath  influence 
Of  heaven,  a  welcome  waves  to  gentle  winds 
Now  vocal  with  the  cuckoo's  echohig  note. 

Frail  passing  flowers,  soft-tinted  things  of  spring. 
Sweet  dawn  of  colour,  simple  gi-ace  of  form! 
Prelude  ye  are  of  richer  bolder  hues. 
Of  flowering  thyme,  the  heather-bell  and  bloom. 
And  ferns  of  broad  green  leafage;  yet  no  charm 
Have  these  like  yours,  first  risen  from  the  grave 
Of  winter,  when  the  spirit  at  your  heart 
Slept  calm,  not  doubting  that  in  suiniy  hours 
To  come,  ye'd  make  a  joy  on  bared  steeps. 
Where  ceaseless  winds  were  raving  day  and  night, 
And  all  was  lone  despair;  nor  any  more, 
As  flows  th'  unwavering  order  of  the  world, 
And  autumn  draws  you  back  within  the  veil, 
Has  that  same  God-born  spirit  e'er  a  dread 
Lest  ye  shall  triumph  o'er  earth's  elements, 
And  live  your  simple  graceful  life  again, — 
Symbols  of  faith,  of  innocence,  and  love. 
By  doubt  unshaken  and  by  fear  unpaled! 


THE   CLOUD-BERRY. 

(from    on    the    scrape.) 

Around  me  cluster  quaint  cloud-berry  flowers, 

That  love  the  moist  slopes  of  the  highest  tops. 

Pale  white,  and  delicate,  and  beautiful, 

Yet  lowly  growing  'mid  the  black  peat  moss,— 

No  life  with  darker  root  and  fairer  bloom: 

As  if  the  hand  of  God  had  secret  wrought 

Amid  the  peaty  chaos  and  decay 

Of  long  deep  buried  years,  and  from  the  moss 

Entombed,  unshaped,  unsunned,  and  colourless, 

Set  free  a  form  of  beauty  rare  and  bright, 

To  typify  the  glory  and  the  grace 

Which  from  the  dust  of  death  He  will  awake, 

Li  course  of  time,  on  Resurrection  morn! 


THE  HART  OF  MOSSFENNAN. 

"They  Imnted  it  up,  thoy  hunte<I  it  iloun, 
Tlicy  hunted  it  in  liy  Mi>ssf.'nnan  touu, 
Anil  aye  tliey  f,'ie'il  it  anotlier  turn. 
Round  by  the  links  of  the  Logan  Dum." 

Old  Ballad. 

'Neath  Powmood  Craig  the  hart  was  born, 
And  thence  in  tlie  dawn  of  a  summer  morn, 
By  startled  mother's  side  as  it  hiy, 
'Twas  brought  by  a  youth  lor  his  sweetheart's 
jlay. 


She  was  a  blue-eyed  maiden  fair, 
Of  stately  mien  and  flaxen  hair, 
The  daughter  meet  of  an  olden  race. 
Remote  as  a  flower  in  a  moorland  place, 
That  blooms  to  all  the  great  world  lost. 
And  yet  once  seen  is  prized  tiie  most, — 
Pure  wood  nymph  she  of  Caledon, 
Who  loved  all  creatures  wild  and  lone. 

The  gift  to  her  was  priceless,  dear. 
Since  the  giver,  laid  on  a  plaited  bier. 
Was  borne  away  from  a  far-oft'  field, 
With  a  spotless  name,   with  a  blood-stained 
shield. 

To  her  of  an  eve  the  creature  bent, 
While  to  him  a  simple  grace  she  lent, 
As  she  comely  wreathed  his  noble  head, 
And  decked  his  brow  with  the  heather  red. 
Fond  she  gazed  on  those  lustrous  eyes 
That  met  her  look  with  a  sweet  surprise 
At  a  face  so  tender,  sad,  and  fair; 
She  thought  they  read  her  soul's  despair; 
And  through  her  frame  strange  thrill  would  go, 
As  she  caught  the  chequer'd  pass  and  flow 
Of  trembling  motions  in  their  great  deeps, 
As  light  and  shade  o'er  the  mountain-steeps. 

Far  o'er  the  moors  on  a  summer's  day 
He'd  pass  and  roam  and  freely  stray; 
But  ever,  as  shade  of  evening  fell. 
He  turned  to  the  home  he  loved  so  well. 
His  heart  yearned  aye  to  the  lonely  wild, 
While  his  love  was  that  of  a  human  child, — 
That  set  a  bound  to  his  nature  free, — 
For  the  maiden's  face  on  Mossfennan  Lee. 

The  hunters  are  out  this  summer  morn, 
They  sweep  the  moors  by  iiag  and  burn. 
By  rock  and  crag,  each  high  resort. 
For  dear  they  love  their  noble  sport. 
They  started  a  fee  at  Stanhope  Head, 
And  down  the  glen  the  raches  s])cd, 
Fire-flauchts  lanced  up  from  each  horse's  side. 
For  the  galling  spur  was  prompt  to  chide. 

Round  he  ran  by  Hopcarton  Stcll, 
The  spotted  hounds  pressed  on  him  fell: 
r  the  haugli  he  took  the  Tweed  at  the  wide. 
Then  tossed  iiis  horns  on  Mossfennan  side. 
Still  the  cruel  hounds  are  on  his  track, 
In  his  ear  the  yell  of  the  hurrying  pack, 
Fain  to  iIo.ssfennan  Tower  he  would  turn. 
But  thcchacc  is  hot,-  to  the  hill  by  the  burn. 

They  hunted  him  high,  they  hunted  him  low, 
They  hunted  him  up  by  the  mossy  flow; 
The  lee-long  day,  from  early  morn, 
The  Hopes  rung  loud  with  bouts  of  the  horn. 


ALEXANDEE   SMITH. 


467 


No  bloom  of  heather  brae  them  stayed, 
No  birk-tree  quiver  or  slieen  of  glade, 
No  touch  of  nature  bent  their  will, 
In  hot  blood  onward,  onward  still. 

Powmood,  that  ever  in  clear  or  mist, 
In  fray  or  hunt  the  foremost  pressed, 
Now  speeding  keen  as  north-west  wind. 
Late  i'  the  day  left  all  behind; 
Save  Dreva's  I^aird,  ne"er  boding  good. 
Wide  was  he  famed  for  a  reiver  rude, — 
And  hand  that  took  kindly  aye  to  blood, — 
Left  blacken'd  walls  where  the  homestead  stood. 

They  hunted  the  hart  these  two  alone, 
Till  the  shadows  lay  in  the  afternoon; 
Where  brae  was  stey  and  bank  was  steep. 
The  noble  fee  fell  in  a  gallant  leap. 
They  blew  the  mort  on  the  Wormhill  Head, 
Where  sore  he  sighed  and  then  lay  dead! 
Oh!  why  not  let  the  creature  be, 
Bear  his  noble  head  o'er  hill  and  lee, — 
That  ate  but  the  wild  roots,  drank  o'  the  spring. 
And  roamed  the  moor  a  seemly  thing, — 
Joyed  in  the  sun,  flashed  fleet  in  the  storm. 
Free  in  the  grace  of  his  God-given  form! 

The  merry  sport  of  the  day  is  o'er; 
I'  the  gloamin'  at  the  old  tower  door. 
No  gentle  creature  is  there  to  greet 
Her  eyes  that  seek  him,  sad  and  sweet, — 
Oh!   with  love's  last  link  'tis  sore  to  part. 
And  feel  but  the  void  of  the  aching  heart! 


The  merry  sport  of  the  day  is  o'er; 

l!ose  the  creature's  sigh  its  God  before? 

Hearts  iiardcr  growing  through  breach  of  rutli, 

I  ween  this  is  eternal  truth: 

That  gloamin',  after  words  of  strife, 

Saw  Powmood's  blood  on  Dreva's  knife! 


AMONG   THE   HILLS!   AWAY! 

Far  along  the  empurpled  heights. 

Where  dews  have  wreathed  the  green, 
The  mists  transfigured  pass,  sun-smit. 

In  folds  of  radiant  sheen. 
The  north-west  wind  is  up  in  might, 

AVith  clouds  for  speeding  wings; 
His  gentle  bride,  the  blue  clear  morn. 

High  o'er  the  hills  he  brings. 
Lo!  strength  and  beauty  rare  are  wed. 

Wed  in  the  sky  to-day; 
There's  hurrying  joy  in  heaven  o'erhead; 

Among  the  hills!     Away! 

High  on  the  moors  the  sportive  wind 

Kisses  the  blooming  heath; 
He  plays  with  the  harebell's  graceful  form, 

Steals  the  thyme's  fragrant  breath! 
He  speeds  in  gleam,  he  glides  in  shade, 

Joy  and  grief  are  at  play ; 
The  blue  clear  morn  looks  loving  on; 

Among  the  hills!     Away! 


ALEXANDEE    SMITH 


Born  1830  — Died  1867. 


Alexander  Smith  was  a  native  of  Kilmar- 
nock, where  he  was  born  December  31,  1830. 
His  father  was  by  trade  a  pattern -designer: 
his  mother,  whose  name  was  Murray,  came  of 
a  good  Highland  family.  His  early  education 
was  received  at  a  Kilmai-nock  school,  and  he 
so  distinguished  himself  for  zeal  and  efficiency 
in  his  studies  that  it  was  decided  he  should  be 
trained  for  the  ministry.  A  severe  illness, 
however,  rendered  it  advisable  that  this  idea 
should  be  abandoned ;  and  so  Alexander  became 
a  pattern-designer,  obtaining  with  his  father 
employment  from  a  lace  manufacturer  in  Glas- 
gow, to  which  city  the  family  had  removed. 


While  patiently  working  at  his  business,  he  felt 
the  promptings  of  genius,  and  for  a  time  lived 
a  life  of  divided  allegiance  to  his  profession  on 
the  one  hand,  and  literature  on  the  other. 

"  He  was  one 

■Who  could  not  help  it,  for  it  was  lii3  nature 
To  blossom  into  song,  as  'tis  a  trees 
To  leaf  itself  iu  April." 

Some  of  his  sweetest  lyrics  were  composed 
while  he  was  employed  designing  patterns  for 
lace  collars.  These  pieces  first  saw  the  light  in 
the  Glasgoio  Citizen,  where  so  many  young 
Scottish  poets  have  been  developed. 

In  1853  Smith  issued  a  volume  of  poems. 


468 


ALEXANDEE  SMITH. 


the  principal  portion  of  uhicli  was  a  series  of  ] 
thirteen  dramatic  scenes  entitled  "A  Life 
Drama."  The  manuscript  of  this  volume  had 
been  submitted  to  the  Rev.  George  Giltillan, 
■who  laid  portions  of  it  before  tlie  public,  ac- 
companied b}'  glowing  eulogiums  of  the  author 
as  a  poet  of  a  high  order.  The  publication  of 
the  volume  marl^ed  him  out  for  higher  tilings, 
and  he  was  appointed,  thTough  the  influence 
of  llobert  Chambers  and  James  Iledderwick, 
secretary  to  the  Edinburgh  University,  on  the 
principle  that  the  land  that  had  neglected 
Burns  should  not  again  be  guilty  of  such  mis- 
conduct toward  a  native  poet.  So  in  1854 
Jlr.  Smith  appeared  in  Edinburgh,  was  duly 
installed  in  his  honourable  position,  and  soon 
became  the  centre  of  a  band  of  congenial  and 
devoted  friends.  Thus  placed  in  a  congenial 
position  (with  a  salary  latterly  of  £200  per 
annum),  and  one  most  favourable  for  the  cul- 
tivation of  his  talents,  he  was  enabled  to  con- 
tinue his  literary  pursuits. 

In  1855,  in  conjunction  with  a  brother  poet, 
Sidney  Dobell,  he  produced  Sonnets  on  the 
(Crimean)  War;  and  two  years  later  published 
a  volume  entitled  City  Poems.  Some  passages 
in  this  collection  contain  a  richness  and  warmth 
of  colour  which  few  living  poets  could  surpass, 
and  gained  for  Smith  the  compliment  from 
Gerald  Massey  of  being  the  "llubens  among 
poets."  The  finest  poem  in  either  volume,  and 
tlie  best  we  think  which  he  produced,  is 
"  Squire  Maurice." 

Edwin  of  Deira,  a  poem  on  which  he  was 
engaged  for  four  years,  appeared  in  1861. 
Unfortunately  for  this  work  it  appeared  sub- 
sequently to  Tennyson's  Idi/Us  of  (he  King, 
by  which  many  thought  it  had  been  suggested. 
It  is,  however,  in  the  knowledge  of  the  writer 
that  it  was  begun  two  years  before  any  inti- 
mation of  the  laureate's  idylls  reached  the 
public  ear.  Mr.  Smitii  for  his  four  years'  work 
received  less  than  twenty  pounds;  so  like  Scott, 
when  he  found  himself  overshadowed  by  a 
greater  poet,  he  took  to  prose,  writing  articles  for 
Blackwood  and  other  serials,  and  contributing 
to  the  Encyclopedia  Britannica  and  Chambers's 
Encyclopedia.  Dreamthorp,  a  volume  of  es- 
says, appeared  in  1863;  two  years  later  his 
edition  of  Burns,  witli  an  admirable  memoir, 
was  puldished;  and  the  same  year  A  Summer 
in  Skye,  where  he  spent  his  summer  vacations. 


In  1866  Alfred  ITa [/art's  HoiLHeliold  was  pro- 
duced, followed  by  a  sequel  entitled  Miss 
Dona  M'Quarrie,  both  simi)le  and  touching 
stories  of  Scottish  domestic  life.  Shortly  after 
the  opening  of  the  winter  session  of  the  uni- 
versity Mr.  Smith  exhibited  signs  of  ill-health 
and  exhaustion.  On  the  20th  of  November 
hetook  to  bed,  and  died  January  5,  1867.  His 
remains  were  laid  in  Warriston  Cemetery,  Edin- 
burgh, and  a  monument,  16  feet  in  height,  in 
the  form  of  an  lona  cross,  was  erected  by  a  few 
personal  friends  over  his  grave.  In  the  centre 
of  the  shaft  is  a  bronze  medallion  containing  a 
profile  likeness  of  the  poet  by  the  sculptor 
Brodie. 

In  1868  appeared  a  volume,  Last  Leaves: 
Sketches  and  Criticisms  by  Alexander  Smith; 
edited,  with  a  Memoir,  by  P.  P.  A  lexander, 
A.M.  AVe  conclude  our  brief  notice  of  the 
young  poet  who  passed  away  so  early,  to  renew 
his  songs  in  those  temples  not  made  with  hands, 
with  a  self-descriptive  extract  from  the  Life 
Drama,^  a  poem  remarkable  for  wealth  of 
imagery  and  a  certain  curiosa  felicitas  which 
in  places  recalls  some  of  the  Elizabethan 
poets:— 

"  Within  a  city  One  was  born  to  toil, 
Wliose  lieait  could  not  mate  with  the  common  doom — 
To  fall  lilie  a  spent  arrow  in  the  grave. 
'J\IiJ  the  eternal  hum  the  boj'  clonib  up 

1  "  On  the  whole,"  remarks  the  Novlh  British  Revieii; 
"  we  think  Mr.  Smith  a  true  poet;"  while  the  Ediii- 
huryh  lierievj,  in  noticing  the  Life  Drama,  says,  "though 
it  abounds  with  remarkable  verbal  beauties,  it  surpasses 
anything  we  liave  met  with  in  its  display  of  ignorance 
of  that  kind  of  reality  which  it  is  a  poet's  first  duty  to 
seize."  An  American  critic,  writing  in  1876  (Stedman's 
Victorian  Poits),  remarks:  "Alexander  Smith  years 
afterwards  seized  Bailey's  mantle  and  flaunted  it 
bravely  for  a  while,  gaining  Vjy  A  Life  Drama  as  sudden 
and  extensive  a  reputation  as  that  of  his  master.  This 
poet  wrote  of 

'  A  poem  round  and  perfect  as  a  star.' 

but  the  work  from  whicli  the  line  is  taken  is  not  of 
that  sort.  With  nuich  impressiveness  of  imagery  and 
extravagant  diction  that  canght  the  easi'y,  but  not 
long  tricked  p\il)Uc  ear,  it  was  vicious  in  style,  loose  in 
tliought,  and  devoid  of  real  vigour  or  l)eauty.  In  after 
years,  llirough  lionest  study,  Smitli  acquired  better  taste 
and  worked  after  a  more  becoming  purpose.  His  prose 
essays  were  charming,  and  his  Citi/  J'ocius,  marked  by 
sins  of  omission  only,  may  be  rated  as  negatively  good; 
'  Glasgow'  and  'The  Night  before  the  Wedding'  really 
are  excellent.  The  poet  became  a  genuine  man  of  let- 
tei-s,  but  died  young,  when  lie  was  doing  his  be»t 
work."— Ed. 


ALEXANDER  SMITH. 


469 


Into  a  shy  and  solitary  youth, 

With  strange  joys  and  strange  sorrows;  oft  to  te:\r3 

He  was  moved,  lie  knew  not  why;  wlien  he  lias  stood 

Among  the  lengthened  shadows  of  the  eve, 

Such  feelings  overflowed  him  fi-om  the  sky. 

Alone  he  dwelt,  solitary  as  a  star 

Unsphere.l  aud  exiled,  yet  he  knew  no  scjrn. 


Cooks  were  his  chiefest  fiiends.     In  them  he  read 

Of  those  great  spirits  who  went  down  like  suus. 

And  left  upon  the  mountain  tops  of  death 

A  light  that  made  them  lovely.     His  own  Leai-t 

Made  liim  a  poet.     Yesterday  to  him 

Was  richer  far  than  fifty  years  to  come, 

Alchymist  Memory  turned  liis  pist  to  gold." 


SQUIEE    MAURICE. 


I  threw  from  off  me  yesterday 
The  dull  life  I  am  doomed  to  wear — • 
A  worn-ont  garment  dim  and  bare, 
And  left  it  in  my  chambers  gray: 
The  salt  breeze  wanders  in  m}'  hair 
Beside  the  splendour  of  the  main: 
Ere  on  the  deep  three  sunsets  burn, 
To  the  old  chambers  I  return, 
And  put  it  on  again. 
An  old  coat,  worn  for  many  a  year. 
No  wonder  it  is  something  dear! 

Ah,  year  by  year  life's  fire  burns  out, 
And  year  by  year  Hf e's  stream  runs  dry : 
The  wild  deer  dies  within  the  blood, 
The  falcon  in  the  eye. 
And  Hope,  who  sang  miraculons  songs 
Of  what  should  be,  like  one  inspired. 
How  she  should  right  the  ancient  wrongs, 
(The  generous  fool!)  grows  hoarse  and  tired; 
And  turns  from  visions  of  a  world  renewed. 
To  dream  of  tripled  rents,  fan-  miles  of  stream 

and  wood. 
The  savage  horse,  that  leads 
His  tameless  herd  across  the  endless  plain. 
Is  taught  at  last,  with  sullen  heart,  to  strain 
Beneath  his  load,  nor  quiver  when  he  bleeds. 
We  cheat  ourselves  with  our  own  lying  eyes. 
We  chase  a  fleeting  mirage  o'er  the  sand. 
Across  a  grave  the  smiling  phantom  flies. 
O'er  which  we  fall  with  a  vain-clutching  hand. 
What  matter — if  we  heave  laborious  breath. 
And  crack  our  hearts  and  sinews,  groan  and  weep. 
The  pain  of  life  but  sweetens  death. 
The  hardest  labour  brings  the  soundest  sleep. 

On  bank  and  brae  how  thick  they  grow, 
The  self-same  clumps,  the  self-same  dyes. 
The  primroses  of  long  ago — 
But  ah!  the  altered  eyes! 
I  dream  they  are  the  very  flowers, 
AVarm  with  the  sun,  wet  with  the  showers. 
Which,  years  ago,  I  used  to  pull 
Returning  from  the  murmuring  school. 
Sweet  Nature  is  a  mother  evermore; 
A  thousand  tribes  are  breathing  on  the  shore; 
The  pansy  blows  beside  the  rock. 
The  globe-flower  where  the  eddy  swii'ls; 
And  on  this  withered  human  stock 


Burst  rosj-  boys  and  girls. 

Sets  Nature  little  store 

On  that  which  once  she  bore  ? 

Does  she  forget  the  old,  in  rapture  bear  the  new? 

Are  ye  the  flowers  that  grew 

In  other  seasons?    Do  they  e'er  return. 

The  men  who  build  the  cities  on  the  plain  ? — 

Or  must  my  tearless  eyeballs  burn 

For  ever  o'er  that  early  urn. 

Ne'er  to  be  cool'd  by  a  delicious  dew  ? 

Let  me  take  back  my  pain 

Unto  my  heart  again; 

Before  I  can  recover  that  I  lack 

The  world  must  be  rolled  back. 

Inland  I  wander  slow. 

Mute  with  the  power  the  earth  and  heaven  wield: 

A  black  spot  sails  across  the  golden  field. 

And  through  the  air  a  crow. 

Before  me  wavers  spring's  first  butterfly; 

From  out  the  sunny  noon  there  starts  the  cuckoo's 
cry; 

The  daisied  meads  are  musical  with  lambs; 

Some  play,  some  feed,  some,  white  as  snow- 
flakes,  lie 

In  the  deep  sunshine,  by  their  silent  dams. 

The  road  grows  wide  and  level  to  the  feet; 

The  wandering  woodbine  tlarough  the  hedge  is 
drawn. 

Unblown  its  streaky  bugles  dim  and  sweet; 

Knee-deep  in  fern  stand  startled  doe  and  fawn, 

And  lo!  there  gleams  upon  a  spacious  lawn 

An  earl's  marine  retreat. 

A  little  footpath  quivers  up  the  height. 

And  what  a  vision  for  a  townsman's  .ssight! 

A  village,  peeping  from  its  orchard  bloom, 

With  lowly  roofs  of  thatch,  blue  threads  of  smoke, 

O'erlooking  all,  a  parsonage  of  white. 

I  hear  the  smithy's  hammer,  stroke  on  stroke; 

A  steed  is  at  the  door;  the  rustics  talk. 

Proud  of  the  notice  of  the  gaitered  groom; 

A  shallow  river  breaks  o'er  shallow  falls. 

Beside  the  ancient  sluice  that  turns  the  mill 

The  lusty  miller  bawls; 

The  parson  listens  in  his  garden  walk, 

The  red-cloaked  woman  pauses  on  the  hill. 

This  is  a  place,  you  say,  exempt  from  ill, 

A  paradise  where,  all  the  loitering  day. 

Enamoured  pigeons  coo  upon  the  roof. 


470 


ALEXANDER  SMITH. 


Whore  children  ever  play. — 

Alas!  time's  webs  are  rotten,  warp  and  woof; 

Rotten  his  cloth  of  gold,  his  coarsest  wear: 

Here  black-eyed  Richard  ruins  red-cheeked  Moll, 

Indifferent  as  a  lord  to  her  despair. 

The  broken  barrow  hates  the  prosperous  dray; 

And  for  a  padded  pew  in  wluch  to  pray 

The  grocer  sells  his  soul. 

This  cosy  hostelry  a  visit  craves; 

Here  will  I  sit  awhile, 

And  watch  the  heavenly  sunshine  smile 

Upon  the  village  graves. 

Strange  is  this  little  room  in  which  I  wait. 

With  its  old  table,  rough  with  rustic  names. 

'Tis  summer  now;  instead  of  blinking  flames. 

Sweet-smelling  ferns  are  hanging  o'er  the  grate. 

With  curious  eyes  I  pore 

Upon  the  mantelpiece,  its  precious  wai-es. 

Glazed    Scripture   prints    in    black    lugubrious 

frames. 
Filled  with  old  Bible  lore: 
The  whale  is  casting  Jonah  on  the  shore; 
Pharaoh  is  drowning  in  the  curly  wave; 
And  to  Elijah  sitting  at  his  cave, 
The  hospitable  ravens  fly  in  pairs. 
Celestial  food  within  their  horny  beaks; 
On  a  slim  David,  with  great  pinky  cheeks, 
A  towered  Goliath  stares. 
Here  will  I  sit  at  peace: 

Wliile,  piercing  through  the  window's  ivy-veil, 
A  slip  of  sunshine  smites  the  amber  ale; 
And  as  the  wreatlis  of  fragrant  smoke  increase, 
I'll  read  the  letter  which  came  down  to-day. 
Ah,  happy  Maurice!  while  in  chambers  dun, 
I  pore  o'er  deeds  and  parchments  growing  gray. 
Each  glowing  realm  that  spreads  beneath  the  sun 
Is  but  a  paradise  where  you  may  play. 
I  am  a  bonded  workman,  you  are  free; 
In  your  blood's  hey-day — mine  is  early  cold. 
Life  is  rude  furze  at  best;  the  sea  breeze  wrings 
And  eats  my  branches  on  the  bitter  lea; 
But  you  have  root  in  dingle  fat  and  old, 
Fat  with  decayings  of  a  hundred  springs, 
And  blaze  all  splendid  in  your  points  of  gold, 
And  iu  your  heart  a  linnet  sits  and  sings. 

"  Unstable  as  the  wind,  infirm  as  foam, 
I  envy,  Charles,  your  calmness  and  your  peace; 
The  eye  that  marks  its  quarry  from  afar. 
The  heart  that  stoops  on  it  and  smites  it  down. 
I,  struggling  in  a  dim  and  obscure  net, 
Am  but  enmeshed  the  more.     When  you  were 

here 
My  spirit  often  burned  to  tell  you  all; 
I  urged  the  horse  up  to  the  leap,  it  shied 
At  something  in  the  hedge.     This  must  not  last; 
In  sliame  and  sorrow,  ere  I  sleep  to-night, 
I'll  slirive  my  inmost  soul. 

I  have  knelt,  and  sworn 
By  the  sweet  heavens— I  have  madly  prayed 


To  be  by  them  forsaken,  when  I  forsake 
A  girl  whose  lot  should  be  to  sleep  content 
Upon  a  peasant's  breast,  and  toil  all  day 
'Mong  flaxen-headed  children.     She  sits  to-night, 
When  all  the  little  town  is  lost  in  dream. 
Her  lax  hands  sunk  in  her  neglected  work. 
Thinking  of  me.     Smile  not,  my  man  of  law. 
Who,  with  a  peering  candle,  walkest  through 
Black  places  in  men's  hearts,  which  only  hear 
The  foot  of  conscience  at  the  dead  of  night ! 
Her  name  might  slip  into  my  holiest  prayer; 
Her  breath  has  come  and  gone  upon  my  cheek. 
Yet  I  dare  stand  before  my  mother's  face. 
Dare  look  into  the  heavenly  eyes  that  yearn 
For  ever  through  a  mist  of  golden  hair. 
With  uo  shame  on  my  brow.     'Tis  not  that  way 
My  trouble  looks.     Yet,  friend,  in  simple  truth, 
Could  this  thing  be  obliterated  quite, 
Expunged  for  ever,  like  a  useless  cloak 
I'd  fling  off  my  possessions,  and  go  forth. 
My  roof  the  weeping  heaven. 

Though  I  would  die 
Rather  than  give  her  pain,  I  grimly  smile 
To  think,  were  I  assured  this  horrid  dream 
Wliich  poisons  day  to  me,  would  only  prove 
A  breath  upon  the  mirror  of  her  mind — 
A  moment  dim,  then  gone  (an  issue  which, 
C'ould  1  have  blotted  out  all  memory. 
Would  let  me  freely  breathe)— tliis  love  would 

turn 
To  bitterest  gall  of  hate.     0  vanity, 
Thou  god  who  on  the  altar  thou  hast  built 
Pilest  myrrh  and  frankincense,  appliest  the  flame. 
Then  snuff 'st  the  smoky  incense,  high  and  calm! 
Thou  nimble  Proteus  of  all  human  shapes! 
Malvolio,  cross-gartered  in  the  sun. 
The  dying  martyr,  gazing  from  his  fire 
Upon  the  opened  heavens,  filled  with  crowds 
Of  glorious  angel-faces:— thou  art  all 
We  smile  at,  all  we  hymn!     For  thee  we  blush. 
For  thee  shed  noble  tears!     The  glowing  coal. 
O'er  which  the  frozen  beggar  spreads  his  hands, 
Is  of  one  essence  with  the  diamond. 
That  on  the  hauglity  forehead  of  a  queen 
Trembles  with  dewy  light.  Could  /,  through  pain. 
Give  back  the  peace  I  stole,  my  heart  would  leap; 
Could  she  forget  me  and  regain  content — 
How  deeply  I  am  wronged! 

"  Is  it  the  ancient  trouble  of  my  house 
That  makes  the  hour  so  terrible?     Other  men 
Live  to  more  purpose  than  those  monstrous  weeds 
Tliat  drink  a  breadth  of  sunshine,  and  give  back 
Nor  hue  nor  fragrance;  but  my  spirit  droo^js, 
A  dead  and  idle  banner  from  its  staff. 
Unstirred  by  any  wind.     Within  a  cell, 
Without  a  straw  to  play  with,  or  a  nail 
To  carve  my  sorrow  on  the  gloomy  stone, 
I  sit  and  watch,  from  stagnant  day  to  day. 
The  bloated  spider  hanging  on  its  tlu-ead. 
The  dull  fly  on  the  wall.     The  blessed  sleep 


ALEXANDER  SMITH. 


471 


For  which  none  arc  too  poor;  the  sleep  that  comes  ' 

So  sweetly  to  the  weary  labourin.?  man, 

The  march-worn  soldier  on  the  naked  ground, 

The  martyr  in  the  pauses  of  the  rack, 

Drives  me  through  forests  full  of  cb-eadful  eyes. 

Flings  me  o'er  precipices,  makes  me  kneel, 

A  sentenced  man,  before  the  dark  platoon. 

Or  lays  me  helpless  in  the  dim  embrace 

Of  formless  horror.      Long  ago,  two  foes 

Lay  in  the  yellow  evening  iu  their  gore: 

Like  a  malignant  fury,  that  wild  hour 

Threw  madness  in  the  river  of  our  blood: 

Though  it  has  run  for  thrice  a  century. 

Been  sweetened  all  the  way  by  mothers'  tears, 

'Tis  poisoned  until  now. 

See  how  I  stand 
Delaying  on  the  brink,  like  one  who  fears 
And  yet  would  meet  the  chill !     When  you  were 

here 
You  saw  a  sraoking-cap  among  my  books; 
A  fond  and  fluttering  letter  badly  spelt, 
Each  sentence  headed  with  a  little  )', 
Came  with  it,  read  with  ablush,  tossed  in  the  fire, 
Nor  answered  yet.     Can  you  not  now  detect 
The  snail's  slime  on  the  rose  ? 

This  miserable  thing 
Grew  round  me  like  the  ivy  round  the  oak; 
Sweet  were  its  early  creeping  rings,  though  now 
I  choke,  from  knotted  root  to  highest  bough. 
In  those  too  happy  days  I  could  not  name 
This  stranga  new  thing  which  came  upon  my 

youth. 
But  yielded  to  its  sweetness.     Fling  it  off  ? 
Trample  it  down  ?     Bid  me  pluck  out  the  eye 
In  which  the  sweet  world  dwells  ! — One  night  she 

wept; 
It  seemed  so  strange  that  I  could  make  her  weep: 
Kisses  may  lie,  but  tears  are  surely  true. 
Then  unbelief  came  back  in  solitude. 
And  love  grew  cruel;  and  to  be  assured 
Cried  out  for  tears,  and  with  a  shaking  hand 
And  a  wild  heart  that  could  have  almost  burst 
With  utter  tenderness,  yet  would  not  spare. 
He  clutched  her  heart,  and  at  the  starting  tears 
Grew  soft  with  all  remorse.    For  those  mad  hotu-s 
Remembrance  frets  my  heart  in  solitude, 
As  the  lone  mouse  when  all  the  house  is  still 
Gnaws  at  the  wainscot. 

'Tis  a  haunting  face, 
Yet  oftentimes  I  think  I  love  her  not; 
Love's  white  hand  flutters  o'er  my  spirit's  keys 
Unkissed  by  grateful  music.     Oft  I  think 
The  Lady  Florence  at  the  county  ball. 
Quenching  the  beauties  as  the  lightning  dims 
The  candles  in  a  room,  scarce  smiles  so  sweet. 
The  one  oppresses  like  a  crown  of  gold. 
The  other  gladdens  like  a  beam  in  spring. 
Stealing  across  a  dim  field,  making  blithe 
Its  daisies  one  by  one. — I  deemed  that  I 
Had  broke  my  house  of  bondage,  when  one  night 
The  memory  of  her  face  came  back  so  sweet. 


And  stood  between  mc  and  the  printed  page; 
And  phantoms  of  a  thousand  happy  looks 
Smiled  from  the  dark.     It  was  the  old  weak  tale 
AVhich  time  has  told  from  Adam  till  this  hour: 
The  slave  comes  back,  takes  tip  his  bri)ken  chain. 
I  rode  through  stonn  toward  the  little  town; 
The  minster,  gleamed  on  by  the  flying  moon. 
Tolled  midnight  as  I  passed.     I  only  sought 
To  see  the  line  of  light  beneath  her  door. 
The  knowledge  of  her  nearness  was  so  sweet. 
Hid  in  the  darkness  of  the  church,  I  watched 
Her  window  like  a  shrine:  a  Ught  came  iu, 
And  a  soft  shadow  broke  along  the  roof; 
She  raised  the  window  and  leaned  forth  awhile. 
I  could  have  fallen  down  and  kissed  her  feet; 
The  poor  dear  heart,  I  knew  it  could  not  rest; 
I  stood  between  her  and  the  light— my  shade 
Fell  'cross  her  silver  sphere.   The  window  closed. 
When  morn  -ft-ith  cold  bleak  crimson  laced  the 

east. 
Against  a  stream  of  raw  and  rainy  wind 
I  rode  back  to  the  Hall. 

The  play-book  tells 
How  Fortune's  slippery  wheel  in  Syracuse 
Flung  prosperous  lordship  to  the  chilly  shades, 
Heaved  serfdom  to  the  sun :  in  precious  silks 
Charwomen    flounced,    and    scullions    sat    and 

laughed 
In  golden  chairs,  to  see  their  fellows  play 
At  football  with  a  crown.     Within  my  heart 
In  this  old  house,  when  all  the  fiends  are  here, 
The  stoiy  is  renewed.     Peace  only  comes 
With  a  wild  ride  across  the  barren  domis. 
One  look  upon  her  face.     She  ne'er  complains 
Of  my  long  absences,  my  hasty  speech, — 
'  Crumbs  from  thy  table  are  enough  for  me.' 
She  only  asks  to  be  allowed  to  lean 
Her  head  against  my  breast  a  little  while, 
And  she  is  paid  for  all.     I  choke  with  tears, 
And  think  myself  a  devil  from  the  pit 
Loved  by  an  angel.     0  that  she  would  change 
This  tenderness  and  drooping-lily  look. 
The  flutter  when  I  come,  the  unblaming  voice, 
Wet  eyes  held  up  to  kiss— one  flash  of  fire, 
A  moment's  start  of  keen  and  crimson  scorn. 
Would  make  me  hers  for  ever! 

I  draw  my  birth 
From  a  long  line  of  gallant  gentlemen, 
Wlio  only  feared  a  he— but  what  is  this? 
I  dare  not  slight  the  daughter  of  a  peer; 
Her  kindred  could  avenge.     Yet  I  dare  play 
And  palter  vdi\\  the  pure  soul  of  a  girl 
Witliout  a  friend,  who,  smitten,  speaks  no  word. 
But  with  a  helpless  face  sinks  in  the  grave 
And  takes  her  wrongs  to  God.     Thou  dark  Sir 

Ralph, 
Who  lay  with  broken  lirand  on  Marston  Moor, 
What  think  you  of  this  son  ? 

"  This  prison  that  I  dwell  in  hath  two  dooi-s— 
Desertion,  marriage;  both  are  shut  by  shame, 


472 


ALEXANDEE   SMITH. 


And  barred  by  cowardice.     A  stronger  man 
Would  screw  his  heart  up  to  the  bitter  wrench, 
And  break  tln-ough  either  and  regain  the  air. 
I  cannot  give  myself  or  others  pain. 
I  wear  a  conscience  nice  and  scrupulous, 
Which,  while  it  hesitates  to  draw  a  tear, 
Lets  a  heart  break.     Conscience  should  be  clear- 
eyed. 
And  look  tlu'ough  years:  conscience  is  tenderest 

oft 
When  clad  in  sternness,  when  it  smites  to-day, 
To  stay  the  ruin  which  it  hears  afar 
Upon  the  wind.     Pure  womanhood  is  meek — • 
But  which  is  nobler,  the  hysterical  girl 
Weeping  o'er  flies  huddling  in  slips  of  sun 
On  autumn  sills,  who  has  not  heart  enough 
To  crush  a  wounded  grasshopper  and  end 
Torture  at  once;  or  she,  with  flashing  eyes. 
Among  the  cannon,  a  heroic  foot 
Ui3on  a  fallen  breast  ?    Ivly  nerveless  will 
Is  Uke  a  traitorous  second,  and  deserts 
My  purpose  in  the  very  gap  of  need. 
I  groan  beneath  this  cowardice  of  heart, 
Which  rolls  the  evil  to  be  borne  to-day 
Upon  to-morrow,  loading  it  with  gloom. 
The  man  who  clothes  the  stony  moor  with  green, 
In  vii'tue  of  the  beauty  he  creates. 
Has  there  a  right  to  dwell.     And  ho  who  stands 
Firm  in  the  shifting  sand  and  drift  of  things. 
And  rears  from  out  the  wasteful  elements 
An  ordered  home,  in  which  the  awful  Gods, 
The  lighter  Graces,  serene  Muses,  dwell. 
Holds  in  that  masterdom  the  chartered  right 
To  his  demesne  of  time.     But  I  hold  none; 
I  live  by  sufferance,  am  weak  and  vain 
As  a  shed  leaf  upon  a  turbid  stream. 
Or  an  abandoned  boat  which  can  but  drift 
Whither  the  currents  draw — to  maelstrom  or 
To  green  delicious  shores.     I  should  have  had 
My  pendant  cradle  rocked  by  laughing  winds 
Within  some  innocent  and  idle  isle 
Where  the  sweet  bread-fruit  ripens  and  falls  down. 
Where  the  swollen  pumpkin  lollsuponthe  ground. 
The  lithe  and  slippery  savage,  drenched  with  oil, 
Sleeps  in  the  sun,  and  life  is  lazy  ease. 
But  lamentation  and  complaint  are  vain: 
The  skies  are  stem  and  serious  as  doom ; 
The  avalanche  is  loosened  by  a  laugh; 
And  he  who  throws  the  dice  of  destiny, 
Though  with  a  sportive  and  unthinking  hand. 
Must  bide  the  issue,  be  it  life  or  death. 
One  path  is  clear  before  me.     It  may  lead 
O'er  perilous  rock,  'cross  sands  without  a  well. 
Through  deep  and  difficult  chasms,  but  therein 
The  whiteness  of  the  soul  is  kept,  ami  that, 
Not  joy  nor  happiness,  is  victory. 

"Ah,  she  is  not  the  creature  who  T  dreamed 
Shoulrl  one  day  walk  beside  me  dearly  loved: 
No  fair  majestic  woman,  voiil  of  fear, 
And  unabashed  fropi  purity  of  heart; 


No  girl  with  liquid  eyes  and  shadowy  hair. 
To  sing  at  twilight  like  a  nightingale. 
Or  fill  the  silence  with  her  glimmering  smiles, 
Deeper  than  speech  or  song.     She  has  no  birth. 
No  dowry,  graces;  no  accomplishments, 
Save  a  pure  cheek,  a  fearless  imiocent  brow. 
And  a  true  beating  heart.     She  is  no  bank 
Of  rare  exotics  which  o'ercome  the  .sense 
With  perfumes — only  fresh  uncultured  soil 
With  a  wild-violet  grace  and  sweetness  born 
Of  Nature's  teeming  foison.     Is  this  not 
Enough  to  sweeten  life  ?     Could  one  not  live 
On  brown  bread,  clearest  water?     Is  this  love 
(What  idle  poets  feign  in  fabling  songs) 
An  unseen  god,  whose  voice  is  heard  but  once 
In  youth's  green  valleys,  ever  dead  and  mute 
'Mong  manhood's  iron  hills  ?   A  power  that  comes 
On  the  instant,  whelming,  like  the  light  that 

smote 
Saul  from  his  horse;  never  a  thing  that  draws 
Its  exquisite  being  from  the  light  of  smiles 
And  low  sweet  tones  and  fond  companionship  ? 
Brothers  and  sisters  grow  up  by  our  sides, 
Unfelt  and  silently  are  knit  to  us. 
And  one  flesh  with  our  hearts;  would  love  not 

grow 
In  the  communion  of  long-wedded  years. 
Sweet  as  the  dawning  light,  the  greening  spring? 
Would  not  an  infant  be  the  marriage  priest, 
To  stand  between  us  and  unite  oiu-  hands, 
And  bid  us  love  and  be  obeyed?  its  life, 
A  fountain,  with  a  cooling  fringe  of  green 
Amid  the  arid  sands,  by  which  we  twain 
Could  dwell  in  deep  content?    My  sunshine  di'cw 
This  odorous  blossom  from  the  bough;  why  then 
With  frosty  fingers  wither  it,  and  seal  up 
Sun-ripened  fruit  within  its  barren  rind. 
Killing  all  sweet  delights?    I  drew  it  foi-th: 
If  there  is  suffering,  let  me  bear  it  all. 

"  A  very  Uttle  goodness  goes  for  much. 
Walk  'mong  my  peasants — every  urchin's  face 
Lights  at  my  coming;  girls  at  cottage-doors 
Rise  from  their  work  and  curtsey  as  I  pass, 
And  old  men  bless  me  with  their  .silent  tears! 
What  have  I  done  for  this?     I'm  kind,  they  say. 
Give  coals  in  winter,  cordials  for  the  sick, 
And  once  a  fortnight  stroke  a  curly  head 
Which  hides  half-frightened  in  a  russet  gown. 
'Tis  easy  for  the  sun  to  shine.     My  alms 
Are  to  my  riches  like  a  beam  to  him. 
They  love  me,  these  poor  hinds,  though  I  have 

ne'er 
Resigned  a  pleasure,  let  a  whim  be  crossed, 
Pinched  for  an  hour  the  stomach  of  desire 
For  one  of  them.     Good  Heaven!  what  am  I 
To  be  thus  servitored  ?    Am  I  to  range 
Like  tlic  discoursclcss  creatures  of  the  wood. 
Without  the  connnon  dignity  of  pain, 
Without  a  pale  or  limit?     To  take  up  love 
For  its  strange  sweetness,  and  whene'er  it  tires. 


ALEXANDER   SMITH. 


473 


Fling  it  aside  as  careless  as  I  brvisli 

A  gnat  from  off  my  arm,  and  go  m\'  way 

Untwinged  with  keen  remorse?  All  this  must  end. 

Fii-m  land  at  last  begins  to  peer  above 

The  ebbing  waves  of  hesitance  and  doubt. 

Throughout  this  deepening  spring  my  purpose 

grows 
To  flee  with  her  to  those  young  morning  lands- 
Australia,  where  the  earth  is  gold,  or  where 
The  prairies  roll  toward  the  setting  sun. 
Not  Lady  Florence  with  her  coronet, 
Flinging  white  arms  around  me,  murmuring 
'  Husband'  upon  my  breast — not  even  that 
Could  make  me  happy,  if  I  left  a  grave 
On  which  the  shadow  of  the  village  spire 
Should  rest  at  eve.     The  pain,  if  pain  there  bo, 
I'll  keep  locked  up  within  my  secret  heart, 
And  wear  what  joy  I  have  upon  my  face; 
And  she  shall  live  and  laugh,  and  never  know. 

"  Come,  brother,  at  your  earliest,  down  tome. 
To-morrow  night  I  sleep  at  Ferny-Chase: 
There,  shadowed  by  the  memory  of  the  dead, 
We'll  talk  of  this.  My  thought,  mayhap,  will  take 
A  different  hue,  seen  in  your  purer  light, 
Free  from  all  stain  of  passion.     Ere  you  come. 
Break  that  false  mirror  of  your  ridicule. 
Looking  in  which,  the  holiest  saint  beholds 
A  grinning  jackanapes,  and  hates  himself. 
More  men  hath  laughter  driven  from  the  right 
Than  terror  clad  with  fire.  You  have  been  young, 
And  know  the  mystery,  that  when  we  love. 
We  love  the  thing,  not  only  for  itself. 
But  somewhat  also  for  the  love  we  give. 
Think  of  the  genial  season  of  your  youth 
When  j^ou  dwelt  here,  and  come  with  serious 
heart." 

So,  in  that  bitter  quarter  sits  the  wind: 
The  village  fool  could  tell,  unless  it  shifts 
'Twill  bring  the  rain  in  fiercest  fiawsand  drifts! 
How  wise  we  are,  yet  blind. 
Judging  the  wood's  grain  from  the  outer  rind; 
Wrapt  in  the  twilight  of  this  prison  dim, 
He  envies  me,  I  envy  him ! 

The  stream  of  my  existence  boils  and  leaps 
Through  broken  rainbows  'mong  the  purple  fells, 
And  breaks  its  heart  'mid  rocks,  close  jammed, 

confined. 
And  plunges  in  a  chasm  black  and  blind, 
To  rage  in  hollow  gulfs  and  iron  hells. 
And  thence  escaping,  tamed  and  broken,  creeps 
Away  in  a  wild  sweat  of  beads  and  bells. 
Though  /lis  slides  lazy  tbrough  the  milky  meads. 
And  once  a  week  the  sleepy  slow-trailed  bai'ge 
Rocks  the  broad  water-lilies  on  its  marge, 
A  dead  face  wavers  from  the  oozy  weeds. 
It  is  but  little  matter  where  we  dwell. 
In  fortune's  centre,  on  her  utter  verge; 
Whether  to  death  our  weary  steps  we  urge, 


Or  ride  with  ringing  bridle,  golden  selle. 

Life  is  one  pattern  wrought  in  different  hues, 

And  there  is  nought  to  choose 

Between  its  sad  and  gay— 'tis  but  to  groan 

Upon  a  rainy  common  or  a  throne, 

Bleed  'neath  the  purple  or  the  peasant's  serge. 

At  his  call  I  will  go. 
Though  it  is  very  little  love  can  do; 
In  spite  of  all  affection  tried  and  true, 
Each  man  alone  must  struggle  with  his  woe. 
He  pities  her,  for  he  has  done  her  wrong, 
And  w-ould  repair  the  evil— noble  deed, 
To  flash  and  tingle  in  a  minstrel's  song. 
To  move  the  laughter  of  our  modem  breed ! 
And  yet  the  world  is  wise;  each  ciu-ve  and  round 
Of  custom's  road  is  no  result  of  chance; 
It  cuiwes  but  to  avoid  some  treacherous  ground. 
Some  quagmire  in  the  wilds  of  circumstance; 
Nor  safely  left.     The  long-drawn  caravan 
Wavers   through  heat,  then   files  o'er   Mecca's 

stones; 
Far  in  the  blinding  desert  lie  the  bones 
Of  the  proud-hearted  solitary  man. 
He  marries  her,  but  ere  the  year  has  died, — 
'Tis  an  old  tale, — they  wander  to  the  grave 
With  hot  revolting  hearts,  yet  lashed  and  tied 
Like  galley-slave  to  slave. 

Love  should  not  stoop  to  love,  like  prince  to  lord: 
While  o'er  their  heads  proud  Cupid  claps  his 

wngs. 
Love  should  meet  love  upon  the  marriage  sward, 
And  kiss,  like  crowned  kings. 
If  both  are  hurt,  then  let  them  bear  the  pain 
Upon  their  separate  paths;  'twill  die  at  last: 
The  deed  of  one  rash  moment  may  remain 
To  darken  all  the  future  with  the  past. 
And  yet  I  cannot  tell, — the  beam  that  kills 
The  gipsy's  fire  kindles  the  desert  flower; 
Where  he  plucks  blessings  I  may  gather  ills, 
And  in  his  sweetest  sweet  find  sourest  sour. 
If  what  of  wisdom  and  experience 
My  years  have  brought,  be  either  guide  or  aid. 
They  shall  be  his,  though  to  my  mournful  sense 
The  lights  will  steal  away  from  wood  and  glade; 
The  garden  will  be  sad  with  all  its  glows, 
And  I  shall  hear  the  glistening  laurels  talk 
Of  her,  as  I  pass  under  in  the  walk, 
And  my  light  step  will  thrill  each  conscious  rose. 

The  lark  hangs  high  o'er  Ferny-Chase 
In  slant  of  sun,  in  twinkle  of  rain; 
Though  loud  and  clear,  the  song  I  hear 
Is  half  of  joy  and  half  of  pain. 
I  know  by  heart  the  dear  old  place, 
The  place  where  spring  and  summer  meet — 
By  heart,  like  those  old  ballad  rhymes 
O'er  which  I  brood  a  million  times, 
And  sink  from  sweet  to  deeper  sweet. 
I  know  the  changes  of  the  idle  skies, 
The  idle  shapes  in  which  the  clouds  arc  blown; 


474 


ALEXANDER  SMITH. 


The  dear  old  place  is  now  before  mj^  eyes, 

Yea,  to  the  daisy's  shadow  on  the  stone. 

When  through  the  golden  furnace  of  the  heat 

The  far-off  landscape  seems  to  shake  and  beat, 

Within  the  lake  I  see  old  Hodge's  cows 

Stand  in  their  shadows  in  a  tranquil  drowse, 

While  o'er  them  hangs  a  restless  steam  of  flies. 

I  see  the  clustered  chimneys  of  the  Hall 

Stretch  o'er  the  lawn  toward  the  blazing  lake; 

And  in  the  dewy  even-fall 

I  hear  the  mellow  thrushes  call 

From  tree  to  tree,  from  brake  to  brake. 

Ah!  when  I  thither  go 

I  know  that  my  joy-emptied  eyes  shall  see 

A  white  ghost  wandering  where  the  lilies  blow, 

A  sorrow  sitting  by  the  trysting  tree. 

I  kiss  this  soft  curl  of  her  living  hair, 

'Tis  full  of  light  as  when  she  did  unlnnd 

Her  sudden  ringlets,  making  bright  the  wind: 

'Tis  here,  but  she  is — where? 

Why  do  I,  like  a  child  impatient,  weep  ? 

Delight  dies  like  a  wreath  of  frosted  breath; 

Though  here  I  toil  upon  the  barren  deep, 

I  see  the  sunshine  yonder  lie  asleep, 

Upon  the  calm  and  beauteous  shores  of  death. 

Ah,  Maurice,  let  thy  human  heart  decide, 

The  first  best  pilot  through  distracting  jars. 

The  lowliest  roof  of  love  at  least  will  liide 

The  desolation  of  the  lonely  stars. 

Stretched  on  the  painful  rack  of  forty  years, 

I've  learned  at  last  the  sad  philosophy 

Of  the  unhoping  heart,  unshrinking  eye— 

God  knows;  my  icy  wisdom  and  my  sneers 

Are  frozen  tears! 

The  day  wears,  and  I  go. 
Farewell,  Elijah!  may  you  heartily  dine! 
I  cannot,  David,  see  your  fingers  twine 
In  the  long  hair  of  your  foe. 
Housewife,  adieu.  Heaven  keep  your  ample  form, 
May  custom  never  fail; 

And  may  your  heart,  as  sound  as  j'our  own  ale, 
Be  soured  by  never  a  storm ! 

Though  I  have  travelled  now  for  twice  an  hour 
I  have  not  heard  a  bird  or  seen  a  flower. 
This  wild  road  has  a  little  mountain  rill 
To  sing  to  it,  ah!  happier  than  T. 
How  desolate  the  region,  and  how  still 
The  idle  earth  looks  on  the  idle  sky! 
I  trace  the  river  by  its  wandering  green; 
The  vale  contracts  to  a  steep  pass  of  fear, 
Anil  through  the  midnight  of  the  {)ines  I  hear 
The  torrent  raging  down  the  long  ravine. 
At  last  I've  reached  the  summit  high  and  bare; 
I  fling  myself  on  heather  dry  and  brown: 
As  silent  as  a  picture  lies  the  town, 
Its  peaceful  smokes  are  curling  in  the  air; 
The  bay  is  one  deliciotis  sheet  of  I'ose, 
And  round  the  far  point  of  the  tinted  cliffs 
I  see  the  long  strings  of  the  fishing  skiffs 


Come  home  to  roost  like  lines  of  evening  crows. 
I  can  be  idle  only  one  day  more 
As  the  nets  drjnng  on  the  sunny  shore; 
Thereafter,  chambers,  still  'mid  thronged  resorts. 
Strewn  books  and  littered  parchments,  nought 

to  see, 
Save  a  charwoman's  face,  a  dingy  tree, 
A  fountain  plashing  in  the  empty  courts. 

But  let  me  hasten  down  this  shepherd's  track. 
The  night  is  at  my  back. 


THE  NIGHT  BEFORE  THE  WEDDING. 

The  country  ways  are  full  of  mire. 

The  boughs  toss  in  the  fading  light. 

The  winds  blow  out  the  sunset's  fire. 

And  sudden  droppeth  down  the  night. 

I  sit  in  this  familiar  room. 

Where  mud-splashed  hunting  squires  resort; 

My  sole  companion  in  the  gloom 

This  slowly  dying  pint  of  port. 

'Mong  all  the  joys  my  soul  hath  known, 
'Mong  errors  over  which  it  grieves, 
I  sit  at  this  dark  hour  alone. 
Like  autumn  mid  his  wither'd  leaves. 
This  is  a  night  of  wild  farewells 
To  all  the  past;  the  good,  the  fair; 
To-morrow,  and  my  wedding  bells 
Will  make  a  music  in  the  air. 

Like  a  wet  fisher  tempest-tost. 

Who  sees  throughout  the  weltering  nighi 

Afar  on  some  low-lying  coast 

The  streaming  of  a  rainy  light, 

I  saw  this  hour, — and  now  'tis  come; 

The  rooms  are  lit,  the  feast  is  sot; 

Within  the  twilight  I  am  dumb. 

My  heart  fill'd  with  a  vague  regret. 

I  cannot  say,  in  Eastern  style, 
Where'er  she  treads  the  pansy  blows; 
Nor  call  her  eyes  twin-stars,  her  smile 
A  sunbeam,  and  her  montli  a  rose. 
Nor  can  I,  as  your  bridegrooms  do. 
Talk  of  my  raptures.     Oh,  how  sore 
The  fond  romance  of  twenty-two 
Is  parodied  ere  thirty-four! 

To-night  I  shake  hands  with  the  past,— 

Familiar  years,  adieu,  adieu ! 

An  unknown  door  is  open  cast, 

An  empty  future  wide  and  new 

Stands  waiting.     0  ye  naked  rooms, 

Void,  desolate,  without  a  charm, 

Will  love's  smile  chase  your  lonely  glooms. 

And  drape  your  walls,  and  make  them  warm  > 

The  man  who  knew,  while  he  was  young, 
Some  soft  and  soul-subduing  air. 


ALEXANDER  SMITH. 


475 


Melts  when  again  he  hears  it  sung. 
Although  'tis  only  half  so  fair. 
So  love  I  thee,  and  love  is  sweet 
(My  Florence,  'tis  the  cruel  truth) 
Because  it  can  to  age  repeat 
That  long-lost  passion  of  my  youth. 

Oh,  often  did  my  spirit  melt, 
Blurred  letters,  o'er  your  artless  rhymes! 
Fair  tress,  in  which  the  sunshine  dwelt, 
I've  kissed  thee  many  a  million  times! 
And  now  'tis  done. — My  passionate  tears, 
Mad  pleadings  with  an  iron  fate, 
And  all  the  sweetness  of  my  years 
Are  blacken'd  ashes  in  the  grate. 

Then  ring  in  the  wind,  my  wedding  chimes; 

Smile,  villagers,  at  every  door; 

Old  churchyard,  stuff"d  with  buried  crimes. 

Be  clad  in  sunshine  o'er  and  o'er; 

And  youthful  maidens,  white  and  sweet. 

Scatter  your  blossoms  far  and  wide; 

And  with  a  bridal  chorus  greet 

This  happy  bridegroom  and  his  bride. 

"  This  happy  bridegroom  !"  there  is  sin 
At  bottom  of  my  thankless  mood: 
Wliat  if  desert  alone  could  win 
For  me,  life's  chief  est  grace  and  good? 
Love  gives  itself;  and  if  not  given. 
No  genius,  beauty,  state,  or  wit. 
No  gold  of  earth,  no  gem  of  heaven, 
Is  rich  enough  to  purchase  it. 

It  may  be,  Florence,  lo-ving  thee, 
My  heart  will  its  old  memories  keep; 
Like  some  w'orn  sea-shell  from  the  sea, 
Fill'd  with  the  music  of  the  deep. 
And  you  may  watch,  on  nights  of  rain, 
A  shadow  on  my  brow  encroach; 
Be  startled  by  my  sudden  pain. 
And  tenderness  of  self-reproach. 

It  may  be  that  your  lo\'ing  wiles 
Will  call  a  sigh  from  far-off  years; 
It  may  be  that  your  happiest  smiles 
Will  brim  my  eyes  with  hopeless  tears; 
It  may  be  that  my  sleeping  breath 
Will  shake,  with  painful  visions  wrung; 
And,  in  the  awful  trance  of  death, 
A  sti-anger's  name  be  on  my  toug-ue. 

Ye  phantoms,  born  of  bitter  blood, 
Ye  ghosts  of  passion,  lean  and  worn, 
Ye  terrors  of  a  lonely  mood. 
What  do  you  here  on  a  wedding  morn  ? 
For,  as  the  dawning  sweet  and  fast 
Through  all  the  heaven  spreads  and  flows, 
Within  Ufe's  discord  rude  and  vast. 
Love's  subtle  music  grows  and  grows. 

And  hghten'd  is  the  heavy  curse, 
And  clearer  is  the  weary  road; 


The  very  worm  the  sea-wccds  nurse 

Is  cared  for  by  the  Eternal  God. 

My  love,  pale  blossom  of  the  snow, 

Has  pierced  earth  wet  with  wintry  showers,- 

0  may  it  drink  the  sun,  and  blow. 

And  be  followed  by  all  the  year  of  flowers! 

Black  Bayard  from  the  stable  bring; 
The  rain  is  o'er,  the  wind  is  down. 
Round  stirring  fanns  the  birds  will  sing, 
The  dawn  stand  in  the  sleeping  town, 
Witliiu  an  hour.     This  is  her  gate, 
Her  sodden  roses  droop  in  night, 
And— emblem  of  my  happy  fate —  ^ 

In  one  dear  window  there  is  light. 

The  dawn  is  oozing  pale  and  cold 
Through  the  damp  east  for  many  a  mile; 
When  half  my  tale  of  life  is  told 
Grim-featured  Time  begins  to  smile. 
Last  star  of  night  that  lingerest  yet 
In  that  long  rift  of  rainy  gray, 
Gather  thy  wasted  splendours,  set, 
And  die  into  my  wedding-day. 


GLASGOW. 

Sing,  poet,  'tis  a  merry  world; 

That  cottage  smoke  i.s  rolled  and  curled 

In  sport,  that  every  moss 
Is  happy,  every  inch  of  soil; — 
Before  me  runs  a  road  of  toil 

With  my  grave  cut  across. 
Sing,  trailing  showers  and  breezy  downs — 
/  know  the  tragic  hearts  of  towns. 

City!  I  am  true  son  of  thine; 

Ne'er  dwelt  I  where  great  mornings  shine 

Around  the  bleating  pens; 
Xe'cr  by  the  rivulets  I  strayed, 
And  ne'er  upon  my  childhood  weighed 

The  silence  of  the  glens. 
Instead  of  shores  where  ocean  beats 
I  hear  the  ebb  and  flow  of  streets. 

Black  labour  draws  his  weary  waves 
Into  their  secret-moaning  caves; 

But  with  the  morning  light 
That  sea  again  will  overflow 
With  a  long  weary  sound  of  woe, 

Again  to  faint  in  night. 
Wave  am  I  in  that  sea  of  woes, 
Which  night  and  morning  ebbs  and  flows. 

I  dwelt  within  a  gloomy  court. 
Wherein  did  never  sunbeam  sjiort; 

Yet  there  my  heart  was  stirred — 
J[y  very  blood  did  dance  and  tlnill, 
When  on  my  narrow  wiudow-sill 


476 


ALEXANDEE   SMITH. 


Spring  lighted  like  a  bird. 
Poor  flo\ver;s,  I  watched  them  pine  for  weeks, 
AVith  leaves  as  pale  as  human  cheeks. 

Afar,  one  summer,  I  was  borne; 
Througli  golden  vapours  of  the  morn, 

I  heard  the  hills  of  sheep: 
I  trod  with  a  wild  ecstacy 
The  bright  fringe  of  the  living  sea: 

And  on  a  ruined  keep 
I  sat,  and  watched  an  endless  plain 
Blacken  beneath  the  gloom  of  rain. 

0  fair  the  lightly  sprinkled  waste, 
0"er  which  a  laughing  shower  has  raced! 
0  fair  the  April  siioots! 

0  fair  the  Avoods  on  summer  days, 
While  a  blue  hyacinthine  haze 

Is  dreaming  round  the  roots! 
In  thee,  0  city,  I  discern 
Another  beauty,  sad  and  stern. 

Draw  thy  fierce  streams  of  blinding  ore, 
Smite  on  a  thousand  anvils,  roar 

Down  to  the  harbour-bars; 
Smoulder  in  smoky  sunsets,  flare 
On  rainy  nights,  with  street  and  square 

Lie  empty  to  the  stars. 
From  terrace  proud  to  alley  base 

1  know  thee  as  my  mother's  face. 

"When  sunset  bathes  thee  in  his  gold, 
In  wreaths  of  bronze  thy  sides  are  rolled, 

Thy  smoke  is  dusky  fire; 
And,  from  the  glory  round  thee  poured, 
A  sunbeam  like  an  angel's  sword 

Shivers  upon  a  spire. 
Thus  have  I  watched  thee,  terror!  dream! 
While  the  blue  night  crept  up  the  stream. 

The  wild  train  plunges  in  the  hills. 
He  shrieks  across  the  midnight  rills; 

Streams  through  the  shifting  glare, 
The  roar  and  flap  of  foundry  fires, 
That  shake  with  light  the  sleeping  shires; 

And  on  the  moorlands  bare, 
He  sees  afar  a  crown  of  light 
Hung  o'er  thee  in  the  hollow  night. 

At  midnight,  when  thy  suburbs  lie 
As  silent  as  a  noon-day  sky, 

AVhen  larks  with  heat  arc  mute, 
I  love  to  linger  on  tiiy  bridge, 
All  lonely  as  a  mountain-ridge. 

Disturbed  but  by  my  foot; 
While  the  black  lazy  stream  beneath 
Steals  from  its  far-off  wilds  of  heath. 

.\nd  through  thy  heart,  as  through  a  dream, 
Flows  on  that  black  disdainful  stream; 


All  scornfully  it  flows, 
Between  the  huddled  gloom  of  masts. 
Silent  as  pines  unvexed  by  blasts  — 

'Tween  lamps  in  streaming  rows. 
0  wondrous  sight!  0  stream  of  dread! 

0  long  dark  river  of  the  dead! 

Afar,  the  banner  of  the  year 
Unfurls:  but  dimly  prisoned  here, 

'Tis  only  Avhen  I  greet 
A  dropt  rose  lying  in  my  way, 
A  buttei'fly  that  flutters  gay 

Athwart  the  noisy  street, 

1  know  the  happy  summer  smiles 
Around  thy  suburbs,  miles  on  miles. 

'Twere  neither  pajan  now,  nor  dirge. 
The  flash  and  thunder  of  the  surge 

On  flat  sands  wide  and  bare; 
No  haunting  joy  or  anguish  dwells 
In  the  green  light  of  sunny  dells. 

Or  in  the  starry  air. 
Alike  to  me  the  desert  flower. 
The  rainbow  laughing  o'er  the  shower. 

While  o'er  thy  walls  the  darkness  sails, 
I  lean  against  the  churchyard  rails; 

Up  in  the  midnight  towers 
The  belfried  spire,  the  street  is  dead, 
I  hear  in  silence  overhead 

The  clang  of  iron  hours: 
It  moves  me  not — I  know  her  tomb 
Is  yonder  in  the  shaj^eless  gloom. 

All  raptures  of  this  mortal  bi-eath. 
Solemnities  of  life  and  death. 

Dwell  in  thy  noise  alone; 
Of  me  thou  hast  become  a  part — 
Some  kindred  with  my  human  heart 

Lives  in  thy  streets  of  stone; 
For  we  have  been  familiar  more 
Than  galley-slave  and  weary  oar. 

The  beech  is  dipped  in  wine;  the  shower 
Is  burnished;  on  the  swinging  flower 

The  latest  bee  doth  sit. 
The  low  sun  stares  through  dust  of  gold. 
And  o'er  the  darkening  heath  and  wold 

The  large  ghost-moth  doth  flit. 
In  every  orchard  autumn  stands. 
With  apples  in  his  gulden  hands. 

But  all  these  sights  and  sounds  are  strange; 
Tlien  wherefore  from  thee  should  I  range  ] 

Thou  hast  my  kith  and  kin: 
Aly  childhood,  youth,  and  manhood  brave: 
Thou  hast  that  unforgottcn  grave 

AVithin  thy  central  din. 
A  sacredness  of  love  and  death 
Dwells  in  thv  noise  and  smokv  breath. 


ISA  CRAIG  KNOX. 


477 


ISA    CEAIG    KNOX. 


ISA  Craig  was  born  at  Edinburgli,  October 
17,  1831.  She  is  the  only  child  of  parents 
that  belonged  to  a  middle-class  family  in  Aber- 
deenshire. When  only  a  few  months  old  her 
mother  died;  her  father  afterwards  removed 
to  Aberdeen,  leaving  his  daughter  to  tlie  care 
of  her  grandmother,  wlio  brought  up  her 
young  charge  in  a  very  simple  and  secluded 
manner.  Isa's  school  education  did  not  extend 
beyond  three  years,  and  was  concluded  in  her 
tenth  year.  After  assisting  in  the  various 
household  duties  she  diligently  devoted  every 
spare  hour  to  books,  and  these  not  of  the 
newest  or  lightest  kind — Gibbon,  Addison  and 
his  contemporaries,  Shakspere,  IMilton,  Cowper, 
and  Burns  being  iier  teachers. 

AVhen  about  sixteen  Miss  Craig  ventured  to 
write  a  short  poem  now  and  then,  and  was 
amply  rewarded  by  seeing  her  nameless  effu- 
sions in  print.  In  1851  she  began  to  contribute 
to  the  Scotsman  newspaper  under  the  signa- 
ture ' '  Isa. "  Her  verses  attracted  considerable 
attention,  and  in  185-3  the  proprietor  of  the 
paper  called  on  his  unknown  contributor  and 
proposed  that  she  should  undertake  regular 
literary  work  for  its  columns.  In  the  summer 
of  1857  she  visited  a  lady  friend  in  London, 
by  whom  she  was  introduced  to  Mr.  G.  "\V. 
Hastings,  who  was  then  engaged  in  organizing 
the  National  Association  for  the  Promotion  of 
Social  Science,  and  was  greatly  in  need  of  an 
efficient  assistant.  IMiss  Craig  at  his  request 
undertook  the  task  of  assisting  him  for  the 
three  months  preceding  the  first  meeting  of  the 
Association,  which  was  held  at  Birmingham. 
After  the  meeting  she  was  appointed  by  the 
council  his  assistant  in  the  secretarial  work  of 
the  society — a  position  which  she  held  for  nearly 


nine  years,  and  only  relinquished  in  May,  1866, 
when  she  was  married  to  her  cousin  ]\Ir.  John 
Knox.  In  1858  she  sent  in  a  competitive  poem 
"On  the  Centenary  of  Burns,"  which  gained 
the  prize  of  £50  over  six  hundred  and  twenty 
competitors.  It  was  written  at  a  single  sitting, 
and  was  read  at  the  Crystal  Palace,  Sydenham, 
to  a  vast  audience  collected  to  celebrate  the 
centenary  of  the  Scottish  poet's  birth.  The 
poem  Mas  dictated  more  by  love  for  the  poet 
than  eagerness  for  the  prize,  for  on  the  day  of 
the  award  Miss  Craig  was  absent,  and  being 
busily  occupied  had  forgotten  it  altogether. 

Going  on  steadily  with  her  work  in  the  Asso- 
ciation, editing  under  ilr.  Hastings  its  weighty 
volumes,  and  conducting  its  extensive  corre- 
spondence. Miss  Craig  took  no  advantage  of  the 
popularity  which  the  prize  obtained  for  her.  She 
had  published  a  volume  of  poems  in  1856,  and 
in  1864  she  brought  out  another  volume  en- 
titled Duchess  Afjnes,  d-c,  the  fruits  of  her 
scanty  leisure.  It  is  Avritten  in  the  dramatic 
form,  and  contains  numerous  fine  passages.  Her 
latest  vol  ume,entltled  Soiujs  of  Consolation,  and 
dedicated  to  the  memory  of  the  Kev.  Frederick 
Denison  Maurice,  is  of  a  purely  religious  char- 
acter. Mrs.  Knox  has  contributed  prose  and 
verse  to  Fraser's  Magazine,  to  Good  Words,  and 
various  other  periodicals,  and  has  recently 
written  an  excellent  Little  Folks'  nistory  of 
Emjland.  Her  poetry,  particularly  in  her 
shorter  pieces,  is  characterized  by  much  pathos 
and  deep  religious  sentiment.  A  distinguished 
critic  says  her  poems  "are  far  above  the  average, 
and  possess  such  kindly  qualities  as  will  carry 
them  home  to  many  who  do  not  live  by  the 
sensational  alone,  but  appreciate  true  feeling, 
however  shy — beauty,  however  subdued." 


ODE   ON    THE   CENTENARY  OF  BURNS. 


We  hail,  this  morn, 
A  century's  noblest  birth; 

A  poet  peasant  born, 
Who  more  of  Fame's  immortal  dower 

Unto  his  country  brings 

Than  all  her  kings! 


As  lamps  high  set 
Upon  some  earthly  eminence — 
And  to  the  gazer  brighter  tlience 
Than  the  sphere-Hghts  they  tlout- 
Dwindle  in  distance  and  die  out, 
While  no  star  waneth  yet; 


478 


ISA   CEAIG  KNOX. 


So  through  the  past  far-reaching  night, 
Only  tlie  star-souls  keep  their  light. 

A  gentle  boy — 
With  moods  of  sadness  and  of  mirth, 

Quick  tears  and  sudden  joy — 
Grew  up  beside  the  peasant's  hearth. 
His  father's  toil  he  shares; 
But  half  his  mother's  cares 
From  his  dark-searching  eyes. 
Too  swift  to  sympathize, 
Hid  in  her  heart  she  bears. 

At  early  morn. 
His  father  calls  him  to  the  field; 
Through  the  stiff  soil  that  clogs  his  feet, 

Chill  rain,  and  harvest  heat. 
He  plods  all  day;  returns  at  eve  outworn. 

To  the  rude  fare  a  peasant's  lot  doth  yield; 
To  what  else  was  he  born  ? 

The  God-made  king 
Of  every  living  thing 
(For  his  great  heart  in  love  could  hold  them  all); 
The  dumb  eyes  meeting  his  by  hearth  and  stall — 
Gifted  to  understand ! — 

Knew  it  and  sought  his  hand; 
And  the  most  timorous  creature  had  not  fled. 
Could  she  his  heart  have  read, 
Wliich  fain  all  feeble  things  had  blessed  and  shel- 
tered. 

To  Nature's  feast — 
Who  knew  her  noblest  guest 
And  entertained  him  best — 
Kingly  he  came.     Her  chambers  of  the  East 
She  draped  with  crimson  and  with  gold, 
And  poured  her  pure-joy  wines 
For  him  the  poet-souled. 
For  him  her  anthem  rolled. 
From  the  storm-wind  among  the  winter  pines, 

Down  to  the  slenderest  note 
Of  a  love  warble,  from  the  linnet's  tliroat. 

But  when  begins 
The  array  for  battle,  and  the  trumpet  blows, 
A  king  must  leave  the  feast,  and  lead  the  fight; 

And  with  its  mortal  foes — 
Grim  gathering  hosts  of  sorrows  and  of  sins- 
Each  human  soul  must  close. 
And  Fame  her  tnimpet  blew 
Before  him;  wrapped  him  in  her  purple  state. 
And  made  him  mark  for  all  the  shafts  of  Fate, 
That  henceforth  round  him  flew. 

Though  he  may  yield 
Hard  pressed,  and  wounded  fall 
Forsaken  on  the  field; 
His  regal  vestments  soiled; 
His  crown  of  half  its  jewels  spoiled; 
He  is  a  king  for  all. 


Had  he  but  stood  aloof ! 
Had  he  aiTayed  himself  in  armour  proof 
Against  temptation's  darts! 
So  yearn  the  good;  so  those  the  world  calls  wise. 
With  vain  jiresumptuous  hearts. 
Triumphant  moralize. 

Of  martjT-woe 
A  sacred  shadow  on  his  memory  rests; 

Tears  have  not  ceased  to  flow; 
Indignant  grief  yet  stirs  impetuous  breasts, 

To  think— above  that  noble  soul  brought  low, 
That  wise  and  soaring  spu'it  fooled,  enslaved— 

Thus,  thus  he  had  been  saved! 

It  might  not  be ! 
That  heart  of  harmony 
Had  been  too  rudely  rent; 
Its  silver  cords,  which  any  hand  could  wound, 
By  no  hand  could  be  tuned. 
Save  by  the  Maker  of  the  instrument, 
Its  every  string  who  knew, 
And  from  profaning  touch  His  heavenly  gift 
withdrew. 

Regretful  love 

His  country  fain  would  prove. 
By  grateful  honours  lavished  on  his  grave; 

Would  fain  redeem  her  blame 
That  he  so  little  at  her  hamls  can  claim. 

Who  unrewarded  gave 
To  her  his  life-bought  gift  of  song  and  fame. 

The  land  he  trod 
Hath  now  become  a  place  of  pilgi-image; 
Where  dearer  are  the  daisies  of  the  sod 
That  could  his  song  engage. 

The  hoary  hawthorn,  wreathed 
Above  the  bank  on  which  his  limbs  he  flung 

While  some  sweet  plaint  he  breathed; 

The  streams  he  wandered  near; 
The  maidens  whom  he  loved;  the  songs  he 
sung,— 

All,  all  are  dear! 

The  arch  blue  eyes — 
Arch  but  for  love's  disguise— 
Of  Scotland's  daughters  soften  at  his  strain; 
Her  hardy  sons,  sent  forth  across  the  main 
To  drive  the  ploughshare  through  earth's  virgin 
soils. 
Lighten  w^ith  it  theu-  toils; 
And  sister  lands  have  learned  to  love  the  tongue 
In  which  such  songs  are  sung. 

For  doth  not  song 

To  the  whole  world  belong! 
Is  it  not  given  wherever  tears  can  fall. 
Wherever  hearts  can  melt,  or  blushes  glow, 
Or  mirth  and  sadness  mingle  as  they  flow, 

A  heritage  to  all? 


ISA  CRAIG  KNOX. 


479 


THE  WAY  IX  THE  WOOD. 

A  wood  lies  on  the  shore, 
Fill'd  with  murmurs,  as  each  tree 
Learn'd  the  music  of  the  sea, 
Which  it  heareth  all  the  day, 
Ever  growing  more  and  more. 
Or  fading  far  away. 

And  standing  on  that  shore, 
The  past  conies  back  to  me. 
In  that  music  of  the  sea, 
And  tliat  murmur  of  the  wood, 
Ever  fading  far  away. 
Yet  evermore  renewed. 

In  the  weird  and  ancient  wood, 

There  are  fairy  lights  tliat  fall, 

Never  by  the  sunshine  made; 

And  a  flicker  and  a  shade, 

Where  no  substance  is  at  all; 

There  are  thrilling  touches  laid 

By  no  hand  on  head  and  shoulder; 

Things  that  peep  from  leaf  and  blade 

And  blossom,  when  there's  no  beholder; 

And  we  Avalk  as  in  a  story 

Through  the  gloom  and  through  ihe  glory 

Of  the  weird  and  ancient  wood. 

Through  the  gloom  and  through  the  glory 
Of  the  ancient  wood  beheld. 
Comes  in  glimpses,  like  Iier  story, 
A  maiden  of  the  times  of  Eld ; 
Like  a  young  fawn,  unafraid, 
Straying  through  its  own  green  glade. 
Now  a  little  rill  she  crosses, 
Stealing  through  the  velvet  mosses, 
From  the  hollow,  where  the  trees 
Stand  in  groups  of  twos  and  threes, 
AVide-armed,  bountiful,  and  spread 
As  for  blessing  overhead; 
While  the  thick  grass  underfoot 
Shelters  violets  round  each  root. 
And  on  tender  lap  receives 
Soft  the  fall  of  dying  leaves. 

All  along  the  maiden's  way, 
Glades  are  opening,  glad  and  green, 
Ever  tempting  her  to  stray 
From  the  bare  brown  path  between. 
Some  one  surely  called  her  name! 
Was  it  but  the  "wood-dove  cooing? 
And  that  beck'ning,  was't  the  same 
As  the  plumy  ferns  are  doing? 
In  each  foxglove  bell  the  bee 
Swings  himself  right  merrily, 
Every  bell  by  turns  he  tries, 


He  is  buried  head  and  thighs! 
Now  on  that  side,  now  on  this. 
Does  a  bird  his  song  repeat, 
(Quivering  at  its  close  with  bliss 
Far  too  full  and  far  too  sweet 
For  the  little  throat  to  utter; 
Here  a  whirr,  anil  there  a  flutter, 
Here  a  coo,  and  there  a  call, 
Here  a  dart,  and  there  a  spring, 
Token'd  happy  creatures  all. 
Now  and  then  awhile  she  stood. 
Wishful  that  they  might  come  near  her, 
Wistful  half  that  they  should  fear  her, 
Silence  in  her  attitude. 

Now  the  sunny  noon  is  high. 
And  upon  a  bank  she  sits. 
Shade  on  shade  around  her  flits — 
On  the  bank's  embroidery — 
Star  and  heart  of  leaf  inwrought. 
Mazy  as  a  poet's  thought — 
One  doth  rest  beside  the  maid 
In  the  mystic  light  and  shade. 
Into  silence  sweet  subdued, 
In  the  dim  heart  of  the  wood 
Many  paths  together  meet, 
And  companionship  is  sweet. 

Sounds  as  of  a  river  flowing 
Through  the  forest  depths  are  going, 
And  the  distant  murmurs  seem 
Like  a  river  in  a  dream, 
For  the  path  is  carried  far 
Over  precipice  and  scaur, 
And  beneath  it  runs  the  river. 
Flowing  onward,  flowing  ever, 
Drawing  down  the  little  rills 
From  the  rocks  and  from  the  hills, 
To  the  bosom  of  the  sea. 
Here  the  daisies  disappear, 
Shadows  on  the  pathway  brown 
Falling  ever  thicklier  down. 
Something  like  a  thrill  of  fear 
Touches  trembling  lip  and  limb. 
And  the  violets  in  her  eyes, 
Blue  beneath  the  open  skies, 
Seem  to  grow  more  large  and  dim. 
Eound  and  round,  for  rood  on  rood. 
Trees  are  growing,  trees  are  throwing 
Shades  of  ill  and  shades  of  good. 
Arms  of  shelter  fondly  flinging. 
Arms  of  murder  fiercely  clinging, 
Stifling  in  their  close  embraces, 
Throes  of  terror  and  aft'right, 
While  some  meekly  in  their  places 
Die  of  pining  for  the  light. 

Closely  heart  to  heart  will  beat, 
Closefy  lip  with  lip  will  meet. 


480 


ISA  CEAIG   KNOX. 


Where  the  branch  and  bow  embraces. 
And  the  light  and  sliade  enlaces; 
Hands  of  trust  in  his  she  places, 
And  her  heaven  is  in  his  eyes, 
Link'd  together  as  they  rise 
To  go  forward,  but  he  chooses 
iSmoother  than  he  would,  refuses 
Peril  for  lier  sake; — thus  ma}' 
He  be  guarded  still  in  guarding, 
And  be  guided  still  in  guiding, 
HI  from  the  beloved  warding, 
Blessing  to  himself  betiding. 

In  mid-forest  oaks  and  beeches. 
Thick  and  tow'ring,  liold  the  ground; 
By  the  river's  winding  reaches 
Trees  of  every  leaf  are  found; 
Here  the  ash  with  arms  all  knotted, 
Into  anguish'd  writhings  grew; 
Here  the  sickly  alder  rotted; 
On  a  mound  an  ancient  yew; 
And  the  willows  in  the  water 
Trail'd  their  tresses  silver  gray; 
Aspen,  when  the  low  wind  caught  her, 
Sigh"d  through  every  trembling  spray; 
Lady  birch  so  light  and  ga}'. 
Something  sad  that  wind  had  taught  her, 
For  each  slender  limb  would  quiver: 
While  upon  the  moaning  river. 
Flags  of  drowned  lilies  lay. 

In  the  forest  depths  unknown. 

Once  more  is  the  maid  alone; 

And  she  hears  the  moaning  river, 

Hears  the  ivy  near  her  shiver, 

Hears  the  rain  npon  the  leaves, 

Beating  with  a  sound  that  grieves; 

On  the  path  her  feet  are  slipping, 

'Tween  the  river  and  the  rock. 

All  the  adder's-tongues  are  dripping, 

Wet  is  every  ruddy  lock 

Of  her  hair,  and  when  she  lays 

Her  small  lily  hand,  and  stays 

Trembling  steps,  the  worm  is  crawling, 

Toads  beneath  her  feet  are  sprawling, 

And  her  very  soul  is  faint 

With  the  dank  air's  deathly  taint. 

She  hath  reach'd  a  tree  whose  head 
Still  is  green,  whose  heart  is  dead; 
Her  wet  robe  about  her  clings. 
And  she  sinks  upon  the  ground, 
Heedless  of  the  loathly  things, 
Where  her  slain  knight  she  hath  found, 
Lying  white  among  the  green 
Of  the  ferns  that  strive  to  screen. 
From  the  staring  of  the  light, 
Those  dead  eyes,  a  ghastly  sight. 


By  the  river  sat  the  maiden. 
With  the  burden  of  her  pain: 
Downward  llow'd  the  river  laden 
With  the  burden  of  the  rain: 
In  that  dark  and  swollen  flood, 
Who  had  known  the  little  rill 
At  the  entrance  of  the  wood? 
Who  had  known  that  maiden  still? 
AVhen  the  dismal  piill  of  night 
Came  and  Avrapt  lier  grief  from  sight; 
And  there  rose  upon  the  blast, 
In  the  dark  hours  wailing  past, 
Jlingled  groan  and  shriek  and  sigh — 
More  than  mortal  agony. 

Ere  long  in  that  solitude 
Kose  the  forest  sanctuary, 
Where  the  holy  dead  they  bury, 
'Tween  the  murmur  of  the  river, 
And  the  murmur  of  the  wood, 
Fill'd  with  jileading  sound  for  ever; 
And  a  slain  knight's  mouldering  bones 
Eest  beneath  its  chancel  stones. 

Yellow,  yellow  leaves 

All  grown  pale  with  sighing! — 

For  the  sweet  days  dead, 

For  the  sad  days  dying, 

Yellow,  yellow  leaves. 

How  the  parting  grieves! 

Yellow,  yellow  leaves, 
Falling,  falling,  falling! 
Death  is  best,  when  hope 
There  is  no  recalling; 
Yet  0,  yellow  leaves. 
How  the  parting  grieves! 


A   SOXG   OF   SUMMER. 

I  will  sing  a  song  of  summer, 

Of  bright  summer  as  it  dwells. 
Amid  leaves,  and  flowers,  and  sunshine, 

In  lone  haunts  and  grassy  dells. 
Lo!  the  hill-encircled  valley 

Is  like  an  emerald  cup. 
To  its  inmost  depths  all  glowing, 

With  sunlight  brimming  up. 
Here  I'd  dream  away  the  day-time. 

And  let  happy  thoughts  have  birth, 
And  forget  there's  aught  l)ut  glory, 

Aught  but  beauty  on  the  earth. 

Not  a  speck  of  cloud  is  floating 
In  tlic  deep  blue  overhead. 


ISA  CRAIG  KNOX. 


481 


'Xeath  the  trees  the  daisied  verdure 

Like  a  broidered  couch  is  spread. 
The  rustling  leaves  are  dancing 

AVith  the  light  wind's  music  stirr'd, 
And  in  guslies  througli  the  stillness 

Comes  the  song  of  woodland  bird. 
Here  I'd  dream  away  the  day-time, 

And  let  gentlest  thoughts  have  birth, 
And  forget  there's  aught  but  gladness, 

Aught  but  peace  upon  the  earth. 


GOING   OUT   AXD   COMING   IN. 

In  that  home  was  joy  and  sorrow 

Where  an  infant  first  drew  birth, 
"While  an  aged  sire  was  drawing 

Near  unto  the  gate  of  death. 
His  feeble  pulse  was  failing, 

And  his  eye  was  growing  dim; 
He  was  standing  on  the  threshold 

When  they  brought  the  babe  to  him. 

While  to  murmur  forth  a  blessing 

On  the  little  one  he  tried. 
In  his  trembling  arms  he  raised  it, 

Press'd  it  to  his  lips  and  died. 
An  awful  darkness  resteth 

On  the  path  they  both  begin. 
Who  thus  meet  upon  the  threshold, 

Going  out  and  coming  in. 

Going  out  unto  the  triumph. 

Coming  in  unto  the  fight — 
Coming  in  unto  the  darkness, 

Going  out  into  the  light; 
Although  the  shadow  deepen'd 

In  the  moment  of  eclipse, 
When  he  pass'd  through  the  dread  portal 

With  the  blessing  on  his  lips. 

And  to  him  who  bravely  conquers, 

As  he  conquer'd  in  the  strife, 
Life  is  but  a  way  of  dying — 

Death  is  but  the  gate  of  life: 
Yet  awful  darkness  resteth 

On  the  path  we  all  begin, 
Where  we  meet  upon  tlie  threshold, 

Going  out  and  coming  in. 


MY   MARY   AN*    ME. 

We  were  baith  neebor  bairns,  thegither  we  play'd, 
We  loved  our  first  love,  an'  our  hearts  never 
strnv'd; 

Vol.  II.— II  II 


When  I  got  my  young  lassie  her  first  vow  to  gie, 
We  premised  to  wait  for  each  ithcr  a  wee. 

My  mither  was  widow'd  when  we  should  hae  wed, 
An'  the  nicht  when  we  stood  rouu'  my  faither's 

death-bed, 
He  charged  me  a  husband  and  father  to  be. 
While  my  young  orphan  sisters  clung  weeping  to 

me. 

I  kent  nae,  my  Mary,  what  high  heart  was  thine. 
Nor  how  brightly  thy  love  in  a  dark  hour  wad 

shine, 
Till  in  doubt  and  in  sorrow,  ye  whisperVl  to  me, 
"Win  the  blessing  o'  Heaven  for  thy  Mary  and 

thee." 

An'  j'ears  hae  flown  by  deeply  laden  wi'  care. 
But  jMary  has  help'd  me  theu*  burden  to  bear. 
She  gave  me  my  shield  in  misfortune  and  wrong, 
'Twas  she  that  aye  bade  me  be  steadfast  and 
strong. 

Her  meek  an'  quiet  spirit  is  aye  smooth  as  now. 
Her  saft  shinin'  hair  meekly  shades  her  white 

brow, 
A  few  silver  threads  'mang  its  dark  faulds  I  see. 
They  tell  me  how  lang  she  has  waited  on  me. 

Her  cheek  Has  grown  paler,  for  she  too  maun  toil, 
Her  sma'  hands  are  thinner,  less  mirthfu'  her 

smile; 
She  aft  speaks  o'  heaven,  and  if  she  should  dee. 
She  tells  me  that  there  she'll  be  waitin'  on  me. 


"OUR  rATHER."i 

Among  the  little  ones, 

"  Our  Father,"  let  me  say, 
I  learn  the  holy  childhood  thus, 

And  am  a  child  as  they. 

Among  the  servant.s.  Lord, 
I  breathe  the  prayer  divine, 

A  servant  among  servants,  so 
A  servant — theirs  and  thine. 

"Our  Father,"  among  men — 
The  evil  and  the  good — 
Daily  for  all  on  thee  I  call. 
And  own  their  brotherhood. 

Child,  servant,  brother,  thus 

Alone  can  I  be  one 
With  Him  by  whom  in  perfectness 

The  Father's  will  was  done. 

1  This  beautifvil  lyric  is  the  first  of  a  series  on  the 
Lord's  Prayer,  from  tlie  author's  vohune  S  mr/.t  of  Conso- 
lation, 1S74.— Ed. 


482 


JAMES  MACFAELAN. 


JAMES    MACFAELAN. 


Born  1832  — Dikd  1862. 


James   Macfarlan— a  gifted    but   almost 
forgotten  Scottish  poet,  who  died  at  the  early 
age  of  thirty — was  born  in  Glasgow,  April  9, 
1832.     To  his  mother  he  was  indebted  for  his 
first   lessons,  and  was  far  advanced  in  read- 
ing when  sent  to  school  in  his  eighth  year. 
His  schoolmaster  describes  him   "as  one  of 
those  boys  a  teacher  takes  a  pride  in— always 
obedient,   assiduous,  and   attentive;   causing 
him  little  trouble,  and  realizing  to  him  what 
the  poet  is  pleased  to  describe  as  'The  Delight- 
ful Task!'"     In  this  school  he  remained  for 
about  two  years,  and  made  good  progress  in 
his  education,  giving  evidence  even  thus  early 
of  the  poetic  power  he  displayed  in  after  life. 
On  leaving  school  James  began  to  accompany 
his  father  in  excursions  which  he  at  that  time 
took  among  the  towns  and  villages  in  the  west 
of  Scotland  for  the  sale  of  his  goods;  and  thus, 
travelling  up  and  down  the  country,  was  the 
boy-poet  for  years  made  familiar  with  the  mag- 
nificent scenery  of  nature,  and  fitted  to  produce 
that  rich  legacy  of  song  which  he  has  bequeathed 
to  us. 

In  August,  1855,  Macfarlan  married  Agnes 
Miller,  Avhom  he  had  known  from  earliest  life. 
She  was  the  poet's  first  love,  and  proved  a  suit- 
able partner  for  him;  but  the  youthful  pair 
had  to  contend  with  tiie  trials  of  straitened  cir- 
cumstances, for  the  largest  wage  the  husband 
ever  received  was  fifteen  shillings  a  week,  and 
that  only  for  a  very  brief  period.  Yet,  in  spite  of 
this  adverse  fortune,  we  find  him  in  1854  issuing 
a  volume  entitled  "  Poems:  Pictures  of  the 
Past,"  &c.,  published  in  London  by  Robert 
llardwicke;  and  in  rapid  succession  followed  in 
book  form  "City  Songs,"  "Lyrics  of  Life," 
"  Wanderer  of  the  West,"  "  The  Attic  Study,  or 
Brief  Noteson  Nature,  Men,  and  Books;"  while 
in  the  course  of  his  brief  career  he  was  engaged 
from  day  to  day  contributing  to  the  periodical 
press  the  following  among  other  writings: — 
"Tales  and  Sketches,"  "One  of  a  Million," 
"Wayside  Thoughts,"  and  composing  poems 
for  All  the  Year  Round.     His  last  production 


in  verse,  written  a  few  months  before  his  deatli. 
was  the  thrilling  lines  entitled  "The  Drunk- 
ard's Doom." 

This  literary  work  extended  over  a  period  of 
about  eight  years,  but  before  its  close  a  pulmon- 
ary disease  had  attacked  tlie  poet,  and  his  re- 
covery became  doubtful.    For  the  last  two  years 
of  his  life  he  was  the  daily  companion  and  guest 
of  Mr.  H.  Buchanan  MacPhail,  Avho  took  him 
on  an  excursion  to   Ireland   and   to  various 
places  on  the  Scottish  coast.     But  all  efforts 
for  his  recovery  proved  in  vain,  and  he  expired 
in  Glasgow,  Nov.  6,  1862.     By  his  own  desire 
his  remains  were  interred  in  Mr.  MacPhail's 
burying-ground,  Cheapside  Street,  Anderston. 
Four   children  were   the   issue  of  the   poet's 
marriage,  one  of  whom,   his  second-born  and 
favourite  child  Ann,  alone  survived  him  for 
some  two  years.     A  complete  edition  of  his 
poems,   with  a   memoir  of  the  poet,  is  now 
(July,  1876)  in  preparation  by  Mr.  MacPhail. 
Of  Macfarlan's  poetic  talent  Dr.  Rogers  elo- 
quently says: — "His  muse  taught  philosophy, 
and  dealt  with  thespiritual  properties  of  things. 
Like  the  anc-ient  enraptured  prophet,  his  lofty 
conceptions  impart  breadth  and  compass  to  his 
imagery.      Unlike  the  liards  of  the  spasmodic 
school,  he  keeps  a  rein  upon  his  fancy;  his 
flights  are  never  beyond  the  comprehension  or 
the  patience  of  his  reader.     His  language  is 
chaste,    ornate,    and   exact;   he   concentrates 
rather  than  expands  his  sentiments;   in  the 
graceful  flow  of  numbers,  he  never  betrays  a 
point  of  weakness.     He   has   celebrated   the 
nobler  aflPections  and  instincts  of  the  human 
heart — and    painted  with   master  hand    the 
scenes  of  civic  activity  and   rustic  gladness. 
He  writes  hopefully  of  human  progress,  depre- 
cates the  revival  of  ancient  feuds,  and  rejoices 
in  a  high-souled  patriotism.     He  is  the  poet 
of  that  species  of  chivalry  which  cannot  stoop 
to  dishonour,  and  rejoices  to  upraise  and  sup- 
port the  weak.     He  has  written  not  a  single 
line  which  in  the  heart  of  another  will  awaken 
unpleasing  emotions." 


JAMES   MACFAELAN. 


•     483 


THE  LORDS   OF   LABOUR. 

They  come,  they  come,  in  a  glorious  march, 

You  can  hear  their  steam-steeds  neigh, 
As  tliey  dash  through  Skill's  triumphal  arch, 

Or  plunge  'mid  the  dancing  spray. 
Their  bale-fires  blaze  in  the  mighty  forge. 

Their  life-pulse  throbs  in  the  mill. 
Their  lightnings  shiver  the  gaping  gorge. 
And  their  thunders  shake  the  hill. 

Ho!  these  are  the  Titans  of  toil  and  trade, 

The  heroes  who  wield  no  sabre; 
But  mightier  conquests  reapeth  the  blade 
That  is  borne  by  the  lords  of  labour. 

Brave  hearts  like  jewels  light  the  sod, 

Through  the  mists  of  commerce  shine, 
And  souls  flash  out,  like  stars  of  God, 

From  the  midnight  of  the  mine. 
No  palace  is  theirs,  no  castle  great, 

No  princely  pillar'd  hall. 
But  they  well  may  laugh  at  the  roofs  of  state, 
'Neath  the  heaven  which  is  over  all. 

Ho!  these  are  the  Titans  of  toil  and  trade. 

The  heroes  who  wield  no  sabre; 
But  mightier  conquests  reapeth  the  blade 
Which  is  borne  by  the  lords  of  labour. 

Each  bares  his  arm  for  the  ringing  strife 

That  marshals  the  sons  of  the  soil, 
And  the  sweat-drops  shed  in  their  battle  of  life 

Are  gems  in  the  crown  of  Toil. 
And  better  their  well-won  wreaths,  I  trow, 

Than  laurels  with  life-blood  wet; 
And  nobler  the  arch  of  a  bare  bold  bi-ow, 
Than  the  clasp  of  a  coronet. 

Then  hurrah  for  each  hero,  although  his 
deed 
Be  unblown  by  the  trump  or  tabor. 
For  holier,  happier  far  is  the  meed 
That  crowneth  the  lords  of  labour. 


BOOKWORLD. 

When  the  dim  presence  of  the  awful  night 
Clasps  in  its  jewell'd  arms  the  slumbering  earth, 

Alone  I  sit  beside  the  lowly  light. 

That  like  a  dream-fire  flickers  on  my  hearth, 

With  some  joy-teeming  volume  in  my  br.nd — 

A  peopled  planet,  opulent  and  grand. 

It  tmj  be  Shaksperc,  with  his  endless  train 
Of  sceptred  thonglits,  a  glorious  progeny 

Borne  on  the  whirlwind  of  his  mighty  strain, 
Through  vision-lands,  for  ever  far  and  free. 


His  great  mind  beaming  thro'  those  phantom 

crowds, 
Like  evening  sun  from  out  a  wealth  of  clouds. 

It  may  be  Milton,  on  his  seraph  wing. 

Soaring  to  heights  of  grandeur  yet  untrod; 

Now  deep  where  horrid  shapes  of  darkness  cling, 
Now  lost  in  splendour  at  the  feet  of  God; 

Girt  with  the  terror  of  avenging  skies, 

Or  wrapt  in  dreams  of  infant  paradise. 

It  may  be  Spanser,  with  his  mi«ty  sliades 

Where  forms  of  beauty  wondrous  tales  rehearse, 

With  breezy  vistas,  and  with  cool  arcades 
Opening  for  ever  in  his  antique  vei'se. 

It  may  lie  Ohaucer,  with  his  drink  divine, 

Ilis  Tabard  old,  and  pilgrims  twenty-nine. 

Perchance  I  linger  with  the  mighty  three 

Of  glorious  Greece,  that  morning  land  of  song. 

Who  bared  the  fearful  front  of  tragedy. 

And  soared  to  fame  on  pinions  broad  and  strong; 

Or  watch  beneatli  the  Trojan  ramparts  proud 

The  dim  hosts  gathering  like  a  thunder-cloud. 

No  rust  of  time  can  sully  Quixote's  mail, 
In  wonted  rest  his  lance  securely  lies; 

Still  is  the  faithful  Sancho  stout  and  hale. 
For  ever  wide  his  wonder-stricken  eyes; 

And  Rosinante,  bare  and  spectral  steed. 

Still  throws  gaunt  sliadows  o'er  their  every  deed. 

Still  can  I  robe  me  in  the  old  delights 
Of  caliph  splendid,  and  of  genii  grim. 

The  star-wealth  of  Arabia's  Thousand  Nights, 
Shining  till  every  other  light  grows  dim ; 

Wander  away  in  broad  voluptuous  lands. 

By  streams  of  silver,  and  through  golden  sands; 

Still  hear  the  storms  of  Camoens  burst  and  swell, 
His  seas  of  vengeance  raging  wild  and  wide; 

Or  wander  by  the  glimmering  fires  of  hell. 
With  dreaming  Dante  and  his  spirit-guide; 

Loiter  in  Petrarch's  green  melodious  grove. 

Or  hang  with  Tasso  o'er  his  hopeless  love. 

What  then  to  me  is  all  your  sparkling  dance. 
Wine-purpled  banquet,  or  vain  fashion's  blaze. 

Thus  roaming  through  the  realms  of  rich  romance, 
Old  Bookworld,  and  its  wealth  of  royal  days, 

For  ever  with  those  brave  and  brilliant  ones 

That  fill  time's  channel  like  a  stream  of  suns! 


THE   MIDNIGHT   TRAIN. 

Across  the  dull  and  brooding  night 
A  giant  flies  with  demon  light. 

And  breath  of  wreathing  smoke: 
Around  him  whirls  the  reeling  plain. 


484 


JA^IES  MACFAELAX. 


And  with  a  clash  of  grim  disdain 
He  cleaves  the  sundered  rock. 

In  lonely  swamps  the  low  wind  stirs 
Tlie  belt  of  black  funereal  lirs. 

That  murmur  to  the  sky, 
Till,  startled  by  his  mad  career, 
They  seem  to  keep  a  hush  of  fear. 

As  if  a  god  swept  by  I 

Through  many  a  dark  wild  heart  of  heath, 
0"er  booming  bridges,  where  beneath 

A  midnight  river  brawls; 
By  ruins,  remnants  of  the  past. 
Their  ivies  trembling  in  the  blast; 

By  singing  waterfalls! 

The  slumVrer  on  his  silent  bed 
Turns  to  the  light  his  lonely  head, 

Divested  of  its  dream. 
Long  leagues  of  gloom  are  hurried  o'er, 
Througli  tunnel-slieaths,  with  iron  roar. 

And  shrill  night-rending  scream. 

Past  huddling  huts,  past  flying  farms, 
High  furnace  flames,  whose  crimson  arms 

Are  grappling  with  the  night. 
He  tears  along  receding  lands, 
To  where  the  kingly  city  stands, 

Wrapt  in  a  robe  of  light. 

Here,  round  each  wide  and  gushing  gate,. 
A  crowd  of  eager  faces  wait, 

And  every  smile  is  known. 
AVe  thank  tiiee,  0  thou  Titan  train, 
That  in  tlie  city  once  again 

We  cla.sp  our  loved,  our  own! 


THE  WIDOW'S  WAKE. 

Deep  in  the  midnight  lane, 

Where  glimmering  tapers  feebly  pierce  the 
gloom, 
Through  many  a  winking  pane, 
All  tearful  in  the  rain, 

The  widow  lies  within  her  naked  room. 

Coldly  the  widow  lies, 

Though  woeand  want  can  touch  her  nevermore; 
And  in  her  beamless  eyes 
Grief's  well,  that  rarely  dries, 

Never  again  shall  hoard  its  oozy  store. 

Coldly  the  widow  lies, 

God's  mighty  midnight  crecpeth  overhead 

King's  couch  and  pauper's  bed. 
All  human  tears,  all  cares,  all  agonies. 

Beneath  His  gaze  are  spread. 


And  these  poor  boards  of  thin  and  dismal  deal, 
That  hold  her  mortal  relics,  in  His  eyes 
Are  sacred  as  the  gilded  obsequies. 

When  purchased  mourners  kneel 

"iNIid  all  the  painful  porni^  in  which  some  great 
man  lies. 

None  may  this  vigil  keep: 

Retired  in  life,  the  widow  died  alone. 
And  in  this  silent  sleep 
None  wait  by  her;  none  vree.p 

To  find  that  she  is  gone. 

Only  the  winds  that  steal 

Coldly  across  the  damp  and  broken  wall, 

On  that  pale  visage  fall. 
As  though  they  paused,  her  icy  brow  to  feel, 
Or  death's  blank  gaze  a  moment  to  reveal, 

Ui^Uft  the  scanty  pall. 

And  this  is  she  who  struggled  long  and  sore, 
In  the  black  night-time  of  a  dire  distress — 
Most  patient  wretchedness. 

Bearing  a  bitter  cross  to  death's  dark  door, 
Receiving  tliere — if  humankind  may  guess — 

A  crown  of  glory  for  the  thorns  she  wore. 


THE  EUIXED  CITY. 

The  shadows  of  a  thousand  Springs, 

Unnumbered  sunsets,  sternly  sleep 
Above  the  dust  of  perished  things 

That  form  this  city's  blasted  heap. 
Dull  watch  the  crumbling  columns  keep 

Against  the  fierce  ]-elentless  .sky. 
Hours,  that  no  dial  noteth,  creep 

Like  unremenibered  phantoms  by; 
And  still  this  city  of  the  dead 
Gives  echo  to  no  human  tread. 

A  curse  is  writ  on  ever}'  stone, 

The  temple's  latest  pillar  lies 
Like  some  white  mammoth's  bleaching  bone. 

Its  altars  know  no  deities. 
Fine  columns  of  a  palace  rise. 

And  when  the  sun  is  red  and  low. 
And  glaring  in  the  molten  skies, 

A  shadow  huge  these  columns  throw, 
That  like  some  dark  colossal  hand 
In  silence  creeps  across  the  sand. 

Tlie  senate  slumbers,  wondrous  hive 
Of  counsels  sage,  of  subtle  schemes; 

But  does  no  lingering  tone  survive 
To  prove  their  presence  more  than  dreams? 

Is^o  light  of  revelation  beams 

Around  that  voiceless  forum  now, 


DAVID   GRAY. 


485 


Time  Leavs  upon  his  restless  streams 

No  reflex  of  the  luuiglity  brow 
That  oft  has  frowned  a  nation's  fate 
Here — where  dark  reptiles  congregate. 

Where,  where  is  now  the  regal  rag 

That  clothed  the  monarch  of  yon  tower, 
On  which  the  rank  weed  flaps  its  flag 

Across  the  dusk  this  sombre  hour? 
Alas!  for  pomp,  alas  I  for  power, 

AVhen  time  unveils  their  nakedness. 
And  valour's  strength  and  beauty's  flower 

Find  nought  to  echo  their  distress; 
And  flattery — fine  delusive  breath  — 
Melts  in  the  iron  grasp  of  death. 

Day  rises  with  an  angry  glance, 

As  if  to  blight  the  stagnant  air. 
And  hurls  his  fierce  and  fiery  lance 

On  that  doomed  city's  forehead  bare. 
The  sunset's  wild  and  wandering  hair 

Streams  backward  like  a  comet's  mane, 
And  from  the  deep  and  sullen  glare 

The  shuddering  columns  crouch  in  vain, 
And  through  the  wreck  of  wrathful  yeans 
The  grim  hytena  stalks  and  sneers. 


SHADOWS   OX   THE   WALL. 

Beside  the  hearth  there  is  an  hour  of  dreaming, 

A  calm  and  pensive  solitude  of  soul, 
When  life  and  death  have  each  another  seeming, 

And  thoughts  are  with  us  owning  no  control. 
These  are  the  spirits,  memory's  revealing, 

In  deep  solemnity  they  rise  and  fall, 
Shrouding  the  living  present,  and  concealing 

The  world  around  us — Shadows  on  the  Wall. 

Hopes,  like  the  leaves  and  blossoms,  rudely  shaken 

By  cruel  winds  of  winter,  from  the  tree 
Of  our  existence;  phantoms  that  awaken 

Wild  pr-ssing  gleams  of  joy's  young  ecstasy; 
And  love,  once  kind  and  tenderly  outpouring 

Her  wine  into  our  souls,  we  may  recall, 
And  find  them  dear  and  ever  heavenward  soaring. 

Though  only  now  as  Shadows  on  the  Wall. 

Old  clasping  hands,  old  friendships  and  affections. 

Once  bodied  forms  beside  us  on  the  earth. 
Come  back  to  haunt  us,  ghostly  recollections 

With  mystic  converse  by  the  silent  hearth. 
Yet  these  are  kindly  spirits,  and  retiring 

Draw  their  long  shadows  slowly  from  the  wall. 
And  visit  us  in  peace  and  gentleness,  inspiring 

A  hope  that  brings  the  sunshine  after  all. 


DAYID    GEAY. 


Born  1S3S  — Dikd  18G1. 


David  Gkat,  the  son  of  a  poor  weaver,  and 
the  eldest  of  eight  children,  was  born  Jan.  29, 
183S,  at  Duntiblae,  on  the  banks  of  the  Lug- 
gie,  about  eight  miles  from  Glasgow.  From 
early  childhood  the  little  fellow  was  noted  for 
his  wit  and  cleverness;  and  while  at  the  Kirk- 
intilloch parish  school  his  literary  bias  became 
strikingly  apparent.  Zealous  at  his  tasks, 
bright  with  precocious  intellect,  an  uncon- 
scionable devourer  of  books,  and  ambitious  of 
fame,  it  was  early  intended  that  he  should 
devote  himself  to  the  ministry.  When  about 
fourteen  years  old  he  Avas  accordingly  sent 
to  Glasgow,  where,  supporting  himself  to  a 
considerable  extent  by  laborious  tuition,  first 
as  a  pupil  teacher  in  a  public  school  in  Bridge- 
ton,  and  afterward  as  Queen's  scholar  in  the 
Free  Ciiurch  Normal  Seminary,  he  contrived 
to  attend   the   Humanity,  Greek,  and  other 


classes  in  the  university  daring  four  successive 
sessions.  Having  likewise  obtained  some  em- 
ployment as  a  private  tutor,  he  found  it  neces- 
sary to  add  French  to  his  lingual  acquisition.s. 
But  whatever  progress  he  made  in  his  more 
severe  studies,  it  soon  became  evident  that  the 
bent  of  his  mind  was  poetical,  rather  than 
theological.  In  place  of  composing  sermons 
he  took  to  writing  verses,  many  of  which  were 
published  in  the  Glasgow  Citizen;  and  finally 
abandoning  the  idea  of  the  pulpit,  he  decided 
on  the  career  of  a  man  of  letters. 

Soon  after  Gray  went  to  London,  living  in 
a  garret  with  his  poet  friend  IJobert  Buchanan, 
now  on  the  high  road  to  immortality,  and 
trying  unsuccessfully  to  obtain  a  publisher  for 
his  poems.  From  Lord  Houghton,  the  bio- 
grapher of  John  Keats,  he  received  some  liter- 
ary employment;  r.nd  when  the  young  poet 


486 


DAVID   GRAY 


was  suddenly  struck  dowu  iu  tlic  enthusiasm 
of  his  struggles  and  the  pride  of  liis  hopes 
with  ill-health,  that  nobleman  furnished  him 
with  the  best  medical  advice,  and,  after  a 
brief  sojourn  in  the  south  of  England  without 
benefit,  had  him  carefully  sent  back  to  his 
father's  humble  home  at  JNlerkland.  Here  he 
lingered  for  some  months,  and  at  length  passed 
away  tranquilly,  Dec.  3,  1861,  almost  his  last 
words  being  "  God  has  love,  and  I  have  faith." 
The  day  previous  his  heart  was  gladdened  by 
the  sight  of  a  specimen  page  of  his  "  Luggie." 
After  his  death  the  following  epitaph,  written 
in  his  own  clear  hand,  was  found  among  his 
papers: — 

"  Below  lies  one  whose  name  was  traced  in  sand; 
He  died  not  knowing  what  it  was  to  live: 
Died  while  the  first  sweet  consciousness  of  manhood 
And  maiden  thought  electrified  his  soul; 
Faint  beatings  in  the  calyx  of  the  rose. 
Bewildered  reader,  pass  without  a  sigh 
In  a  proud  sorrow!    There  is  life  with  God, 
In  other  kingdom  of  a  sweeter  air; 
In  Eden  every  flower  is  blown.     Amen." 

A  handsome  monument  Avas  erected  to  the 
young  poet's  memory  by  friends  from  far  and 
near  in  the  "Auld  Aisle"  burying -ground 
near  Kirkintilloch,  and  an  address  delivered  by 
Sheriff  Bell  on  the  occasion  of  its  inauguration, 
July  29,  1865.  About  the  same  time  there 
appeared  a  small  volume  entitled  Poems  hy 
Davkl  Gray,  ivith  Memoirs,  from  the  pens 
of  Lord  Houghton  and  James  Hedderwick; 
and  Robert  Buchanan  also  published  a  lengthy 
obituary  notice  in  the  CornhiU  MtKjazine. 
This  work  was  republished  in  the  United 
States,  and  met  with  a  large  circulation.  A 
new  and  enlarged  edition  of  Gray's  Poems  was 
issued  in  Glasgow  in  187-4  l)y  James  Maclehose, 
through  whose  courtesy  we  are  permitted  to 
insert  the  following  selections. 


In  the  memoir  of  Gray,  his  generous  friend 
Lord  Houghton  remarks:  "I  will  not  here 
a.ssume  the  position  of  a  poetical  critic,  both 
because  I  know  such  criticism  to  be  dreary  and 
unsatisfactory,  and  because  I  am  conscious 
that  the  personal  interest  I  took  in  David  Gray 
is  likely  in  some  degree  to  influence  my  judg- 
ment. There  is  in  truth  no  critic  of  poetry 
but  the  man  who  enjoys  it,  and  the  amount  of 
gratification  felt  is  the  only  just  measure  of 
criticism.  I  believe,  however,  that  I  should 
have  found  much  pleasure  in  tlie.se  poems  if  I 
had  met  with  them  accidentally,  and  if  I  had 
been  unaware  of  the  strange  and  pathetic  in- 
cidents of  their  production.  But  the  public 
mind  will  not  separate  the  intrinsic  merits  of 
the  verses  from  the  story  of  the  writer,  any 
more  than  the  works  and  fate  of  Keats  or 
Chatterton.  AVe  value  all  connected  with  the 
being  of  every  true  poet,  because  it  is  the 
highest  form  of  nature  that  man  is  permitted 
to  study  and  enjoy." 

The  object  of  Gray's  principal  poem,  "  The 
Luggie,"  as  has  been  well  said,  "  may  not 
possess  in  itself  much  to  attract  the  painter's 
eye,  but  it  has  sufficed  for  a  poet's  love."  Of 
his  .sonnets  entitled  "  In  the  Shadow.s,"  Sheriff 
Bell  remarks,  they  "appear  to  me  to  possess 
a  solemn  beauty  not  surpas.sed  by  many  of  the 
finest  passages  in  Tennyson's  'In  Memoriam,' 
totally  distinct  and  unlike  the  'In  ilemo- 
riam,'  but  as  genuine,  as  sincere,  as  heart- 
stirring,  and  often  as  poetical.  In  the  poet's 
own  words,  they  admit  you  '  to  the  chancel  of 
a  dying  poet's  mind:'  you  feel  when  you  are 
reading  these  sonnets  that  they  are  written  in 
the  sure  and  immediate  pro.spect  of  death;  but 
they  contain  thoughts  about  life,  about  the 
past,  and  about  the  future,  most  powerful  and 
most  beautiful." 


THE  yellow-hammp:k. 


In  fairy  glen  of  Woodilee, 
One  sunny  summer  morning, 
I  plucked  a  little  birchen  tree. 
The  spongy  moss  adorninir; 
And  bearing  it  dcliglitcil  home, 
I  iilanted  it  in  garden  loam, 
Where,  jicrfecting  all  duty, 
It  flowcrd  iu  ta.ssclled  beauty. 


"When  delicate  April  in  each  dell 
■\Vas  silently  c()ni]ileting 
Her  ministry  in  bud  and  bell. 
To  grace  the  summer's  meeting; 
My  birchen  tree  of  glossy  rind 
Determined  not  to  be  behind; 
So  with  a  subtle  power 
The  buds  began  to  flower. 


DAVID   GRAY. 


487 


Ami  I  could  watch  from  out  my  house 
The  twigs  witli  Icallcts  lliickea; 
From  glossy  rind  to  twining  boughs 
The  milky  sap  'gan  quicken. 
And  when  tiie  I'ragrant  form  was  green 
No  fairer  tree  was  to  be  seen, 
All  Gartshore  woods  adorning, 
AVhere  doves  arc  always  mourning. 

But  never  dove  with  li(iuid  wing, 
Or  neck  of  changeful  gleaming. 
Came  near  my  garden  tree  to  sing, 
Or  croodle  out  its  meaning. 
But  this  sweet  day,  an  hour  ago, 
A  yellow-hammer,  clear  and  low, 
In  love  and  tender  pity 
Trilled  out  his  dainty  ditty. 

And  I  was  pleased,  as  you  may  think, 
And  blessed  the  little  singer: 
"  0  fly  for  your  mate  to  Luggic  brink, 
Dear  little  bird!  and  bring  her; 
And  build  your  nest  among  the  boughs, 
A  sweet  and  cosy  little  house, 
Where  ye  may  well  content  ye, 
Since  true  love  is  so  plenty. 

"And  when  she  sits  upon  her  nest, 
Here  are  cool  shades  to  shroud  lier;" 
At  this  the  singer  sang  his  best, 
O  louder  yet,  and  louder; 
Until  I  shouted  in  my  glee, 
His  song  had  so  enchanted  me: 
No  nightingale  could  pant  on 
In  joy  so  wise  and  wanton. 

But  at  my  careless  noise  he  flew. 
And  if  he  cliance  to  bring  her 
A  happy  bride  the  summer  through 
'Along  birchen  boughs  to  linger, 
I'll  sing  to  you  in  numbers  high 
A  summer  song  that  shall  not  die, 
But  keep  in  memory  clearly 
The  bird  I  love  so  dearly. 


TIIE   HAREBELL. 

Beneath  a  hedge  of  thorn,  and  near 

Where  Bothlin  steals  tlnwigh  liglit  and  shadow, 
I  saw  its  bell,  so  blue  and  clear — 

That  little  beauty  of  the  meadow. 

It  was  a  modest,  tender  flower — 
So  clearly  blue,  so  sweetly  tender; 

No  simpler  offspring  of  the  shower 
And  sunshine  may  July  engender. 


The  "nztn-o  harebell,"  Rhaksperc  snj-'s — 
And  such  a  half-transparent  azure 

Was  never  seen  in  country  ways 
By  poet  in  creative  leisure. 

But  cliiefly  the  beloved  song— 

The  patriot  ballad,  fresh  and  olden — 

The  "  Scottish  Blue  Bells,"  rose  among 
Some  other  memories,  pure  and  golden. 

And  cliiniing  o'er  one  verso  of  power. 
While  ill  the  chalice  fonilly  peering, 

A  tear-drop  fell  upon  the  Hower— 
My  blessing  earnest  and  cnfluring. 

The  prize  was  mine!— but  no,  ah!  no — 
To  s])are  it  was  a  poet's  duty; 

So  in  that  spot  1  let  it  blow. 
And  left  it  in  its  lonely  beauty. 


TIIE  GOLDEN  WEDDING. 

0  love,  whose  patient  pilgrim  feet 

Life's  longest  path  have  trod; 
Whose  ministry  liatii  syndjoled  sweet 

The  dearer  love  of  God; 
The  sacred  myrtle  rears  again 

Thine  altar  as  of  old; 
And  what  was  green  with  summer  then, 

Is  mellowed  now  to  gold. 

Not  now,  as  then,  the  future's  face 

Is  flushed  with  fancy's  light; 
But  menujry,  with  a  milder  grace. 

Shall  rule  the  feast  to-night. 
Blest  Avas  the  sun  of  joy  that  shone. 

Nor  less  the  blinding  shower; 
The  l)ud  of  fifty  years  agone 

Is  love's  perfected  flower. 

0  memory,  ope  thy  mystic  door; 

0  dream  of  youth,  return; 
And  let  the  light  that  gleamed  of  yo:-e 

Beside  this  altar  burn. 
The  past  is  plain;  'twas  love  designed 

E'en  sorrow's  iron  chain; 
And  mercy's  shining  thro;id  lias  twined 

With  the  dark  warp  of  pain. 

So  be  it  still,  O  thou  who  hast 

That  younger  bridal  blest, 
Till  the  Jlay-morn  of  love  has  past 

To  evening's  golden  west; 
Come  to  this  later  Cana,  Lord, 

And,  at  thy  touch  divine. 
The  water  of  that  earlier  board 

To-night  shall  turn  to  Mine. 


488 


WILLIAM   LEIGHTON. 


AX  OCTOBER  MUSING. 

Ere  the  last  stack  is  liouscd,  and  woods  are  bare, 
And  the  vermilion  fruitage  of  the  brier 
Is  soaked  in  mist,  or  shrivelled  up  with  frost; 
Ere  warm  spring  nests  are  coldly  to  be  seen 
Tenantless  but  for  rain  and  the  cold  snow, 
While  yet  there  is  a  loveliness  abroad — 
The  frail  and  indescribable  loveliness 
Of  a  fair  form  life  with  reluctance  leaves, 
Being  then  only  powerful, — while  the  earth 
Wears  sackcloth  in  her  great  prophetic  grief:— 

Then  the  reflective,  melancholy  soul. 
Aimlessly  wandering  with  slow-falling  feet 
The  heathery  solitude,  in  hope  to  assuage 
The  cunning  Inmiour  of  his  malady. 
Loses  his  painful  bitterness,  and  feels 
His  own  specific  sorrows  one  by  one 
Taken  up  in  the  huge  dolor  of  all  things, 
0,  the  sweet  melancholy  of  the  time. 
When  gently,  ere  the  heart  appeals,  the  year 
Shines  in  the  fatal  beauty  of  decay; 
When  the  sun  sinks  enlarged  on  Carronben, 
Nakedly  visible,  without  a  cloud. 


And  faintly  from  the  faint  eternal  blue 

(That  dim  sweet  harebell  colour)  comes  the  star 

Which  evening  wears,  when  Liiggie  flows  in  mist, 

And  in  the  cottage  windows  one  by  one. 

With  sudden  twinkle,  household  lamps  are  lit— 

What  noiseless  falling  of  the  faded  leaf! 


SONNET. 

If  it  must  be;  if  it  must  be,  0  God! 

That  I  dieyoung,  and  make  no  further  moans; 
That,  underneath  the  unrespective  sod. 

In  unescutcheoned  privacy,  my  bones 
Shall  crumble  soon; — then  give  me  strength  to 
bear 

The  last  convulsive  throe  of  too  sweet  breath ! 
I  tremble  from  the  edge  of  life,  to  dare 

The  dark  and  fatal  leap,  having  no  faith. 
No  glorious  yearning  for  the  Ajjocalypse; 

But  like  a  child  that  in  the  night-time  cries 
For  light,  I  cry;  forgetting  the  eclipse 

Of  knowledge  and  our  human  destinies, 
0  peevish  and  uncertain  soul!  obey 
The  law  of  life  in  patience  till  the  Day. 


WILLIAM    LEIGHTON 


Born  1841  — Died  1869. 


William  Leighton,  a  young  poet  of  great 
promise,  who  died  at  tlie  early  age  of  twenty- 
eight,  was  born  at  Dundee,  February  3,  1841. 
In  Ills  seventh  year  his  family  removed  to 
Liverpool,  where  he  received  his  education, 
and  where  the  remainder  of  his  short  life  was 
.spent.  At  the  age  of  thirteen  he  was  placed 
in  a  merchant's  office,  and  in  course  of  time 
lie  attained  the  position  of  confidential  clerk 
to  u  firm  engaged  in  the  Brazil  trade.  An 
assiduous  attention  to  business  left  him  but 
little  leisure  for  the  cultivation  of  liis  natural 
taste  for  literature,  but  tlic  greater  portion  of 
his  spare  hours  was  devoted  to  study  and 
composition.  Poetry  was  his  passion,  and  his 
favourite  authors  were  Shakspcrc,  Tennyson, 
and  Longfellow.  He  began  to  write  verses  at 
an  early  age,  and  the  majority  of  his  poems 
were  composed  before  he  had  completed  his 
twenty-third  year.     Tiiey  had  appeared  in  t!ie 


columns  of  various  periodicals,  and  the  poet 
was  often  urged  by  his  friends  to  collect  and 
publish  them  in  a  volume.  He  was  engaged 
in  preparing  this  volume  for  the  press  when 
he  was  attacked  by  typhoid  fever,  and  after  a 
brief  illness  died  April  22,  1869.  The  year 
following  his  poetical  writings,  with  a  brief 
memoir  from  the  pen  of  his  brother,  were  pub- 
lished, and  a  second  edition  has  since  appeared. 
Of  the  fourscore  thoughtful  pieces  contained  in 
the  little  volume,  all  breathing  a  genuine  poetic 
spirit  and  a  vein  of  delicate  fancy,  a  new  edi- 
tion is  now  in  preparation,  to  which  will  be 
added  other  hitherto  unpublished  poems,  essays, 
and  sketches. 

The  Westmhister  lievleio,  in  a  notice  of  his 
poems,  remarks,  "The  late  William  Leighton 
came  of  a  poetical  family.  We  remember 
being  struck  some  years  ago  with  the  remark- 
able powers  of  description  shown  in  Mr.  Eobert 


WILLIAM  LEIGHTOX. 


489 


Leigh  ton's  poems.  The  nephew  possesses  much 
the  same  power  and  facility.  A  love  for  nature 
in  her  quietest  moods  and  a  vein  of  a  delicate 
fancy  distinguish  the  present  poems.  What 
Mr.  William  or  Jlr.  Robert  Leighton  might 


have  accomplished  had  their  lives  been  spared, 
it  is  impossible  to  say.  We  can  but  lament 
the  early  deaths  of  two  relatives  who  were  cer- 
tainly endowed  with  poetical  gifts  of  no  com- 
mon order. " 


THE  LEAF   OF  WOODRUFF. 

I  found  a  leaf  of  woodruff  in  a  book, 

Gone  was  its  scent,  and  lost  its  pristine  glory; 
Each  slender  bladelet  wore  a  dingy  look, 

And  all  was  blanched  and  hoary. 

And  yet  this  withered  leaf  a  sjiell  possessed, 
Which  worked  upon  me  in  mysterious  measure, 

And  sent  old  memories  thronging  through  my 
breast 
Of  mingled  loain  and  pleasure — 

Of  childhood's  days  that  knew  no  thought  of  care; 

Of  hours  that  passed  on  wings  of  rainbow  fleet- 
ness; 
Of  odours  floating  on  the  wanton  air, 

Sad  from  their  very  sweetness; 

Of  woods  that  wore  a  garb  of  summer  green; 

Of  knee-deep  ferns,  and  nooks  of  shady  stillness; 
Of  streams  that  glinnnered  in  the  full  moon's  sheen 

And  mirrored  back  its  fulness; 

Of  lazy  baskings  on  the  lone  hill-side 

In  the  fierce  glow  of  July's  sultry  weather; 

Of  twilight  wanderings  where  the  enamoured  tide 
Crept  up  to  Idss  the  heather; 

Of  voices  still  beneath  the  churchyard  sod, 
Bright  eyes  that  gUstened  from  behind  long 
lashes; 

Warm  beauty  early  given  back  to  God ; 
Red  lips  that  now  are  ashes ! 

And  many  other  memories,  gay  and  grave, 
The  woodruff  brought  in  life-like  guise  before 
me; 

Until  I  marvelled  how  a  leaf  could  have 
Such  magic  influence  o'er  me. 

Ah,  so  it  is!  all  that  hath  ever  been 
Experienced  by  the  spirit  is  immortal; 

Each  hope  and  joy  and  grief  is  hid  within 
The  memory's  sacred  portal. 

And  yet  the  soft  glow  of  a  moonlight  hour, 
A  strain  of  haunting  music  sweet  and  olden, 

A  dream,  a  bird,  a  bee,  a  leaf,  a  flower, 
A  sunset  rich  and  golden, 

Can  fling  that  portal  open;  and  beyond   . 
Appears  the  recoi-d  of  each  earlier  feeling; — 


All  hopes,  all  joys,  all  fears,  all  musings  fond, 
In  infinite  revealing. 

Till  all  the  present  passes  from  the  sight — 
Its  cares  and  woes  that  make  us  -weary-hearted, 

And  leaves  us  basking  in  the  holy  light 
Of  golden  days  departed. 


SUMMERS   LOXG   AGO. 

How  sweet  to  me  the  memories  of  happy  days 
of  youth, 

When  my  heart  was  full  of  gladness  and  my 
smile  was  full  of  trutli, 

When  everything  I  gazed  upon  seemed  beauti- 
ful and  fair, 

And  all  the  livelong  summer  day  I  never  knew 
a  care; 

When  I  could  scarcely  understand  such  things 
as  grief  and  woe — 

Ah !  those  were  happy,  happj'  days,  tiiose  sum- 
mers long  ago. 

The  merry  birds  sang  joyously,  the  sun  shone 

brighter  then, 
The  flow'rets  grew  more  fragrantly  down  in  the 

gras.sy  glen. 
The  waters  had  a  brighter  flash,  and  bluer  was 

the  sky. 
And  greener  were  the  forest  trees  that  waved 

their  branches  high, 
And  sweeter  was  the  gentle  breeze  that  thrilled 

a  music  low 
Throughout  my  heart,  and  made  me  love  those 

summers  long  ago. 

Then,  stretched  beneath  the  forest  trees,  upon 

the  ground  I  lay, 
And  heard  the  rustling  of  the  leaves  through 

the  long  summer  day; 
The  happy  carol  of  the  thrush,  the  blackbird's 

whistle  clear, 
Like  softly  whispered  melodies  fell  gently  on 

my  ear, 
And  like  /Eolian  harpings  sweet,  the  prattling 

brooklet's  flow. 
Gushing  and  bright  came  o'er  my  heart  in 

summers  long  ago. 


490 


WILLIAM   LEIGHTON. 


And  when  the  sun  with  fiery  face  was  sinking 
fast  to  rest, 

And  evening's  dim  pale  glimmering  star  was 
twinkling  in  the  west, 

Oh  how  I  loved  to  wander  then  at  twilight's 
dreamy  hour, 

To  feel  the  freshness  of  the  breeze,  the  fragrance 
of  the  flower. 

To  gaze  in  transport  at  the  heavens,  and  won- 
der at  the  glow — • 

The  purple  glow  of  eventide,  in  summers  long 
ago. 

Ah!  those  indeed  were  happy  days,  my  lieart 

knew  nought  of  guile. 
And  all  God's  earth  then  seemed  to  me  one 

universal  smile! 
And   oft   amid   this  stern  world's  strife  my 

memory  ponders  o'er, 
And   fondly  dwells   upon    those   days — those 

joyous  days  of  3'ore; 
The  silent  stars  may  cease  to  shine,  and   all 

things  fade  below, 
But  I  never,  never  can  forget  the  summers 

long  ago  I 


THE  CLOUD. 

I  saw  a  little  lonely  cloud 

Hung  on  the  western  verge  of  heaven; 
In  twilight's  earliest  beams  it  glowed. 

And  mirrowed  back  the  blush  of  even; 
No  other  cloud  was  in  the  sky, 
It  lay  in  lonely  witchery. 

The  twiliglit  deepened :  one  by  one 

The  pale  stars  trembled  through  the  haze; 

The  golden  light  of  eve  was  gone. 

And  gone  the  sunset's  lingering  blaze; 

Yet  still  that  little  cloudlet  lay 

In  mellow  beauty,  softly  gay. 

A  silence  brooded  far  and  nigh, 
A  stillness  burdened  all  the  air, 

And  the  wide  welkin  stretched  on  high 
In  dusky  azure  everywhere, — 

Save  that  one  spot,  where,  earthward  bowed, 

Stooped  down  the  solitary  cloud. 

It  looked  so  lovely  as  it  lay 

Becalmed  upon  the  wavelcss  blue! 


Its  border  melting,  faintly  gray, 

Into  the  sky's  diviner  hue; 
And  yet,  I  know  not  how  nor  why, 
It  brought  tho  tear-drop  to  my  eye! 

And  ever  when  I  think  upon 

That  cloud  on  the  horizon's  rim. 

Brooding  in  beauty,  rich  and  lone — 
My  heart  is  sad,  my  eyes  grow  dim! 

And  I  could  long  to  fly  away 

To  where  the  little  cloudlet  lay! 

'Tis  ever  thus!  the  spirit  pants 

For  all  things  peaceful,  fair,  and  sweet; 
For  joys  that  leave  no  aching  wants; 

For  bliss  that  is  not  incomplete! 
But  all  these  yearnings  vague  and  fond 
Must  anchor  in  the  great  Beyond! 


BABY  DIED  TO-DAY. 

Lay  the  little  limbs  out  straight; 

Gently  tend  the  sacred  clay; 
Sorrow-shaded  is  our  fate — 

Baby  died  to-day! 

Fold  the  hands  across  the  breast, 
So,  as  when  he  knelt  to  pray; 

Leave  him  to  his  dreamless  rest — 
Baby  died  to-day! 

Voice,  whose  prattling  infant-lore 
AVas  the  music  of  our  way. 

Now  is  hushed  for  evermore — 
Baby  died  to-day ! 

Sweet  blue  eyes,  whose  sunny  gleams 
Alade  our  waking  moments  gay, 

Now  can  shine  but  in  our  dreams — 
Baby  died  to-day! 

Still  a  smile  is  on  his  face. 
But  it  lacks  the  joyous  play 

Of  the  one  we  used  to  trace — 
Baby  died  to-day! 

Give  his  lips  your  latest  kiss; 

Dry  your  eyes  and  come  away; 
In  a  happier  world  than  this 

Baby  lives  today! 


492 


EOBEET  BUCHANAN. 


And  knew  by  heart  the  mountams  round  our 

home; 
But  when  I  went  to  Edinglass,  to  learn 
At  college  there,  I  look'd  about  the  place, 
And  heard  the  mumiur  of  the  busy  streets 
Around  me,  in  a  dream;— and  only  saw 
The  clouds  that  snow  around  the  mountain-tops, 
The  mists  that  chase  the  phantom  of  the  moon 
In  lonely  mountain  tarns, — and  heard  the  while. 
Not  footsteps  sounding  hollow  to  and  fro, 
But  wild  winds,  wailing  thro'  the  woods  of  pine. 
Time  pass'd;  and  day  by  day  those  sights  and 

sounds 
Grew  fainter, — till  they  troubled  me  no  more. 

0  Willie,  Willie,  are  you  sleeping  sound? 
And  can  you  feel  the  stone  that  I  have  placed 
Yonder  above  you?    Are  yoii  dead,  my  doo? 
Or  did  you  see  the  shining  Hand  that  parts 
The  clouds  above,  and  becks  the  bonnie  birds, 
Until  they  wing  away,  and  human  eyes. 
That  watch  them  while  they  vanish  up  the  blue. 
Droop  and  grow  tearful?    Ay,  I  ken,  I  ken, 
I'm  talking  folly,  but  I  loved  the  child! 
He  was  the  bravest  scholar  in  the  school ! 
He  came  to  teach  the  very  dominie — 
Me,  vdih.  my  lyart  locks  and  sleepy  heart ! 

Oh,  well  I  mind  the  day  his  mother  brought 
Her  tiny  trembling  tot  with  yellow  hair, 
Her  tiny  poor-clad  tot  six  summers  old, 
And  left  him  seated  lonely  on  a  form 
Before  my  desk.     He  neither  wept  nor  gloom'd; 
But  waited  silently,  with  shoeless  feet 
Swinging  above  the  floor;  in  wonder  eyed 
The  maps  upon  the  walls,  the  big  black-board. 
The  slates  and  books  and  copies,  and  my  own 
Gray  hose  and  clumpy  boots;  last,  fixing  gaze 
Upon  a  monster  spider's  web  that  filFd 
One  corner  of  the  whitewash'd  ceiling,  watch'd 
The  speckled  traitor  jump  and  jink  about, 
Till  he  forgot  my  unfamiliar  eyes, 
Weary  and  strange  and  old.     "  Come  here,  my 

bairn!" 
And  timid  as  a  lamb  he  secdled  up. 
"What  do  they  call  ye?"     "Willie,"  coo'd  the 

wean, 
Up-peei)ing  slyly,  scraping  with  his  feet. 
I  put  my  han<l  upon  his  yellow  hair. 
And  chcer'd  liim  kindly.     Then  I  bade  him  lift 
The  small  black  bell  that  stands  behind  the  door, 
And  ling  the  shouting  laddies  from  their  play. 
"  Run,  Willie!"     And  he  ran,  and  eyed  the  hell, 
Stoop'd  o'er  it,  sccm'd  afraid  that  it  would  bite, 
Then  gi-asp'd  it  fiJ-m,  and  as  it  jingled  gave 
A  timid  cry — next  laugh'd  to  hear  the  sound — 

iiomiced  the  most  faithful  poet  of  Nature  among  tlie 
uuw  men.  He  is  her  fainiliar,  and  in  tliis  respect  it 
wonUl  seem  ns  if  tlie  mantle  of  Wordsworth  had  fallen 
to  him  from  some  flue  sunset  or  misty  height. — Sted- 
man's  Victorian  Pods,  Boston,  1S76. 


And  ran  full  merry  to  the  door  and  rang. 
And  rang,  and  rang,  while  lights  of  music  Ut 
His  pallid  cheek,  till,  shouting,  panting  hard. 
In  ran  the  big  rough  laddies  from  their  play. 

Then,  rapping  sharply  on  the  desk,  I  drove 
The  scholars  to  their  seats,  and  beckon'd  up 
The  stranger;  smiling,  bade  him  seat  himself. 
And  hearken  to  the  rest.     Two  weary  hours. 
Buzz-buzz,  boom-boom,  went   on  the   noise   of 

school. 
While  Willie  sat  and  listeu'd  open-mouth'd; 
Till  school  was  over,  and  the  liig  and  small 
Flew  home  in  flocks.     But  Willie  stay'd  behind. 
I  beckon'd  to  the  mannock  with  a  smile, 
Took  him  upon  my  knee,  and  crack'd  and  talk'd. 

First,  he  was  timid;  next,  grew  bashful;  next. 
He  warm'd,  and  told  me  stories  of  his  home, 
His  father,  mother,  sisters,  l)rothers,  all; 
And  how,  when  strong  and  big,  he  meant  to  buy 
A  gig  to  drive  his  father  to  the  kirk; 
And  how  he  long'd  to  be  a  dominie! 
Such  simple  prattle  as  I  plainly  see 
Your  wisdom  smiles  at.    ...    Weel !  the  laddie 

still 
Was  seated  on  my  knee,  when  at  the  door 
We  heard  a  sound  of  scraijing:  Willie  prick'd 
His  ears  and  listen'd,  then  he  clapt  his  hands — 
"Hey!   Donald,   Donald,   Donald!"    [See!    the 

rogue 
Looks  up  and  blinks  liis  eyes — he  knows  his  name !] 
"  Hey,  Donald,  Donald!"  WilHe  cried.     At  that 
I  saw  beneath  me,  at  the  door,  a  dog — 
The  very  colUe  dozing  at  your  feet, 
His  nose  between  his  paws,  his  eyes  half  closed. 
At  sight  of  Willie,  with  a  joyful  bark 
He  leai^t  and  gamboll'd,  eying  vie  the  while 
In  queer  suspicion;  and  the  mannock  peep'd 
Into  my  face,  while  patting  Donald's  back — 
"  It's  Donald!  he  has  come  to  take  mo  home!" 

An  old  man's  tale,  a  tale  for  men  gray-hair'd, 
Who  wear,  thro'  second  childhood,  to  the  grave! 
I'll  hasten  on.     Thenceforward  Willie  came 
Daily  to  school,  and  daily  to  the  door 
Came  Donald  trotting;  and  they  homeward  went 
Together — Willie  walking  slow  but  sure, 
And  Donald  trotting  sagely  by  his  side. 
[Ay,  Donald,  he  is  dead!  be  still,  old  man!] 

Wliat  link  existed,  human  or  divine. 
Between  the  tiny  tot  six  summers  old. 
And  yonder  life  of  mine  upon  the  hills 
Among  the  mists  and  storms  ?     'Tis  strange,  'tis 

strange! 
But  when  I  look'd  on  Willie's  face,  it  seem'd 
That  I  had  known  it  in  some  beauteous  life 
That  I  had  left  behind  me  in  the  North! 
This  fancy  grew  and  grew,  till  oft  I  sat — 
The  buzzing  school  around  me — and  would  seem 
To  be  among  the  mists,  the  tracks  of  rain, 


ROBERT   BUCHANAN. 


493 


Nearing  the  silence  of  the  sleeping  snow. 
Slowly  and  sm-ely  I  began  to  feel 
That  I  was  all  alone  in  all  the  world, 
And  that  my  mother  and  ray  father  slept 
Far,  far  away,  in  some  forgotten  ku'k — 
Remember'd  but  in  dreams.     Alone  at  nights, 
I  read  my  Bible  more  and  EucUd  less. 
For,  mind  you,  like  my  betters,  I  had  been 
Half  scoffer,  half  beUever;  on  the  whole, 
I  thought  the  life  beyond  a  useless  dream. 
Best  left  alone,  and  shut  my  eyes  to  themes 
That  puzzled  mathematics.     But  at  last. 
When   Willie   Baird   and    I  grew  friends,   and 

thoughts 
Came  to  me  from  beyond  my  father's  gr9,ve, 
I  found  'twas  pleasant  late  at  e'en  to  read 
The  Scripture —haply,  onlj^  just  to  pick 
Some  easy  chapter  for  my  pet  to  learn — 
Yet  night  by  night  my  soul  was  guided  on 
Like  a  bUnd  man  some  angel  hand  convoys. 

I  cannot  frame  in  speech  the  thoughts  that  fill'd 
This  gray  old  brow,  the  feelings  dim  and  warm 
That  soothed  the  throbbings  of  this  weary  heart ! 
But  when  I  placed  my  hand  on  Willie's  head. 
Warm  sunshine  tingled  from  the  yellow  hail" 
Thro'  trembling  fingers  to  my  blood  within! 
And  when  I  look'd  in  WiUie's  stainless  ej^es 
I  saw  the  empty  ether,  floating  gi'ay 
O'er  shadowy  mountains   murmuring  low  with 

winds! 
And  often  when,  in  his  old-fashion'd  way. 
He  question'd  me,  I  seem'd  to  hear  a  voice 
From  far  away,  that  mingled  with  the  cries 
Haunting  the  regions  where  the  round  red  sun 
Is  all  alone  with  God  among  the  snow! 

Who  made  the  stars?  and  if  \vithin  his  hand 
He  caught  and  held  one,  would  his  fingers  bm-n  ? 
If  I,  the  gray-hau-'d  dominie,  was  dug 
From  out  a  cabbage  garden  such  as  he 
Was  found  in  ?  if,  when  bigger,  he  would  wear 
Gray  homespun  hose  and  clumsy  boots  like  mine. 
And  have  a  house  to  dwell  in  all  alone? 
Thus  would  he  question,  seated  on  my  knee, 
While  Donald  [ichees/tt,  old  man  f]  stretch'd  lyart 

limbs 
Under  my  chair,  contented.     Open-mouth'd 
He  hearken'd  to  the  tales  I  lovetl  to  tell 
About  Sir  William  Wallace  and  the  Bruce, 
And  the  sweet  lady  ou  the  Scottish  throne. 
Whose  crown  was  colder  than  a  band  of  ice, 
Yet  seem'd  a  sunny  crown  whene'er  she  smiled; 
With  many  tales  of  genii,  giants,  dwarfs. 
And  little  folk  that  play  at  jing-a-ring 
On  beds  of  harebells  'neath  the  silver  moon; 
Stories  and  rhymes  and  songs  of  Wonder-land: 
How  Tammas  Ercildoune  in  Elfland  dwelt. 
How  Galloway's  mermaid  comb'd  her  golden  hair. 
How  Tammas  Thumb  stuck  in  the  spider's  web. 
And  fought  and  fought,  a  needle  for  his  sword. 


Dyeing  his  weapon  in  the  crimson  blood 
Of  the  foul  traitor  with  the  poison'd  fangs! 

And  when  we  read  the  Holy  Book,  the  child 
Would  think  and  think  o'er  pai-ts  he  loved  the 

best:— 
The  draught  of  fish,  the  Child  that  sat  so  wise 
In  the  great  Temple,  Herod's  ciiiel  law 
To  slay  the  babes,  or — oftenest  of  aU — 
The  crucifixion  of  the  Good  Kind  jNIau 
Who  loved  the  babes,  and  was  a  babe  himself. 
He  speu-'d  of  death;  and  were  the  sleejaers  cold 
Do\'\'u  in  the  dark  wet  earth  ?  and  was  it  God 
That  put  the  grass  and  flowers  in  the  kirk-yard  .' 
What  kind  of  dwelling-place  was  heaven  above  • 
And  was  it  full  oijiowers  ?  and  were  there  schools 
And  dominies  there?  and  was  it  far  airayl 
Then,  with  a  look  that  made  your  ej-es  grow  dim. 
Clasping  his  wee  white  hands  round   Donald's 

neck, 
"  Do  doiji/ies  gang  to  heaven  ? "  he  would  ask; 
"  Would  Donald  gang?"  and  keek'd  in  DonakVs 

face, 
^^'hile  Donald  blhik'd  with  meditative  gaze, 
As  if  he  knew  full  brawly  what  we  said, 
And  ponder'd  o'er  it,  wiser  far  than  we. 
But  how  I  answer'd,  how  esplain'd,  these  themes, 
I  know  not.     Oft  I  could  not  speak  at  all. 
Yet  every  question  made  me  think  of  things 
Forgotten,  puzzled  so,  and  when  I  strove 
To  reason  puzzled  me  so  much  the  more. 
That,  flinguig  logic  to  the  winds,  I  went 
Straight  onward  to  the  mark  in  Willie's  way. 
Took  most  for  granted,  laid  down  premises 
Of  faith,  imagined,  gave  my  wit  the  reins. 
And  often  in  the  night,  to  my  surprise. 
Felt  palpably  an  angel's  glowing  face 
Glimmering  down  upon  me,  while  mine  eyes 
Dimm'd  their  old  orbs  with  tears  that  came  uubid 
To  bear  the  glory  of  the  Ught  they  saw! 

So  summer  pass'd.     Yon  chestnut  at  the  door 
Scatter'd  its  burnish'd  leaves  and  made  a  sound 
Of  wind  among  its  branches.     Eveiy  daj^ 
Came  Willie,  seldom  going  home  again 
Till  near  the  sunset:  wet  or  dry  he  came: 
Oft  in  the  rainy  weather  carrying 
A  big  umbrella,  under  which  he  walk'd — 
A  little  fairy  in  a  parachute, 
Blown  hither,  thither,  at  the  wind's  wild  will. 
Pleased  was  my  heart  to  see  his  pallid  cheeks 
Were  gathering  rosy-posies,  that  his  eyes 
Were  softer  and  less  sad.     Then,  with  a  gust, 
Old  Winter  tumbled  shrieking  from  the  hills. 
His  white  hah-  blowing  in  the  wind. 

The  house 
Where  WilUe's  mother  hves  is  scarce  a  mile 
From  yonder  hallan,  if  you  take  a  cut 
Before  you  reach  the  -s-illage,  crossing  o'er 
Gi'een  meadows  till  you  reach  the  road  again; 


494 


EGBERT   BUCHAXAX. 


But  he  who  thither  goes  along  the  road 
Loses  a  reaper's  mile.     The  summer  long 
Wee  WiUie  came  and  went  across  the  fields. 
He  loved  the  smell  of  flowers  and  gras-s,  the  sight 
Of  cows  and  sheep,  the  changing  stalks  of  wheat, 
And  he  was  weak  and  small.    When  winter  came, 
Still  caring  not  a  straw  for  wind  or  rain, 
Came  Willie  and  the  collie;  tiU  by  night 
Down  fell  the  snow,  and  fell  three  nights  and  days, 
Then  ceased.     The  ground  was  white  and  ankle- 
deep; 
The  window  of  the  school  was  threaded  o'er 
With  flowers  of  hueless  ice— Frost's  unseen  hands 
Prick'd  you  from  head  to  foot  with  tingling  heat. 
The  shouting  urchins,  yonder  on  the  green, 
Play'd  snowballs.     In  the  school  a  cheerj'  fire 
Was  kindled  every  day,  and  every  day 
When  Willie  came  he  had  the  warmest  seat. 
And  every  day  old  Donald,  punctual,  came 
To  join  us,  after  labour,  in  the  lowe. 

Three  days  and  nights  the  snow  had  mistily 
fall'n. 
It  lay  long  miles  along  the  country-side, 
White,  awful,  silent.     In  the  keen  cold  air 
There  was  a  hush,  a  sleepless  silentness. 
And  'mid  it  all,  upraising  eyes,  you  ie]f, 
Frost's  breath  upon  your  face.  And  in  your  blood , 
Though  you  were  cold  to  touch,  was  flaming  fire, 
Such  as  within  the  bowels  of  the  earth 
Burnt  at  the  bones  of  ice,  and  wreath'd  them 

round 
With  grass  ungrown. 

One  day  in  school  I  saw, 
Through  threaded  window-panes,  soft  snowj'  flakes 
Swim  with  unquiet  motion,  mistily,  slowly. 
At  intervals;  but  when  the  boys  were  gone, 
And  in  ran  Donald  with  a  dripping  nose, 
The  air  was  clear  and  gray  as  glass.     An  hour 
Sat  Willie,  Donald,  and  myself  around 
The  murmuring  fire;  and  then  with  tender  hand 
I  wrapt  a  comforter  round  Willie's  throat, 
Button'd  his  coat  around  him  close  and  warm. 
And  off  he  ran  with  Donald,  happy-eyed 
And  merry,  lea\"ing  fairj'  prints  of  feet 
Behind  him  on  the  snow.     I  watch'd  them  fade 
Round  the  white  road,  and,  turning  with  a  sigh. 
Came  in  to  sort  the  room  and  smoke  a  pipe 
Before  the  fire.     Here,  dreamingly  and  alor.e, 
I  sat  and  smoked,  and  in  the  fire  saw  clear 
Tlie  norland   mountains,    white  and  cold  with 

.snow, 
That  crumbled  silently,and  moved, and  changed, — 
When  suddenly  the  air  grew  sick  and  dark, 
And  from  the  distance  came  a  hollow  sound, 
A  murmiu-  like  the  moan  of  far-off  seas. 

I  started  to  my  feet,  look'd  out,  and  knew 
The  winter  winrl  was  whistling  from  the  east 
To  lash  the  suow-clothed  plain,  and  to  myself 


I  prophesied  a  storm  before  the  night. 
Then  with  an  icy  pain,  an  eldritch  gleam, 
I  thought  of  Willie;  but  I  cheer'd  my  heart, 
"  He's  home,  and  with  his  mother,  long  ere  this!" 
While  thus  I  stood  the  hollow  murmur  grew 
Deeper,  the  wold  grew  darker,  and  the  snow 
Rush'd  downward,  whirling  in  a  shadowy  mist. 
I  walk'd  to  yonder  door  and  open'd  it. 
Whirr!  the  \vind  swung  it  from  me  with  a  clang. 
And  in  upon  me  with  an  iron-like  crash 
Swoop'd  in  the  drift.     With  pinch'd  sharp  face 

I  gazed 
Out  on  the  storm!    Dark,  dark  was  all!    A  mist, 
A  blinding,  whirling  mist,  of  chilly  snow, 
The  falling  and  the  driven;  for  the  wind 
Swept  round  and  round  in  spindrift  on  the  earth, 
And  birm'd  the  deathly  drift  aloft  ^ith  moans, 
Till  all  was  swooning  darkness.     Far  above 
A  voice  was  shrieking,  like  a  human  cry. 

I  closed  the  door,  and  timi'd  me  to  the  fire, 
With  something  on  my  heart — a  load — a  sense 
Of  an  impending  pain.     Down  the  broad  lum 
Came  melting  flakes,  that  hiss'd  upon  the  coal ; 
Under  my  eyehds  blew  the  blinding  smoke; 
And  for  a  time  I  sat  Uke  one  bewitch'd, 
Still  as  a  stone.     The  lonely  room  grew  dark, 
The  flickering  fire  threw  phantoms  of  the  fog 
Along  the  floor  and  on  the  walls  aroimd; 
The  melancholy  ticking  of  the  clock 
Was  like  the  beating  of  my  heart.     But,  hush! 
Above  the  moaning  of  the  wind  I  heard 
A  sudden  scraping  at  the  door  ...  my  heart 
Stood  still  and  Usten'd  .  .  .  and  with  that  there 

rose 
An  anguish'd  howl,  shrill  as  a  dying  screech, 
And  scrape-scrape-scrape,  the  sound  beyond  the 

door! 
I  could  not  think — I  could  not  crj-  nor  breathe — 
A  fierce  foreboding  gript  me  like  a  hand. 
As  opening  the  door  I  gazed  straight  out, 
S(iir  nothing,  till  I  felt  against  my  knees 
Something  that  moved,  and  heard  a  moaning 

sound — 
Tlien,  panting,  moaning,  o'er  the  threshold  leapt 
Donald,  the  dog,  alone,  and  white  with  snow. 

Down,  Donald!  down,  old  man  I     Sir,  look  at 

him! 
I  swear  he  knows  the  meaning  of  my  words, 
And  tho'  he  cannot  speak,  his  heart  is  full! 
See  now!  see  now!  he  puts  his  cold  Vjlack  nose 
Into  my  palm  and  whines!  he  knows,  he  knows! 
Would  speak,  and  cannot,  but  he  minds  that 

night! 

The  terror  of  my  heart  secm'd  choking  me: 
Wildly  I  stared  in  wonder  at  the  dog. 
Who  gazed  into  my  face  and  whined  and  moan'd, 
I^ap'd  at  the  door,  then  touch'd  nie  with  his  paws. 
And  lastly,  grip'  my  coat  between  his  teeth, 


EOBEET   BUCHANAN. 


495 


And   piill'd  and  pull'd  — with  stifled  howls  and 

whines — 
Till  fairly  madden'd,  stupitied  with  fear, 
I  let  him  di-ag  me  through  tlie  banging  door 
Out  to  the  whirling  stonn.     Bareheaded,  wild, 
The  wind  and  snow-drift  beating  on  my  face, 
Blowing  me  hither,  thither,  with  the  dog, 
I  dash'd  along  the  road.  .  .  .  What  follow'd,seem'd 
An  eerie,  eerie  dream! — a  world  of  snow, 
A  sky  of  wind,  a  whirling  howling  mist 
Which  swam  aro<md  with  countless  flashing  eyes; 
And  Donald  dragging,  dragging,  beaten,  bruised, 
Leading  rae  on  to  something  that  I  fear'd — ■ 
An  awful  something,  and  1  knew  not  what! 
On,  on,  and  farther  on,  and  still  the  snow 
Whirling,  the  tempest  moaning!     Then  I  mind 
Of  stooping,  groping  in  the  shadowy  light, 
And  Donald  by  me,  b\irrowing  with  his  nose 
And  whining.    Next  a  darkness,  blank  and  deep! 
But  tlicii  I  mind  of  tearing  through  the  storm. 
Stumbling  and  tripping,  blind  and  deaf  and  dumb. 
But  holding  to  my  heart  an  icy  load 
I  clutch'd  with  freezing  fingers.     Far  away — 
It  seem'd  long  miles  on  miles  away— I  saw 
A  yellow  light — imto  that  light  I  tore — 
And  last,  remember  opening  a  door 
And  falling,  dazzled  by  a  blinding  gleam 
Of  human  faces  and  a  flaming  fire. 
And  with  a  crash  of  voices  in  my  ears 
Fading  away  into  a  world  of  snow ! 

.  .  .  When  I  awaken'd  to  myself,  I  lay 
In  mine  own  bed  at  home.     I  started  up 
As  from  an  evil  dream,  and  look'd  around, 
When  to  my  side  came  one,  a  neighbour's  wife, 
Mother  to  two  young  lads  I  taught  in  school. 
With  hollow,  hollow  voice  I  question'd  her. 
And  soon  knew  all :  how  a  long  night  had  i^ass'd 
Since,  with  a  lifeless  laddie  in  my  arms, 
I  stumbled,  horror-stricken,  swooning,  wild. 
Into  a  ploughman's  cottage:  at  my  side. 
My  coat  between  his  teeth,  a  dog;  and  how 
Senseless  and  cold  I  fell.    Thence,  when  the  storm 
Had  pass'd  away,  they  bore  me  to  my  home. 
I  listen'd  dumbly,  catching  at  the  sense; 
But  when  the  woman  mention'd  Willie's  name. 
And  I  was  fear'd  to  phrase  the  thought  that  rore, 
She  saw  the  question  in  my  tearless  eyes 
And  told  me — he  was  dead. 

'Twould  weary  you 
To  tell  the  thoughts,  the  fancies,  and  the  dreams 
That  weigh'd  upon  me,  ere  I  rose  in  bed, 
But  little  harm'd,  and  sent  the  wife  away, 
Kose,  slowly  drest,  took  up  my  staff  and  wont 
To  Willie's  mother's  cottage.     As  I  walk'd. 
Though  all  the  air  was  calm  and  cold  and  still. 
The  blowing  wind  and  dazzled  snow  were  yet 
Around  about.     I  was  bewilder'd  like  I 
Ere  I  had  time  to  think,  I  found  myself 
Beside  a  truckle-bed,  and  at  my  side 


A  weeping  woman.     And  I  clench'd  my  hands, 
And  look'd  on  Willie,  who  had  gone  to  sleep. 

In  death-gown  white  lay  Willie  fast  asleep, 
His  blue  eyes  closed,  his  tiny  fingers  clench'd. 
His  lips  apart  a  wee  as  if  he  breathed, 
His  yellow  hair  kaim'd  back,  and  on  his  face 
A  smile — yet  not  a  smile — a  dim  pale  light 
Such  as  the  snow  keeps  in  its  own  soft  wings. 
Ay,  he  had  gone  to  sleep,  and  he  was  sound ! 
And  by  the  bed  lay  Donald  watching  still. 
And  when  I  look'd  he  whined,  but  did  not  move. 

I  turn'd  in  silence,  with  my  nails  stuck  deep 
In  my  clench'd  palms;  but  in  my  heart  of  hearts 
I  pray'd  to  God.     In  Willie's  mother's  face 
There  was  a  cold  and  silent  bitterness — 
I  saw  it  plain,  but  saw  it  in  a  dream. 
And  cared  not.     So  I  went  my  way,  as  grim 
As  one  who  holds  his  breath  to  slay  himself. 
What  f ollow'd  that  is  vague  as  was  the  rest : 
A  winter  day,  a  landscape  hush'd  in  snow, 
A  weary  wind,  a  horrid  whiteness  borne 
On  a  man's  shoulder,  shapes  in  black,  o'er  all 
The  solemn  clanging  of  an  iron  bell. 
And  lastly  me  and  Donald  standing  both 
Beside  a  tiny  mound  of  fresh-heap'd  earth, 
And  while  around  the  snow  began  to  fall 
Mistily,  softly,  thro'  the  icy  air, 
Looking  at  one  another,  dumb  and  old. 

And  Willie's  dead!— that's  all  I  comprehend — 
Ay,  bonnie  Willie  Baird  has  gone  before ! 
I  begg'd  old  Donald  hard— they  gave  him  me— 
And  we  have  lived  together  in  this  house 
Long  years,  with  no  companions.    There's  no  need 
Of  speech  between  us.     Here  we  dumbly  bide. 
But  know  each  other's  sorrow, — and  we  both 
Feel  weary.    When  the  nights  are  long  and  cold. 
And  snow  is  falling  as  it  falleth  now. 
And  wintry  winds  are  moaning,  here  I  dream 
Of  Willie  and  the  unfamiliar  life 
I  left  behind  me  on  those  norland  hills! 
"  Do  doggies  gang  to  heaven  ?"  Willie  ask'd; 
And  ah!  what  Solomon  of  modern  days 
Can  answer  that  I     Yet  here  at  nights  I  sit, 
Reading  the  Book,  with  Donald  at  my  side; 
And  stooping,  with  the  Book  upon  my  knee, 
I  sometimes  gaze  in  Donald's  patient  eyes — 
So  sad,  so  human,  though  he  cannot  speak — 
And  think  he  knows  that  Willie  is  at  peace. 
Far  far  away  beyond  the  norland  hills. 
Beyond  the  silence  of  the  untrodden  snow. 


THE  DEAD   MOTHER. 

As  I  lay  asleep,  as  I  lay  asleep, 
Under  the  grass  as  I  lay  so  deep, 
As  I  lay  asleep  in  my  white  death-serk 
Under  the  shade  of  Our  Lady's  Kirk, 


496 


EGBERT   BUCHANAN". 


I  waken'd  up  in  the  dead  of  night, 

I  waken'd  up  in  my  shroud  o'  white, 

And  I  heard  a  cry  from  far  away. 

And  I  knew  the  voice  of  my  daughter  May: 

"Mother,  mother,  come  hither  to  me! 

Mother,  motiier,  come  hitiier  and  see! 

ilother,  mother,  motlier  dear, 

Another  mother  is  sitting  here: 

My  body  is  bruised,  in  pain  I  cry, 

All  night  long  on  the  straw  I  lie, 

I  thirst  and  hunger  for  drink  and  meat. 

And  mother,  mother  to  sleep  were  sweet!" 

I  heard  the  cry,  though  my  grave  was  deep, 

xVnd  awoke  from  sleep,  and  awoke  from  sleep. 

I  awoke  from  sleep,  I  awoke  from  sleep, 

Up  I  rose  from  my  grave  so  deep! 

The  earth  was  black,  but  overhead 

The  stars  were  yellow,  the  moon  was  red; 

And  I  walk'd  along  all  white  and  thin, 

And  lifted  the  latch  and  enter'd  in. 

I  reach'd  the  chamber  as  dark  as  night. 

And  though  it  was  dark  my  face  was  white: 

"Mother,  mother,  I  look  on  thee! 

Mother,  mothei-,  you  frighten  me! 

For  your  cheeks  are  thin  and  your  hair  is  gray ! " 

But  I  smiled,  and  kiss'd  her  fears  away; 

I  smooth'd  her  hair  and  I  sang  a  song. 

And  on  my  knee  I  rock'd  her  long. 

"  0  mother,  mother,  sing  low  to  me — 

I  am  sleepy  now,  and  I  cannot  see!" 

I  kiss'd  her,  but  I  could  not  weep. 

And  she  went  to  sleep,  she  went  to  sleep. 

As  Tve  lay  asleep,  as  we  lay  asleep, 

]\[y  May  and  I,  in  our  grave  so  deep. 

As  we  lay  asleep  in  the  midnight  mirk, 

Under  the  shade  of  Our  Lady's  Kirk, 

I  waken'd  up  in  the  dead  of  night, 

Though  Jlay  my  daughter  lay  warm  and  white, 

And  I  heard  tlie  cry  of  a  little  one. 

And  I  knew  'twas  the  voice  of  Hugh  my  son: 

"Mother,  motlier,  come  hither  to  me! 

^[other,  mother,  come  hither  and  see! 

Mother,  motlier,  mother  dear. 

Another  mother  is  sitting  here. 

Jly  body  is  bruised  and  my  heart  is  sad, 

IJut  I  speak  my  mind  and  call  them  bad; 

I  thirst  and  hunger  night  and  day, 

And  were  I  strong  I  would  fly  away!" 

I  heard  tlie  cry  though  my  grave  Mas  deep. 

And  awoke  from  sleep,  and  awoke  from  sleep! 

T  awoke  from  sleep,  I  awoke  from  sleep. 
Up  I  rose  from  my  grave  so  deep, 
The  eartli  was  black,  but  overhead 
The  stars  wore  yellow,  the  moon  was  red; 
And  I  walk'd  along  all  while  and  thin, 
And  lifted  the  latch  and  enter'd  in. 


"Mother,  mother,  and  art  tliou  here? 
I  know  your  face,  and  I  feel  no  fear; 
liaise  me,  mother,  and  kiss  my  cheek, 
For  oh,  I  am  weary  and  sore  and  weak." 
I  smooth'd  his  hair  with  a  mother's  joy, 
And  he  laugh'd  aloud,  my  own  brave  buy; 
I  raised  and  held  him  on  my  breast. 
Sang  him  a  song,  and  bade  him  rest. 
"  Mother,  mother,  sing  low  to  me — 
I  am  sleepy  now,  and  I  cannot  see!" 
I  kiss'd  him,  and  I  could  not  weep. 
As  he  went  to  sleep,  as  he  went  to  sleep. 

As  I  lay  asleep,  as  I  lay  asleep. 

With  my  girl  and  boy  in  my  grave  so  deep. 

As  I  lay  asleep,  I  awoke  in  fear. 

Awoke,  but  awoke  not  my  children  dear, 

And  heard  a  cry  so  low  and  weak 

From  a  tiny  voice  tliat  could  not  speak; 

I  heard  the  cry  of  a  little  one, 

My  bairn  that  could  neither  talk  nor  run, 

My  little,  little  one,  nncaress'd. 

Starving  for  lack  of  the  milk  of  the  breast; 

And  I  rose  from  sleep  and  enter'd  in. 

And  found  my  little  one  pinch'd  and  thin. 

And  croon'd  a  song  and  hush'd  its  moan. 

And  put  its  lips  to  my  white  breast-bone; 

And  the  red,  red  moon  that  lit  the  place 

AVent  white  to  look  at  tlie  little  face. 

And  I  kiss'd,  and  kiss'd,  and  I  could  not  weep, 

As  it  went  to  sleep,  as  it  went  to  sleep. 

As  it  lay  asleep,  as  it  lay  asleep, 
I  set  it  down  in  the  darkness  deep, 
Smooth'd  its  limbs  and  laid  it  out. 
And  drew  the  curtains  round  about; 
Then  into  the  dark,  dark  room  I  hied. 
Where  awake  lay  he  at  the  woman's  side; 
And  though  the  chamber  was  black  as  night. 
He  saw  my  face,  for  it  was  so  white; 
I  gazed  in  his  eyes,  and  he  shriek'd  in  pain. 
And  I  knew  he  would  never  sleep  again. 
And  back  to  my  grave  went  silently. 
And  soon  my  baby  was  brought  to  me; 
My  son  and  dauglitcr  beside  me  rest, 
My  little  baby  is  on  my  breast; 
Our  bed  is  warm  and  our  grave  is  deep, 
But  he  cannot  sleep,  he  cannot  sleep! 


THE  BALL.VD  OF  JUDAS   ISCAllIOT.^ 

'Twas  the  body  of  .Tudas  Iscariot 
Lay  in  the  Field  of  Blood; 


'Equal  in  finish  to  anything  written  siiicu  "Tlie 
RiniB  of  the  Ancient  Mariner,"  and  approaches  that 
pouiu  in  weird  inip;essivtness  and  power. — SU'dinan. 


KOBEET   BLX'HANAN. 


497 


'Twas  the  soul  of  Judas  Iscariot 
■  Beside  tlie  body  stood. 

Black  waa  tlie  earth  by  night, 

And  black  was  the  sky; 
Black,  black  were  the  broken  clouds, 

Tho'  the  red  moon  went  by. 

'Twas  the  body  of  Jndas  Iscariot 
Strangled  and  dead  lay  there; 

'Twas  the  soul  of  Judas  Iscariot 
Look'd  on  it  in  despair. 

The  breath  of  the  world  came  and  went 

Like  a  sick  man's  in  rest; 
Drop  by  drop  on  the  world's  eyes 

The  dews  fell  cool  and  blest. 

Then  the  soul  of  Judas  Iscariot 
Did  make  a  gentle  moan — 
"I  will  bury  underneath  the  ground 
My  llesh  and  blood  and  bone. 

"I  will  bury  deep  beneath  the  soil. 
Lest  mortals  look  thereon. 
And  when  the  wolf  and  raven  come 
The  body  will  be  gone! 

"  The  stones  of  the  field  arc  sharp  as  steel, 
And  liard  and  cold,  God  wot; 
And  I  must  bear  my  body  hence 
Until  I  find  a  spot!" 

'Twas  the  soul  of  Judas  Iscariot, 
So  grim,  and  gaunt,  and  gray, 

Kaised  the  body  of  Judas  Iscariot, 
And  carried  it  away. 

And  as  he  bare  it  from  the  field 

Its  touch  was  cold  as  ice. 
And  the  ivory  teeth  within  the  jaw 

Rattled  aloud,  like  dice. 

As  the  soul  of  Judas  Iscariot 

Carried  its  load  with  pain, 
The  Eye  of  Heaven,  like  a  lanthorn's  eye, 

Open'd  and  shut  again. 

Half  he  walk'd,  and  half  he  scem'd 

Lifted  on  the  cold  wind; 
He  did  not  turn,  for  chilly  hands 

Were  pushing  from  behind. 

The  first  place  that  he  came  unto 

It  was  the  open  wold, 
And  underneath  were  prickly  whins, 

And  a  wind  that  blew  so  cold. 

Vol.  II. — 1 1 


The  next  jdacc  that  he  came  unto 

It  was  a  stagnant  pool. 
And  when  he  threw  the  body  in 

It  floated  light  as  wool. 

He  drew  the  body  on  his  back, 

And  it  was  dripping  chill, 
And  the  next  place  he  came  unto 

Was  a  cross  upon  a  hill. 

A  cross  upon  the  windy  hill. 

And  a  cross  on  eitlier  side. 
Three  skeletons  that  swing  tiiercon, 

Who  hail  been  crucified. 

And  on  the  middle  cross  bar  sat 

A  white  dove  slumbering; 
Dim  it  sat  in  the  dim  light. 

With  its  head  beneath  its  wing. 

And  underneath  the  middle  cross 
A  grave  yawn'd  wide  and  vast. 

But  the  soul  of  Judas  Iscariot 
Shiver'd,  and  glided  past. 

The  fourth  place  that  he  came  unto 

It  was  the  Brig  of  Dread, 
And  the  great  torrents  rusiiing  down 

Were  deep,  and  swift,  and  red. 

He  dared  not  fling  the  body  in 

For  fear  of  faces  dim, 
And  arms  were  waved  in  the  wild  water 

To  thrust  it  back  to  iiim. 

'Twas  the  soul  of  Judas  Iscariot 
Turned  from  the  Brig  of  Dread, 

And  the  dreadful  foam  of  the  wild  water 
Had  splashed  the  body  red. 

For  days  and  nights  he  wandered  on, 

Upon  an  open  plain. 
And  the  days  went  by  like  blinding  mist. 

And  the  nights  like  rushing  rain. 

For  days  and  nights  he  wandered  on. 

All  thro'  the  Wood  of  Woe; 
And  the  nights  went  by  like  moaning  wind. 

And  the  days  like  drifting  snow. 

'Tw4S  the  soul  of  Judas  Iscariot 

Came  with  a  weary  face — 
Alone,  alone,  and  all  alone, 

Alone  in  a  lonely  place! 

He  wandered  east,  he  wandered  west. 

And  heard  no  human  sound; 
For  months  and  years,  in  grief  and  tears. 

He  wandered  round  and  round. 


493 


EOBEET   BUCHANAN. 


For  months  and  years,  in  grief  and  tears, 

He  v.aiked  the  silent  night; 
Then  the  soul  of  Judas  Iscariot 

Perceived  a  far-off  light. 

A  far-off  light  across  the  waste, 

As  dim  as  dim  might  be, 
That  came  and  went  like  the  lighthouse  gleam 

On  a  black  night  at  sea. 

'Twas  the  soul  of  Judas  Iscariot 

Crawl'd  to  the  distant  gleam; 
And  the  rain  came  down,  and  the  rain  was 
blown 

Against  him  with  a  scream. 

For  days  and  nights  he  wandered  on, 

Push'd  on  by  hands  behind; 
And  the  days  went  by  like  black,  black  rain. 

And  the  nights  like  rushing  wind. 

'Twas  the  soul  of  Judas  Iscariot, 

Strange,  and  sad,  and  tall, 
Stood  all  alone  at  dead  of  night 

Before  a  lighted  hall. 

And  the  wold  was  white  with  snow. 
And  his  footmarks  black  and  damp, 

And  the  ghost  of  the  silvern  moon  arose. 
Holding  her  yellow  lamp. 

And  the  icicles  were  on  the  eaves, 
And  the  walls  were  deep  with  white. 

And  the  shadows  of  the  guests  within 
Pass'd  on  the  window  light. 

The  shadows  of  the  wedding  guests 

Did  strangely  come  and  go. 
And  the  body  of  Judas  Iscariot 

Lay  stretch'd  along  the  snow. 

The  body  of  Judas  Iscariot 
Lay  stretched  along  the  snow; 

'Twas  the  soul  of  Judas  Iscariot 
Ifan  swiftly  to  and  fro. 

To  and  fro,  and  up  and  down. 

He  ran  so  swiftly  there, 
As  round  and  round  the  frozen  pole 

Glidetli  the  lean  white  bear. 

"Twas  the  Bridegroom  sat  at  the  table-head, 
And  the  lights  burnt  bright  and  clear — 
"Oh,  who  is  that,"  the  Bridegroom  said, 
"Whose  weary  feet  1  hear!" 

'Twas  one  looked  from  the  lighted  hall, 
And  answered  soft  and  slow, 
"  It  is  a  wolf  runs  up  and  down 

^Yith  a  black  track  in  the  snow." 


The  Bridegroom  in  his  robe  of  white 
Sat  at  the  table-head — 
"  Oh,  who  is  that  who  moans  without?" 
The  blessed  Bridegroom  said. 

'Twas  one  looked  from  the  lighted  hall. 
And  answered  fierce  and  low, 
"'Tis  the  soul  of  Judas  Iscariot 
Gliding  to  and  fro." 

'Twas  the  soul  of  Judas  Iscariot 

Did  hush  itself  and  stand. 
And  saw  the  Bridegroom  at  the  door 

With  a  light  in  his  hand. 

The  Bridegroom  stood  in  the  open  door. 

And  he  was  clad  in  white. 
And  far  within  the  Lord's  Supper 

Was  spread  so  broad  and  bright. 

The  Bridegroom  shaded  his  eyes  and  look'd. 
And  his  face  was  bright  to  sec — 
"■What  dost  thou  here  at  the  Lord's  Supper 
With  thy  body's  sinsl"  said  he. 

'Twas  the  soul  of  Judas  Iscariot 
Stood  black,  and  sad,  and  bare — 
"  I  have  wandered  many  nights  and  days; 
There  is  no  light  elsewhere." 

'Twas  the  wedding  guests  cried  out  within. 
And  their  eyes  were  fierce  and  bright — 
"Scourge  the  soul  of  Judas  Iscariot 
Away  into  the  night!" 

The  Bridegroom  stood  in  the  open  door. 
And  he  waved  hands  still  and  slow, 

And  the  third  time  that  he  waved  his  hands 
The  air  was  thick  with  snow. 

And  of  every  flake  of  falling  snow. 

Before  it  touched  the  ground. 
There  came  a  dove,  and  a  thousand  doves 

3Iade  sweet  sound. 

'Twas  the  body  of  Judas  Iscariot 

Floated  away  full  fleet, 
And  the  wings  of  the  doves  that  bare  it  off 

Were  like  its  winding  sheet. 

'Twas  the  Bridegroom  stood  at  the  open  door. 
And  beckon'd,  smiling  sweet; 

'Twas  the  soul  of  Judas  Iscariot 
Stole  in,  and  fell  at  his  feet. 

"  The  Holy  Supper  is  spread  Avithin, 
And  the  many  candles  shine, 
And  I  have  waited  long  for  thee 
Before  I  poured  the  winel" 


v/ 


ROBEllT  BUCHANAN. 


499 


The  supper  wine  is  poured  at  last, 
Tlie  lights  burn  bright  and  fair, 

Iscariot  washes  the  Bridegroom's  feet, 
And  dries  them  with  his  hair. 


THE  BATTLE  OF  DRUMLIEMOOR 

COVEXAXT   PERIOD. 

Bar  the  door!  put  out  the  light,  for  it  gleams 
across  the  night. 
And  guides  the  blood}'  motion  of  their  feet; 
Hush  the  bairn  upon  thy  breast,  lest  it  guide 
tliem  in  their  quest. 
And  with  water  quench  the  blazing  of  the  peat. 
Now,  wife,  sit  still  and  hark! — hold  my  hand 
amid  the  dark; 
0  Jeanie,  we  are  scattered — e'en  as  sleet! 

It  was  down  on  Drumliemoor,  where  it  slopes 
upon  the  shore, 
And  looks  upon  the  breaking  of  the  bay. 
In  the  kirkyard  of  the  dead,  where  the  heather 
is  thrice  red 
With  the  blood  of  those  asleep  beneath  the  clay; 
And  the  Howiesons  were  there,  and  the  people 
of  Glen  Ayi-, 
And  we  gathered  in  the  gloom  o'  night — to 
pray. 

How!    Sit  at  home  in  fear,  when  God's  voice  was 
in  mine  ear. 
When  the  priests  of  Baal  were  slaughtering  his 
sheep  ? 
Nay!  there  I  took  my  stand,  with  my  reap-hook 
in  my  hand. 
For  bloody  was  the  sheaf  that  I  might  reap; 
And  the  Lord  was  in  liis  skies,  with  a  thousand 
dreadful  eyes, 
And  his  breathing  made  a  trouble  on  the  deep. 

Each  mortal  of  the  band  brought  his  weapon  in 
his  hand. 
Though  the  chopper  or  the  spit  was  all  he  bare; 
And  not  a  man  but  knew  the  work  he  had  to  do, 

If  the  fiend  should  f.'dl  upon  us  unaware. 
And  our  looks  were  ghastly  white,  but  it  was  not 
with  affright, — 
The  Lord  our  God  was  present  to  our  prayer. 

Oh,  solemn,  sad,  and  slow,  rose  the  stem  voice 
of  Monroe, 
And  he  curst  the  curse  of  Babylon  the  whore; 
We  could  not  see  his  face,  but  a  gleam  was  in  its 
place. 
Like  the  phosphor  of  the  foam  upon  the  shore; 
And  the  eyes  of  all  were  dim,  as  they  fixed  them- 
selves on  him, 
And  the  sea  filled  up  the  pauses  with  its  roar. 


But  when,  with  accents  calm,  Kilmahoc  gave  out 
the  psalm, 
The  sweetness  of  God's  voice  upon  his  tongue. 
With  one  voice  we  praised  the  Lord  of  the  fire 
and  of  the  sword. 
And  louder  than  the  winter  wind  it  rung: 
And  across  the  stars  on  high  went  the  smoke  of 
tempest  by. 
And  a  vapour  roll'd  around  us  as  we  sung. 

'Twas  terrible  to  hear  our  cry  rise  deep  and  clear. 
Though  we  could  not  see  the  criers  of  the  cry. 
But  we  sang  and  gript  our  brands,  and  touched 
each  other's  hands. 
While  a  thin  sleet  smote  our  faces  from  the  sky; 
And,  sudden,  strange,  and  low,  hissed  the  voice 
of  Kilmahoe, 
"  Grip  j'our  weapons!    Wait  in  silence!    They 
are  nigh!" 

And  hcark'ning,  with  clcnch'd  teeth,  wc  could 
hear,  across  the  heath. 
The  tramping  of  the  horses  as  they  flew. 
And  no  man  breathed  a  breath,  Vnit  all  were  still 
as  death, 
And  close  together  shivering  we  drew; 
And  deeper  round  us  fell  all  the  eyeless  gloom  of 
hell. 
And  the  fiend  was  in  among  us  ere  we  knew ! 

Then  our  battle  slu-iek  arose,  and  the  cursing  of 
our  foes — 
No  face  of  friend  or  foeman  could  we  mark ; 
But  I  struck  and  kept  my  stand  (trusting  GoJ 
to  g-uide  my  hand), 
And  struck,  and  sti-uck,  and  heard  the  hell- 
hounds bark; 
And  I  fell  beneath  a  horse,  Vnit  I  reached  with 
all  my  force, 
And  ript  him  with  my  reap-hook  through  the 
dark. 

As  we  struggled,  knowing  not  whose  hand  was 
at  our  throat. 
Whose  blood  was  spouting  warm  into  our  eyes. 
We  felt  the  tliick  snow-drift  swoop  upon  us  from 
the  lift, 
And  murmur  in  the  pauses  of  our  cries; 
But,  lo !  before  we  wist,  rose  the  curtain  of  the 
mist, 
And  the  pale  moon  shed  her  son-ow  from  the 
skies. 

0  God!  it  was  a  sight  that  made  the  hair  turn 
white, 
Tliat  wither'd  up  the  heart's  blood  into  woo, 
To  see  the  faces  loom  in  the  dimly  lighted  gloom, 

And  the  hutchcr'd  lying  bloodily  below; 
While  melting,  with  no  sound,  fell  so  peacefully 
around 
The  whiteness  and  the  wonder  of  the  snow! 


500 


EGBERT  BUCHANAN. 


Ay,  and  thiclcer,  thicker,  poured  the  pale  silence 
of  the  Lord, 
From  the  hollow  of  his  hand  we  saw  it  shed, 
And  it  gather'd  round  us  there,  till  we  groan'd 
and  gasped  for  air, 
And  beneath  was  ankle  deep  and  stained  red; 
And  soon,  whatever  wight  was  smitten  down  in 
fight 
Was  huried  in  the  di'if  t  ere  he  was  dead. 

Then  we  beheld  at  length  the  troopers  in  their 
strength. 
For  faster,  faster,  faster  up  they  streamed, 
And  their  pistols  flashing  bright  showed  their 
faces  ashen  white. 
And  their  blue  steel  caught  the  di-iving  moon, 
and  gleamed. 
But  a  dying  voice  cried,  "  Fly!"  and  behold,  e'en 
at  the  cry, 
A  panic  fell  upon  us  and  wo  screamed! 

Oh,  shrill   and  awful  rose,  'mid   the   splashing 
blood  and  blows, 
Our  scream  unto  the  Lord  that  let  us  die; 
And  the  fiend  amid  us  roared  his  defiance  at  the 
Lord, 
And  his  servants  slew  the  strong  man  'mid  his 
ciy; 
And  the  Lord  kept  still  in  heaven,  and  the  only 
answer  given 
Was  the  white  snow  falling,  falling  from  the  sky. 

Then  we  fled!  the  dai-kness grew!  'mid  the  driving 
cold  we  flew, 
Each  alone,  yea,  each  for  those  whom  he  held 
dear; 
And  I  heard  upon  the  wind  the  thud  of  hoofs 
behind, 
And  the  scream  of  those  who  porish'd  in  their 
fear, 
But  I  knew  by  heart  each  path  through  the  dark- 
ness of  the  strath. 
And  I  hid  myself  all  day, — and  I  am  here. 

Ah  I  gathered  in  one  fold  be  the  holy  men  and  bold, 
And  beside  them  the  accursed  and  the  proud; 
The  Howiesons  are  there,  and  the  Wylies  of 
(ilen  Ayr, 
Kirkpatrick,  and  Macdonald,  and  Macleod. 
And   while  the  widow  gi'oans,  lo!   God's  hand 
around  their  bones 
His  thin  ice  windeth  whitely,  as  a  shroud. 

On  mountain  and  in  vale  our  women  will  look  pale. 

And  palest  where  the  ocean  surges  boom: 
Buried  'neath  snow-drift  white,  with  no  holy 
prayer  or  rite, 
Lie  the  loved  ones  they  look  for  in  the  gloom; 
And  deeper,  deejicr  .still,  spreads  the  snow  on 
vale  and  hill, 
And  deeper  and  yet  deeper  is  their  tombl 


THE   STARLING. 

The  little  lame  tailor 

Sat  stitching  and  snarling — 
Who  in  the  world 

Was  tlie  tailor's  darling? 
To  none  of  mankind 
Wa.s  he  well  inclined, 

But  he  doted  on  Jack  the  starling. 

For  tlie  bird  had  a  tongue, 

And  of  words  good  store, 
And  his  cage  was  hung 

Just  over  the  door; 
And  he  saw  the  people, 

And  heard  the  roar, — 
Folk  coming  and  going 

Evermore,  ^ — 
And  he  look'd  at  the  tailor — 

And  swore. 

From  a  country  lad 

The  tailor  bought  him, — 
His  training  was  bad. 

For  tramps  had  taught  him ; 
On  alehouse  benches 

His  cage  had  been, 
While  louts  and  wenches 

Made  jests  obscene, — 
But  he  learn'd,  no  doubt, 

His  oaths  from  fellows 
Who  travel  about 

AVith  kettle  and  bellows; 
And  three  or  four 

[The  roundest  by  far 
That  ever  he  swore  1] 

Were  taught  by  a  tar. 
And  tiie  tailor  heard — 

"We'll  be  friends!"  thought  lie; 
"You're  a  clever  bird, 

And  our  tastes  agree. 
We  botii  are  old 

And  esteem  life  base. 
The  whole  world  cold. 

Things  out  of  phicc; 
And  we're  lonely  too, 

And  full  of  care — 
So  wluit  can  we  do 

But  swear? 

"  The  devil  take  you. 

How  you  mutter! 
Yet  there's  much  to  make  you 

Fluster  and  fluttor. 
You  want  the  fresh  air 

And  the  sunlight,  lad. 
And  your  prison  there 

Feels  dreary  and  sad; 


ALEXANDEE  ANDERSOX. 


501 


And  liere  /  frown 

In  a  pri.son  as  dreary, 
Hating  the  town, 

And  feeling  weary: 
We're  too  confined.  Jack, 

And  we  want  to  fly. 
And  you  blame  mankind,  Jack, 

And  so  do  I! 
And  then,  again, 

By  chance  as  it  were. 
We  learn'd  from  men 

IIow  to  grumble  and  swear; 
You  let  your  throat 

By  the  scamps  be  guided. 
And  swore  by  rote — 

All  just  as  I  did! 
And  without  beseeching, 

Belief  is  brought  us — 
For  we  turn  the  teaching 

On  those  who  taught  us! " 

A  haggard  and  ruffled 

Old  fellow  was  Jack, 
With  a  grim  face  muffled 

I  n  ragged  black. 
And  his  coat  was  rusty 

And  never  neat. 
And  his  wings  were  dusty 

With  grime  of  the  street. 
And  he  sidelong  peer'd, 

With  eyes  of  soot, 
And  scowl'd  and  sneer'd, — 

And  was  lame  of  a  foot! 
And  he  long'd  to  go 

From  whence  lie  came; — 
And  the  tailor,  you  know, 

AYas  just  the  same. 

All  kinds  of  weather 

They  felt  confined. 
And  swore  together 

At  all  mankind; 
For  their  mirth  was  done, 

And  they  felt  like  brothers, 
And  the  railing  of  one 

Meant  no  move  than  the  other's. 


'Twas  just  the  way 

They  had  learn'd,  you  see, — 
Each  wanted  to  say 

Only  this — "  Woe's  me! 
I'm  a  poor  old  fellow. 

And  I'm  prison'd  so, 
While  the  sun  shines  mellow, 
And  the  corn  Avavcs  yellow. 

And  the  fresh  winds  blow, — 
And  the  folk  don't  care 

If  I  live  or  die, 
But  I  long  for  air 

And  I  wish  to  fly!" 
Yet  unable  to  utter  it, 

And  too  wild  to  bear. 
They  could  only  mutter  it, 

And  sweai\ 

Many  a  year 

They  dwelt  in  the  city. 
In  their  prisons  drear. 

And  none  felt  pity, — 
Nay,  few  were  sparing 

Of  censure  and  coldness. 
To  hear  them  swearing 

With  such  plain  boldness. 
But  at  last,  by  the  Lord, 

Their  noise  was  stopt, — 
For  down  on  his  board 

The  tailor  dropt. 
And  they  found  him,  dead, 

And  done  with  snarling, 
Yet  over  his  head 

Still  grumbled  the  starling. 
But  when  an  old  Jew 

Claim'd  the  goods  of  the  tailor, 
And  with  eye  askew 

Eyed  the  feathery  railer. 
And  with  a  frown 

At  the  dirt  and  rust, 
Took  the  old  cage  down. 

In  a  shower  of  dust, — 
Jack,  with  heart  aching. 

Felt  life  past  bearing. 
And  shivering,  quaking. 
All  hope  forsaking, 

Died,  swearing. 


ALEXANDEE    ANDERSON. 


Alexander  Andersox,  one  of  our  youngest 
and  most  promising  Scottish  poets,  was  born 
at  Kirkconnel,  a  small  village  in  Dumfriesshire, 
April  30,  1845.     When  a  child  his  parents 


removed  to  the  village  of  Crocketford  in  Gal- 
loway, at  the  school  of  which  place  their  son  re- 
ceived the  rudiments  of  his  education.  He  was 
not  in  any  way  remarkable  for  scholarship,  but 


502 


ALEXANDEE  ANDEESON. 


enjoyed  some  fame  amongst  his  school-fellows 
for  being  a  good  sketcher  and  colourist.  By 
and  by  the  youthful  artist  turned  from  colours 
to  word-painting,  and  began  to  indulge  in 
doggerel  rhymes,  turning  every  sentence  that 
he  deemed  worth  recording  into  verse.  In  this 
way  he  composed  a  number  of  satires,  epistles, 
and  other  poems,  which,  however,  on  reaching 
manhood  he  committed  to  the  flames. 

In  1863  he  returned  to  his  native  village, 
and  for  some  years  abandoned  his  poetical 
pursuits,  devoting  his  leisure  time  to  read- 
ing and  mental  improvement.  But  the  death 
of  an  elder  brother  again  opened  the  poetic 
spring  in  his  heart;  he  produced  the  piece 
*'  To  One  in  Eternity,"  and  from  this  time  his 
career  as  a  poet  began.  In  1870  his  poem  on 
John  Keats  appeared  in  the  Peoplt's  Friend, 
and  after  this  he  became  a  regular  and  highly 
appreciated  contributor  to  the  columns  of  that 
journal.  In  1873  he  was  encouraged  to  pub- 
lish his  Sonrj  of  Labour  and  other  Poems, 
which  met  an  instant  and  most  generous  re- 
ception from  both  the  press  and  the  public. 
Two  years  later  appeared  his  second  volume, 
The  Two  Angels  and  other  Poems,  which  con- 
tains a  number  of  sweet  Scottish  songs,  some 
pieces  rich  in  imagination,  and  a  remarkable 
series  of  sonnets  entitled  "  In  Eome,"  exhibit- 
ing proofs  of  great  genius. 


Mr.  Anderson  is  employed  in  the  humble 
calling  of  a  surfaceman  on  the  Glasgow  and 
Soutli-Western  IJailway,  and  still  contentedly 
continues  to  reside  with  his  parents  in  his 
native  village — a  pure  and  simple-minded  man. 
To  his  love  of  poetry  is  added  a  taste  for  the 
study  of  languages,  and  by  his  own  application 
he  has  mastered  the  difficulties  of  French, 
German,  and  Italian,  and  can  now,  he  says, 
"in  my  own  way  appreciate  in  their  own 
tongue  the  mighty  voices  of  Goethe,  Schiller, 
and  Dante."  With  his  favourite  books  to 
amuse  him  in  the  evenings,  and  the  social 
intercourse  of  friends,  who  drop  in  now  and 
then  to  have  a  quiet  chat,  he  asks,  "What 
more  can  I  wish  for?  I  have  the  great  rush 
and  whirl  of  the  world  going  past  me  in  trains 
through  the  day  when  at  my  work,  and  at 
night  the  cool  healthy  calm  of  my  native  vil- 
lage." 

The  Athenmum  says  of  Mr.  Anderson's 
poems,  "They  show  a  remarkable  power  in 
the  author  of  assimilating  what  he  reads,  and 
of  expressing  his  own  thoughts  with  vigour 
and  poetical  taste;"  and  another  critic  re- 
marks, "  There  is  a  ring  of  true  poetry  in  the 
book,  and  it  may  be  a  subject  of  pride  to 
sixteen  tliousand  platelayers  engaged  on  the 
railways  of  the  United  Kingdom  to  have  such 
a  poet  in  their  ranks." 


BLOOD    ON    THE    WHEEL. 


"Bless  her  dear  little  heart!"  said  my  mate,  and 
he  pointed  out  to  me, 
Fifty  yards  to  the  riglit,  in  the  darkness,  a 
Hght  burning  steady  and  clear. 
'•  That's   her  signal  in  answer  to  me,  when  I 
whistle,  to  let  me  see 
She  is  at  her  place  by  the  window  the  tin.e  I 
am  passing  here." 

I  tum'd  to  look  at  the  light,  and  I  saw  the  tear 
on  his  cheek — 
He  was  tender  of  heart,  and  I  knew  that  his 
love  was  lasting  and  strong — 
But  he  dash'd  it  off  with  his  hand,  and  I  did  not 
think  fit  to  speak, 
But  look'd  right  ahead  through  the  dark,  as  we 
clank'd  and  thundcr'd  along. 

They  had  been  at  the  school,  the  two,  and  had 
run,  like  a  single  life, 


Through  the  mazes  of  childhood,  up  to  the 

sweeter  and  firmer  prime, 
And  often  he  told  me,  smiling,  he  had  promised 

to  make  her  his  wife. 
In  the  rambles  they  had  for  nuts  in  the  woods 

in  the  golden  autumn  time. 

"I  must  make,"  ho  would  add,  "that  promise 
good  in  the  course  of  a  ni  nith  or  two; 
And  then  when  I  have  her  safe  and  sound  in  a 
nook  of  the  busy  town, 
No  use  of  us  whistling  then,  Joe,  lad,  as  now  we 
incline  to  do, 
For  a  wave  of  her  hand  or  an  answering  light 
as  we  thunder  up  and  down." 

Well,  the  marriage  was  settled  at  last,  and  I  was 
to  stand  by  his  side, 
Take  a  part  in  the  happy  rite,  and  pull  from 
his  hand  the  glove; 


ALEXANDER  ANDEESON. 


503 


And  still  as  we  joked  between  ovirselves,  he  would  I 
say,  in  his  manly  pride, 
That  the  veiy  rinji:  of  the  engine-wheels  had 
something  in  them  of  love. 

At  length  we  had  just  one  run  to  make  before 
the  bridal  took  place, 
And  it  happen'd  to  be  in  the  night,  yet  merry 
in  heart  we  went  on; 
But  long  ere  he  came  to  the  house,  he  was  turn- 
ing each  moment  his  face 
To  catch  the  light  by  the  window,  placed  as  a 
beacon  for  him  alone. 

"  Now  then,  Joe,"  he  said,  with  his  hand  on  my 
arm,  "  keep  a  steady  look-out  ahead 
While  I   whistle  for  the  last  time;"  and  he 
whistled  sharply  and  clear; 
But  no  light  rose  up  at  the  sound;  and  he  look'd 
with  something  like  dread 
On  the  whitewash'd  walls  of  the  cot,  through 
the  gloom  looking  dull,  and  misty,  anddreai-. 

But  lo!  as  he  tum'd  to  whistle  again,  there  rose 
on  the  night  a  scream. 
And  I  rush'd  to  the  side  in  time  to  catch  the 
flutter  of  something  white; 
Then  a  hitch  through  the  engine  ran  like  atlirill, 
and  in  haste  he  shut  off  the  steam, 
While  we  stood  looking  over  at  each  with  our 
hearts  beating  wild  with  affright. 

The  station  was  half  a  mile  ahead,  but  an  age 
seem'd  to  pass  away 
Ere  we  came  to  a  stand,  and  my  mate,  as  a 
drunken  man  will  reel, 
Rush'd  on  to  the  front  with  his  lamp,  but  to  bend 
and  come  back  and  say, 
In  a  whisper  faint  with  its  terror — "Joe,  come 
and  look  at  this  blood  on  the  wheel." 

Great  heaven!  a  thought  went  through  my  heart 
like  the  sudden  stab  of  a  knife, 
While  the  same  dread  thought  seem'd  to  settle 
on  him  and  palsy  his  heart  and  mind, 
For  he  went  up  the  line  with  the  haste  of  one  who 
is  rushing  to  save  a  life, 
And  with  the  dread  shadow  of  what  was  to  be 
I  foUow'd  closely  behind. 

What  came  next  is  indistinct,  like  the  mist  on 
the  mountain  side — 
Gleam  of  lights  and  awe-struck  faces,  but  one 
thing  can  never  grow  dim: 
My  mate,  kneeling  down  in  his  grief  like  a  child 
by  the  side  of  his  mangled  bride, 
Kill'd,  with  the  letter  still  in  her  hand  she  had 
wished  to  send  to  him. 

Some  little  token  was  in  it,  perhaps  to  tell  of  her 
love  and  her  truth, 


Some  little  love-errand  to  do  ere  the  happy 

bridal  drew  nigh ; 
So  in  haste  she  had  taken  the  line,  but  to  meet, 

in  the  flush  of  her  fair  sweet  youth. 
The  terrible  death  that  could  only  be  seen  with 

a  horror  in  heart  and  eye. 

Speak  not  of  human  sorrow— it  cannot  be  spoken 
in  words; 
Let  us  veil  it  as  God  veil'd  His  at  the  sight  of 
His  Son  on  the  cross. 
For  who  can  reach  to  the  height  or  the  depth  of 
those  infinite  yearning  chords 
Whose  tones  reach  the  very  centre  of  heaven 
when  swept  by  the  fingers  of  loss  ? 

She  sleeps  by  the  little  ivied  church  in  which  she 
had  bow'd  to  pray^ 
Another  grave  close  by  the  side  of  hers,  for  he 
died  of  a  broken  heart, 
Wither'd  and  shi-unk  from  that  awful  night  Uke 
the  autumn  leaves  in  decay, 
And  the  two  were  together  that  death  at  fii-st 
had  shaken  so  roughly  apart. 

But  still,  when  I  drive  through  the  dark,  and  that 
night  comes  back  to  my  mind, 
I  can  hear  the  shriek  take  the  air,  and  beneath 
me  fancy  I  feel 
The  engine  shake  and  hitch  on  the  rail,  while  a 
hollow  voice  from  behind 
Cries  out,  till  I  leap  on  the  foot-plate,  "Joe, 
come  and  look  at  this  blood  on  the  wheel ! "' 


AGNES  DIED. 
(extract.  ) 

But  let  me  try  to  paint  that  one  sweet  day 
We  spent  within  the  woods,  before  her  strength 
Grew  a  soft  traitor,  and  confined  her  steps 
To  the  hush'd  precincts  of  her  sacred  room. 

The  sun  was  bright  that  day,  and  all  the  sky 
Glimmer'd  like  magic  with  its  sunniest  light, 
As  if  it  knew  that  I,  in  later  times, 
Would  look  back  on  that  fading  light,  and  sigh. 
And  sadden  at  that  splendour  sunk  in  death. 
We  took  our  way  along  a  path  which  kept 
Our  footsteps  by  a  lake,  wherein  was  seen 
A  little  island  dripping  to  the  edge 
With  golden  lilies,  double  in  their  bloom; 
When  some,  more  amorous  than  the  rest,  leant 

o'er 
And  nodded  to  their  shadows  seen  below. 
The  coot  came  forth  at  times  to  show  the  speck 
Of  white  upon  his  wings,  then  swept  away 
Behind  the  twisted  roots.     The  silent  heron. 
Amid  the  tiny  pillars  of  the  rccd. 


504 


ALEXANDEE  ANDEESON. 


Kept  eager  watch,  nor  stirr'd  upon  his  post, 
But  stood  a  feather'd  patience  waiting  prey; 
While  in  the  woods  the  birds,  as  if  ashamed 
Of  all  their  silence  through  the  night,  made  up 
The  want  by  one  great  gush  of  varied  song, 
Flooding  all  things,  until  the  very  leaves 
Flutter'd  to  find  a  voice  to  vent  their  joy. 
We  heard  the  piping  of  the  amorous  thrush — 
The  binl  that  sings  with  all  his  soul  in  heaven^ 
The  mellow  blackbird,  and  the  jiert  redbreast. 
Whose  song  was  bolder  than  his  own  bright  eye; 
While  fainter  notes  of  lesser  choristers 
Came  in  like  semitones  to  swell  the  whole; 
While  over  all,  to  crown  this  one  great  song. 
The  lark — the  gray  Apollo  of  his  race, 
The  feather'd  Fan,  the  spirit  clad  in  song — 
High  up,  and  in  the  verj'  sight  of  heaven, 
Pour'd   downward  with   the   brightness  of  the 

smiles 
Of  angels  all  his  spirit,  leaving  doubts 
Whether  his  song  belong'd  to  God  or  us. 
And  there  we  sat  within  the  woods,  and  saw 
The  lake  between  the  trees,  and  now  and  then 
The  gentle  shadow  of  a  cloud  above 
Passing  along  its  bosom,  as  a  thought 
Across  the  calmness  of  a  poet's  brow. 
And  all  around  the  lilies  grew,  and  on 
The  bank  beside  us,  i-earing  its  sweet  head, 
The  azure  fairy  of  the  woodland  gi-ass, 
That  has  a  spot  of  heaven  for  its  eye. 
The  violet  nestled,  while,  close  by  its  side. 
The  primrose,  j'ellow  star  of  earth's  green  sky, 
Peep'd  up  in  bold  surprise,  and,  further  on. 
An  orchis,  like  the  fiery  orb  of  Mars, 
Rose  up  with  purple  mouth  agape  to  catch 
All  murmurs  and  all  scents  that  came  its  way. 

So  in  this  paradise  we  sat,  until 
We  broke  the  silence  with  soft  speech,  to  fit 
The  purer  thought  which,  at  the  golden  touch 
Of  the  pure  things  beside  ua,  grew  within. 
Blowing  to  instant  blossom.     Then  our  talk 
Took  simple  bounds,  and,  with  a  fond  delight. 
We  touch'd  on  all  the  heart  will  think,  when  youth 
Ranges  throughout  its  chambers;  like  to  one 
Who  dares  the  sanctity  of  some  fair  room. 
And  finds  in  every  corner  fresh  delight. 
But  I  was  bound  by  one  great  spell  which  she 
Knew  nothing  of.     I  could  not  speak  my  love. 
Nor  could  she  see  it,  though  in  that  sweet  guiso 
In  which  we  hide  it  only  to  be  seen. 

And  so  the  converse  sped — now  quick  at  times. 
Now  slow,  and  then  an  interval  in  which 
We  went  through  all  the  j)athsof  spoken  thought, 
Making  the  pleasure  douVde  by  retouching 
In  silence  the  past  interchange  of  words. 
We  felt  the  welcome  of  the  summer  daj% 
We  heard  its  music  rising  everywhere; 
Yet  strange  that  all  our  thoughts  should  slip 
away 


And  strike  a  chord  that  beat  not  unison 
With  all  this  joy;  for  from  our  di'cams  and  smiles 
We  shrunk,  and,  with  a  shadow  in  our  eyes. 
We  struck  upon  the  cypress'd  edge  of  death. 
Then  solemn  grew  our  converse,  and  she  spoke 
In  low  sweet  whispers,  which  to  me  were  spells 
Of  deeper  quiet,  as  she  strove  to  make 
A  land  wherein  a  great  world  moves  like  ours 
Distinct  and  clear  to  all  the  grosser  eye; 
And  simple  as  herself  she  painted  heaven. 
She  knew  not,  as  she  spoke,  how  all  my  heart 
Follow'd  her  words,  and  hung  upon  their  tones 
Helpless,  and  ^\-ith  no  wish  to  change  the  task. 
But  catch  the  eloquence  of  what  she  spoke. 
For  truth  lives  nowhere  but  in  simple  words. 

I  hear  her  voice  again  this  very  hour 
Clear  and  distinct,  as  if  the  death  it  wore 
Made  it  the  clearer,  even  as  two  friends. 
Apart  from  each,  but  with  a  lake  between. 
Will  keep  up  converse,  losing  not  a  word. 
Because  the  faithful  waters  he  between. 


THE  LOST  EDEN  FOUND  AGAIN. 

The  angels  look'd  up  into  God's  owti  eyes, 
As  he  shut  the  gateways  of  Paradise; 

For  they  heard  coming  up  from  the  earth  below 
A  wail  as  of  mortals  in  deepest  woe; 

And  bending  their  far  keen  vision  down, 

Saw  two  on  the  earth  from  whom  hope  had  flown. 

Then  the  foremost  one  of  the  angels  said. 
Drooping  his  wings  and  bowing  his  head — 

"  Here,  Father,  are  two  in  Thy  shape  and  ours 
Who  have  lost  the  light  of  their  bridal  bowers, 

And  wander,  blind  in  their  tears,  and  tost 
With  the  thoughts  of  their  Eden  for  ever  lost." 

Then  God  said,  turning  His  face  on  him — 
"  Look  once  again,  for  thine  eyes  are  dim." 

Then  the  angel  look'd,  and,  lo!  he  could  sec 
A  smiling  babe  on  the  woman's  knee. 

While  the  man  bent  down,  and  within  his  eyes 
Was  the  light  of  his  former  Paradise. 

Tlicn  the  angel  whisper'd — "  My  fears  were  vain. 
For  man  has  found  his  lost  Eden  again." 


A'  Ills  L.VNE. 

Pit  bis  back  against  a  chair. 
Let  us  sec  it'  lie  can  gang, 

But  be  ready  wi"  your  iian' 

If  he  sways  or  oebt  gacs  wrang; 


MARQUIS  OF  LOENE. 


505 


Mammy  wadna  like  to  see 
Ony  ill  come  to  her  wean; 

There  noo,  leave  him  to  himsel', 
Mammy's  bairuie's  a'  his  lane. 

What  a  thrawin'  o'  his  mou', 

Wiiat  a  rowia'  o'  his  een. 
Then  a  steady  look  at  me, 

An'  the  space  that  lies  between; 
Xoo,  ae  fittie's  oot  a  bit, 

Look  at  him,  he's  unco  fain, 
Straicht  himsel'  up  like  a  man, 

Mammy's  bairnie's  a'  his  lane. 

There,  he's  left  the  chair  at  last, 

Lauchin'  in  his  merry  glee — 
Haudin'  oot  a  wee  plump  han', 

As  if  to  say,  "Tak'  hand  o'  me." 
Juist  anither  step,  an'  then — 

Gudesake,  what  a  thraw  he's  ta'cnl 
There,  he's  fairly  ow'r  at  last — 

Coupit  when  he's  left  his  lane. 

Did  he  hurt  his  curly  held? 

Let  his  mammy  clap  the  place. 
Pay  the  stool,  an'  kiss  his  croon 

Till  the  tears  are  aff  his  face. 
There  noo;  lean  him  to  the  chair — 

Let  us  try  the  bairn  again — 
Half-a-dozen  fa's  are  nocht, 

If  he  learns  to  gang  his  lane. 

Steady  this  time  wi'  his  feet — 

Dinna  keep  his  legs  sae  wide. 
See,  I  hae  my  han'  to  kep 

If  he  sways  to  ony  side. 
Mercy!  what  a  solemn  face 

Lookiu'  up  to  meet  my  ain; 
There,  he's  in  my  lap  at  last; 

Here's  a  bairn  can  gang  his  lane. 

Mither  life  has  unco  wark, 
Settin'  up  her  weans  to  gang; 


Some  pit  oot  ae  fit,  then  stop, 
I  tilers  step  oot  an'  fa'  wrang; 

Very  few  can  keep  their  feet 
As  they  stot  o'er  clod  or  stanc; 

Angels  greet  abune  to  see 

Hoo  we  fa'  when  left  oor  lane. 


KEATS  AXD  DAVID  GRAY. 

(from   IN'   EOME.) 

And  "wilt  thou  go  away  from  Rome,  nor  sec 
The  resting-place  of  Keats,  from  whom  thy  soul 
Took  early  draughts  of  worship  and  control — 

Poet  thyself,  and  from  beyond  the  sea? 

I  tiu"n'd,  and  stood  beside  his  grassy  grave, 
Almost  within  the  shadow  of  the  wall 
Honorian;  and  as  kindred  sjiirits  call 

Each  unto  each,  my  o^vn  rose  up  to  crave 

A  moment's  sweet  renewal  by  the  dust 
Of  that  high  interchange  in  vanish'd  time, 
When  my   young  soul  was  reeUng  with   liis 
prime; 

But  now  my  manhood  lay  across  that  trust. 
Ah !  had  I  stood  here  in  my  early  years, 
This  simple  headstone  had  been  wet  with  tears. 

I  go,  for  w4der  is  the  space  that  lies 
Between  the  sleeper  in  this  grave  and  me; 
I  look  back  on  my  golden  j'outh,  but  he 

Cannot  look  backward  with  less  passion'd  eyes. 

There  is  no  change  iu  him;  the  fading  glory 
Of  mighty  Rome's  long  triumph  is  around, 
But  cannot  come  anear  or  pierce  the  bound 

Of  this  our  laurell'd  sleeper,  whose  pale  story 

Takes  fresher  lustre  with  the  years  that  fly. 
But  Roman  dust  upon  an  English  heart 
Is  naught,  yet  this  is  Keats's,  and  a  part 

Of  England's  spirit.     With  a  weary  sigh 

I  turned  from  sacred  ground,  and  all  the  way 
Two  spii-its  were  with  me— Keats  and  David 
Gray. 


MAEQUIS    OF    LOENE. 


Another  name  has  been  added  to  the  bead- 
roll  of  royal  and  noble  poets  by  tlie  publica- 
tion of  Guklo  and  Lita:  A  Tale  of  the  Riviera} 
written  by  the  Marquis  of  Lome.  The  marquis 
is  not  the  first  of  his  ancient  family  who  has 

1  Macniillau  St  Co.,  Loudon,  1875. 


given  evidence  of  the  possession  of  poetic  gifts. 
It  will  be  within  the  remembrance  of  many 
of  our  readers  that  the  first  Marquis  of  Argyll, 
the  night  previous  to  his  execution,  composed 
some  singularly  tender  and  touching  verses, 
well  worthy  of  preservation,  like  those  of  his 


506 


MAEQUIS   OF   LOENE. 


illustrious  adversary  the  Marquis  of  Montrose, 
■written  under  similar  circumstances.^ 

JoHX  Douglas  Sutherland  Campbell, 
called  by  courtesy  Marquis  of  Lome,  eldest 
son  of  the  Duke  of  Argyll,  was  born  at  Stafford 
House,  the  London  residence  of  the  Duke  of 
Sutherland,  August  6,  ISio.  He  received  his 
education  at  Eton  and  at  the  University  of 
St.  Andrews,  and  in  1867  published  a  volume 
entitled  A  Trip  to  the  Tropics  and  Home 
through  America.  He  was  elected  M.P.  for 
Argyleshire  in  the  Liberal  interest  in  February, 
1868,  and  in  December  of  the  same  year  he 
became  private  secretary  to  the  Duke  of  Argyll 
at  the  India  Office.  He  was  re-elected  to  parlia- 
ment in  1869,  and  again  in  1874,  and  the  year 
following  was  appointed  a  privy-councillor. 
He  is  Lieutenant-colonel  of  the  Argyll  and 
Bute  Artillery  Administrative  Brigade,  to 
which  he  was  appointed  in  1867.  In  1875  he 
declined  to  allow  his  name  to  be  used  as  a 
candidate  for  the  Lord  Rector's  chair  of  Aber- 
deen Universit}'.  An  important  event  in  the 
career  of  the  marquis  was  his  marriage  with 
the  Princess  Louise,  fourth  daughter  of  Queen 
Victoria,  at  St.  George's  Chapel,  AVindsor, 
March  21,  J871.  The  same  year  the  twenty- 
fifth  anniversary  of  his  birthday  was  celebrated 


with  great  rejoicing  at  Inverary  Castle,  which 
for  eight  hundred  years  has  been  the  residence 
of  the  Mac  Calan  More. 

The  story  of  "Guido  and  Lita"  is  taken 
from  an  incident  in  one  of  the  Saracen  raids 
on  the  coast  of  tlie  lliviera  during  the  tenth 
century,  and  is  told  in  some  thousand  lines  of 
singularly  sweet  and  melodious  verse,  showing 
that  the  marquis  possesses  not  only  literary 
taste  but  a  more  than  ordinary  poetic  vein. 
The  love-story  concludes  with  the  happy  mar- 
riage, after  many  hair-breadth  escapes,  of  Guido 
and  Lita: — 

"Tlie  time  has  come  that  where  red  battle  burned 
Fair  Peace  again  with  blessings  has  returned, 
And  mailed  processions,  banished  from  the  field. 
To  white  robed  trains  the  festive  town  must  yield. 
See,  to  the  sound  of  music  and  of  song 
A  stately  pageant  slowly  moves  along. 
Before  the  church's  doors  the  crowds  divide; 
Hail  the  sweet  pomp  that  guards  tlie  maiden  b.iue! 
Hail  the  young  lord,  who  comes  this  day  to  claim 
A  prize,  the  guerdon  of  a  glorious  name! 
They  kneel  before  the  altar  hand  in  hand. 
While  thronged  around  Provence's  warriors  staiid. 
Uush,  for  the  sacred  rites,  the  solenm  vow, 
That  crowns  with  faith  young  love's  impetuous  brow. 
The  prayer  is  said — then,  as  the  anthem  swells, 
A  peal  rings  out  of  happy  marriage  bells, 
Grief  pales  and  dies  'neath  love's  ascending  sun. 
For  knight  and  maid  have  blent  their  lives  in  one." 


GUIDO    AND    LITA. 

(extract.  2) 


Hail,  Riviera!  hail,  the  mountain  range 

That  guards  from  northern  winds,  and  seasons' 

change, 
Yon  southern  spurs,  descending  fast  to  be 
The  sunlit  capes  along  the  tideless  sea; 
Whose  waters,  azure  as  the  sky  above. 
Reflect  the  glories  of  the  scene  they  love ! 

Here  every  slope,  and  intervening  dale, 
Yields  a  sweet  fragrance  to  the  passing  gale. 
From  the  thick  woods,  where  dark  caroubas  twine 
Their  massive  verdure  with  the  hardier  pine, 
And  'mid  the  rocks,  or  hid  in  hollowed  cave, 
The  fern  and  iris  in  profu.sion  wave; 

1  See  vol.  i.  page  85. — Ed. 

2  "  Lord  Lome  may  be  congratulated  (in  a  metrical 
roiuance  not  unworthy  of  the  country  and  associations 
wliiuh  suggesttd  it"  (Times).  "The  stoiy  of  'Guido 
and  Lita'  stands  in  need  of  no  distinguislied  name  to 
recommend  it,  and  it  will  assuredly  be  popular  among 
ix>etical  leaders  '  {Daily  A'eies).    The  Pall  Mall  Gaztfe 


From  countless  terraces,  where  olives  rise, 
Unchilled  by  autumn's  blast  and  wintry  .skies, 
And  round  the  stems,  within  the  dusky  shade. 
The  red  anemones  their  home  have  made; 
From  gardens,  where  its  breath  for  ever  blows 
Through  myrtle  thickets,  and  their  wreaths  of 
rose. 

Like  the  proud  lords  who  oft,  with  clash  of  mail, 
Would  daunt  the  conunerce  that  the  trader's  sail 
Had  sought  to  bring,  enriching  and  to  bless. 
The  lands  they  plagued  with  conflict  and  distress, 
Till  none  but  robber  chiefs  and  galley  slaves 
Ruled  the  fair  shoresor  rode  the  tran([uil  waves, — 

finds  tlio  verse  singularly  melodious,  and  says  "  the 
nio.-it  striking  thing  about  the  whole  composition  is  the 
almost  perfect  melody  to  wliich  the  commonest  and 
most  threadbare  phrase  is  attuned."  Still,  there  is 
"  nuich  matter  of  a  far  nobler  quality,"  and  the  con- 
clusion is  tlia*,  on  the  whole,  "  the  i  ocm  is  a  creditable 
one.  "—Ed. 


MARQUIS   OF   LOENE. 


507 


So  stand  their  forts  upon  the  hills;  with  towers 
Still  frowning,  sullen  at  the  genial  showers, 
That,  brought  on  white-winged  clouds,  have  come 

to  dower 
The  arid  soil  with  recreative  power. 

No  warrior's  tread  is  echoed  by  their  halls. 
No  warder's  challenge  on  the  silence  falls. 
Around,  the  thi-ifty  peasants  ply  their  toil 
And  pluck  in  orange  groves  the  scented  spoil 
From  trees,  that  have  for  purple  mountains  made 
A  vestment  bright  of  green,  and  gold  inlaid. 
The  women,  baskets  poised  above  their  brows. 
In  long  array  beneath  the  citron  boughs 
Drive  on  the  loaded  mules  with  sound  of  bells, 
That,  in  the  distance,  of  their  presence  tells, 
To  springs  that,  hid  from  the  pursuing  day. 
Love  only  night;  who,  loving  them,  doth  stay 
In  the  deep  waters,  moss  and  reed  o'ergrown, — 
Or  cold  in  caverns  of  the  chilly  stone, — 
Sought  of  the  steep-built  towns,  whose  white  walls 

gleam 
High  'midst  the  woods,  or  close  by  ocean's  stream. 

Like  flowering  aloes,  the  fair  belfries  soar 
O'er  houses  clustered  on  the  sandy  shore; 
From  ancient  battlements  the  eye  surveys 
A  hundred  lofty  peaks  and  curving  bays, 
From  where,  at  morn  and  eve,  the  sun  may  paint 
The  cliffs  of  Corsica  with  colours  faint; 
To  where  the  fleets  of  haughty  Genoa  plied 
The  trade  that  humbled  the  Venetian's  pride. 
And  the  blue  wastes,  where  roamed  the  men  who 

came 
To  leaguer  tower  and  town  with  sword  and  flame. 
For  by  that  shore,  the  scene  of  soft  repose 
When  happy  Peace  her  benison  bestows, 
Have  storms,  more  dire  than  nature's,  lashed  the 

coasts, 
When  met  the  tides  of  fierce  contending  hosts; 
From  the  far  days  when  first  Liguria's  hordes 
Stemmed  for  a  while  the  rush  of  Roman  swords, 
Only  to  mark  how,  on  their  native  hill, 
Tm-bia's  trophy  stamped  the  tyrant's  will; 
To  those  bright  hours  that  saw  the  Moslem  reel 
Back  from  the  conflict  with  the  Clu'istian  steel. 

These  last  were  times  when,  emulous  for  creed, 
And  for  his  soul  to  battle  and  to  bleed. 
The  warrior  had  no  need  of  pilgrim's  vow. 
At  eastern  shrines,  to  lay  the  Paynim  low; 
For  through  the  west,  the  Saracen  had  spread 
The  night  that  followed  where  his  standards  led. 

Not  with  the  pomp  or  art  Granada  saw 
Reign  in  her  lands,  beneath  the  Prophet's  law, 
Did  the  rude  pirates  here  assert  their  sway : — 
No  gilded  talons  seized  the  quivering  prey; 
Savage  the  hand,  and  pitiless  the  blow. 
That  wrought  the  swift  and  oft-recurring  woe. 
No  boon,  no  mercy,  could  the  captive  ask; 
If  spared  to  live,  his  doom  the  deadly  task 


To  strain — a  slave — each  muscle  at  the  oar 
That  brought  the  rover  to  the  kinsman's  door. 
Or  bore  him,  safe  from  tbfi  pursuit,  away. 
The  plunder  stored,  to  Algiers'  hated  bay. 

With  the  dread  terror  that  their  raids  instilled 
Sank  every  hope,  by  which  the  heart  is  filled. 
Among  the  poor  to  labour  and  to  hoard ; 
And  e'en  the  merchant,  for  his  gains  adored. 
Dared  not  to  venture,  or  to  gather  more. 
Where  danger's  form  seemed  darkening  all  before. 
Only  in  narrow  streets,  where  guai'ded  wall, 
And  high-raised  watch-tower  gave  the  signal  call 
When  foes  were  near,  to  gather  in  defence. 
Did  the  scared  people  wake  from  impotence: — 
And  j-et,  neglecting  what  could  give  them  power, 
In  jealous  feuds  they  spent  the  prosperous  hour; 
While  only  adding  to  their  grief's  great  load, 
Each  baron  kept  within  his  strong  abode. 
Careless  of  wars  that  yielded  little  prize. 
They  let  the  havoc  spread  beneath  their  eyes; 
Content,  if  driven  from  their  own  estate. 
The  baffled  spoiler  sought  another's  gate. 
Thus,  through  disunion,  and  their  selfish  greed, 
The  Moor,  unharmed  performed  his  ventm-ous 

deed. 
These  Alps,  the  fastnesses  of  high  Savoy, 
Became  his  home;  these  fertile  plains  his  joy. 

E'en  now  the  sounds  of  his  barbaric  speech 
In  many  a  word,  his  lingering  infiuence  teach; 
For  men  will  copy,  'neath  a  yoke  abhorred. 
All,  save  the  art  to  wield  the  conqueror's  sword! 

Whence  then  the  strategy,  or  force,  or  guile. 
That  bade  foul  Fortune  turn  at  length,  and  smile 
LTpon  a  region  like  a  very  heaven. 
But  vexed  by  man  with  hatred's  cankering  leaven? 
See,  where  the  mountain  stretches  forth  a  limb, 
Down  to  the  full  sea's  palpitating  brim. 
Dividing  by  that  brawny  arm  the  plain. 
Just  where  a  river  swiftly  seeks  the  main; 
Upon  the  topmost  ridge  of  its  clenched  hand 
Appears  a  castle,  strongest  in  the  land. 
From  the  hard  rock  the  grisly  ramparts  rise, 
Then-  front  illumined  by  the  morning  skies: 
And,  sweeping  from  their  broadening  base  away 
The  hne  of  wall,  the  burgher's  hope  and  stay. 
Encircles  with  low  towers  the  stony  mass 
WTiere,  densely  packed,  the  dwellings  heap  the 

pass; 
And  girdling  still  the  fast-descending  steep. 
Crests  the  last  ridge  that  overhangs  the  deep. 

Beneath  the  cliff  the  fishing  vessels  float 
With  long-winged  sails  o'erarching  every  boat, 
But  where  the  river's  mouth  has  made  a  port, 
Guarded  to  seaward  by  yon  square-built  fort. 
And  near  the  rocks  without  the  harbour  bar. 
Rise  taller  masts,  with  many  a  sti-onger  spar. 
On  the  broad  decks  that  bear  them  may  be  heard 
From  time  to  time  the  sharp  commanding  word; 


508 


MAEQUIS   OF   LOENE. 


But  often,cr  far  the  sounds  that  meet  the  ear 
Are  the  rough  songs  that  tell  the  soldier's  cheer, 
The  laughter  loud  and  long,  the  shouted  jest, 
The  tireless  clamour  of  his  time  of  rest, 
When  danger  draws  not  nigh,  with  finger  cold 
Enforcing  silence  on  her  followers  bold. 

Yet  these  are  men  who,  if  there  come  affront, 
Seem  ready  now  to  bear  her  sternest  brunt : 
For  some  are  polishing  their  arms,  that  shine 
In  fitful  flashes  o'er  the  sparkling  brine; 
And  some  have  landed,  and  in  order  move 
Past  the  dark  belts  of  yonder  ilex  grove; 
Or,  stationed  singly,  drill  and  fence  with  care. 
And  hew  with  sword  and  axe  the  glancing  air. 

Now,  on  the  road  that  leads  from  out  the  town, 
Appear  two  knights,  who  slowly  wend  them  down. 
Till  reached  the  ground,  where  still  the  men-at- 
arms 
Repeat  their  mimicry  of  war's  alarms. 
But  when  among   them  wave  the   chief's    gay 

plumes, 
Each,  in  the  ordered  line,  his  place  assumes; 
And  waits  with  steadied  gaze  and  lowered  brand, 
Till  every  weapon  in  each  rank  is  scanned. 

The  elder  knight,  whose  fierce  and  haughty  mien 
In  his  firm  stride,  and  on  his  brow  was  seen. 
Was  grizzled,  swarthy,  and  his  forehead  worn 
By  scars  of  fight  and  time,  not  lightly  borne; 
For  the  dimmed   eye  that  gazed,   deep   sunk, 

beneath, 
Showed  that  the  spirit's  blade  had  worn  its  sheath; 
And  that  full  soon  the  years  must  have  an  end 
In  which,  on  friend  or  foe,  that  glance  should 

bend. 
The  younger  man,  who  followed  at  his  side. 
Bore  the  same  impress  of  a  lofty  pride. 
But  all  his  bearing  lacked  the  rigid  mould 
That  in  the  elder  of  tough  metal  told; 
Thus  as  the  sire,  with  patient  care,  surveys 
How  every  movement  practised  skill  displays; 
The  son  would  saunter  heedlessly  along. 
His  lips  just  murmuring  as  they  shaped  a  song. 
His  large  gray  eye  was  restless  as  the  thought 
That  fixed  no  purpose  in  the  mind  it  sought. 
One  jewelled  han<l  was  on  his  dagger  laid. 
With  pointed  beard  the  other  often  played, 
Or  swept  from  neck  and  shoulder  curls  that,  flung 
In  studied  negligence,  upon  them  hung. 
Yet  though  he  seemed  irresolute  and  weak, 
A  flush  of  pride  would  rise  upon  his  cheek. 
When  his  sire  chid  him,  "  as  a  stripling  vain,— 
Almost  unworthy  of  this  gallant  train," 
And  told  him,  if  ho  cared  not  for  such  state, 
To  "go,  play  ball  within  the  castle  gate!" 
Then  backward  falling  for  a  Httle  space, 
A  i>ain  was  pictured  on  his  handsome  face: 
The  dark  brows  met,  the  shapely  lips  were  pressed, 
Tho  nostril  curved,  as  if  for  breath  distressed. 


But,  as  a  glistening  wave  that  quickly  flies 
From  the  cloud-shadow  where  its  brightness  dies. 
To  travel,  laughing,  onward  as  before. 
With  not  a  sign  of  any  change  it  boi-e; 
Did  the  light  temper  of  the  comely  knight 
Forget  in  joyousness  the  father's  slight; 
And  smiling,  answered,  "  Nay,  my  lord,  you  ne'er 
Let  me  see  use,  in  all  this  pageant  fair; 
For,  save  upon  the  field  of  their  parade. 
These  gallant  soldiers  never  bare  a  lilade." 
"Enough,"  the  father  answered,  "  that  they  keep 
Our  home  from  outward  harm  or  treason  deep, 
And  that  you  only  hear,  and  have  not  seen. 
Aught  of  what  they  in  other  days  have  been, 
Before  I  made  the  town  and  yonder  rock 
Proof  to  the  miseries  you  would  lightly  mock." 

Thus  speaking,  with  a  few  of  their  armed  band 
The  two  passed  slowly  to  the  yellow  sand. 
Listening  the  while  to  wants  of  those  who  came 
To  offer  homage,  or  prefer  a  claim. 
When  free,  as  onward  on  their  path  they  went. 
The  elder  told  how  all  his  days  were  spent 
"Throughout  his  youth,  and  e'en  to  manhood's 

prime. 
In  broils,  the  passion  of  his  troubled  time; 
How  at  the  last,  through  many  a  year  of  toil. 
Through  the  dread  discord  sown  upon  the  soil, 
He  reaped  the  profit  of  his  stubborn  will. 
And  gathered  power;  until  he  won  his  fill 
Of  all  for  which  a  man  of  spirit  strives; — 
Riches  and  strength  to  save  or  take  men's  lives. 
'Twas  true,  all  this  might  yet  be  still  increased; 
But  age  had  come,  and  his  ambition  ceased. 
He  would  not  care  himself  to  waste  more  blood 
By  hunting  those  who  ne'er  against  him  stood. 
They  said  the  Saracen  should  be  destroyed; 
Then  let  them  do  it.     If  they  died,  ho  joyed. 
Yet  for  himself  he  would  not  aid,  for  they 
Had  never  dared  to  meet  him  in  affray. 
They  knew  the  length  of  his  good  arm  too  welL 
No,  for  his  part,  he  felt  no  shame  to  tell. 
His  work  had  only  been  with  those  who  dwell 
Around  and  near  him,  thus  his  son  had  gained 
Such  place  and  power  as  none  before  attained. 
He  could  not  tell  him  how  to  use  it,  when 
New  times  must  change  so  much  both  things  and 

men. 
One  maxim  only  he  must  bear  in  mind,' 
Aye  to  the  followers  of  his  house  be  kind. 
For  if  the  tree  would  stretch  its  branches  round, 
The  roots  must  clasp  and  win  the  nearest  ground. " 

The  other,  as  such  speech  continuous  flowed, 
But  little  interest  in  his  bearing  showed. 
His  gentle  nurture  had  not  made  him  feel 
Either  the  fear  or  love  of  brandished  steel; 
And  ho  but  lazily  would  dream  of  deeds 
Such  as,  with  other  youths,  rapt  fancy  feeds, 
Until  the  thought  to  glorious  action  leads. 
Thus  little  had  he  cared  for  aught  beside 


MARQUIS   OF   LORNE. 


509 


The  early  objects  of  a  boyish  pride: 

His  sports,  his  horse,  his  dog;  and  now  full-grown, 

Less  worthy  loves  seemed  in  his  nature  sown. 

And  less  a  man  than  when  he  was  a  boy, 

A  tri\-ial  foppery  became  his  joy: 

His  velvet  stuffs,  the  fashion  of  his  sleeve, 

His  hat  and  plume,  were  what  could  please  or 

grieve. 
"While  thus  he  listened  not,  but  gazed  or  sung, 
His  eye  had  wandered  to  where  now  there  hung 
Along  the  far  horizon,  a  low  cloud 
That  mounted  steadily  on  high,  while  loud 
The  wind  piped,  Hke  a  rastic  at  his  toil, 
Furrowed  the  sea  in  ridges  like  the  soil. 
And  scattered  rain-drops,  as  he  strode  along; 
Then  rose  the  storm,  in  awful  fury  strong. 
Gleams  of  a  wondrous  light  a  moment  stood 
On  pallid  sea  and  on  wind-stricken  wood, 
And  dazzling,  where  they  shone  the  vision's  sense. 
They  iied;  and,  chased  by  shadows  as  intense, 
Passed  with  the  swiftness  of  the  blast,  and  leaped 
From  gulf  to  cliff, — then  to  the  crags,  that  heaped 
In  grandeur  'gainst  the  fljing  skies,  appeared 
Like  to  white  ashes  that  the  fire  has  seared. 
And  then  the  mists  rolled  over  them,  as  black 
Grew  heaven's  vault  with  darkest  thunder  wrack; 
From  under  which,  increasing  in  fierce  sound, 
A  harsh  and  hissing  noise  spread  fast  around, 
And  a  low  moaning,  like  a  voice  of  dread. 
Welled,  as  if  coming  from  the  deep  sea's  bed. 
The  rain  ran  down,  and,  as  the  Ughtning  flashed. 
In  bounding  torrents  o'er  the  ground  was  dashed. 
From  the  dry  hills  the  new-born  fountains  sprung. 
The  narrow  tracks  with  swelling  waters  rung. 
And,  'mid  the  turmoil,  could  be  faintly  heard 
The  heavy  fall  of  distant  land-slip,  stirred 
To  headlong  ravage,  burj-ing  as  it  flowed, 
Man  and  his  works  beneath  a  hideous  load! 
Down  the  broad  bed  of  shingle  and  of  stone 
That  the  sluimk  river  seemed  ashamed  to  own 
When,  in  the  heat  of  the  life-parching  day, 
A  feeble  streamlet,  scarce  it  found  a  way; 
Now  dashed  a  brimming  tide,  whose  eddies  surged 
Till  o'er  the  banks  the  muddy  foam  was  urged, 
And  louder  still  the  notes  of  terror  gi-ew. 
Ere  past  the  hills  the  roaring  tempest  flew, 
And  on  lashed  sea,  and  groaning  shore  was  spent 
The  rage  of  nature,  and  her  frown  unbent! 

« 

Meanwhile  the  old  man  would  have  held  his  way, 
Unhurried,  back  to  where  the  castle  lay. 
Now  hidden  long  by  headlands  of  the  bay; 
But  that  they  told  him,  "  he  must  seek  some  rest; 
A  fisher's  hut  was  near,  its  shelter  best." — 
And  to  the  joy  of  the  gay  plumaged  knight 
Who  followed,  sorrowing  at  their  draggled  plight, 
They  turned  aside;  and,  'neath  the  slackening 

rain. 
Soon  found  a  cottage  in  a  wooded  plain; 
And  passing  through  the  open  door,  w-ere  met 
By  the  poor  owner,  who,  with  garments  wet. 


Stood  dripping  like  a  merman,  standing  nigh 
The  pine-wood  fire,  that  sent  its  flame  on  high : 
While  the  good  wife,  her  distaff  laid  aside, 
Still  fed  its  glow  with  many  a  branch  well  dried. 
Chattering  as  o'er  her  task  she  bent  intent, 
And  from  the  blaze  a  storm  of  sparks  was  sent. 

A  bright-hued  sash  the  fisher's  jerkin  bound. 
His  scanty  locks  a  crimson  bonnet  crowned. 
He  turned  upon  the  guests  a  face  that  spoke 
A  ready  welcome,  ere  he  silence  broke. 
Then,  with  bared  head  and  smile  of  joy,  he  said, 
"Ah!  knight  of  Orles,  what  chance  has  hither  led 
Thee  and  the  Signer  Guido.' — Enter  here: 
Praise  be  to  God,  and  to  the  Vu'gin  dear; 
May  she  from  tempests  every  ill  avert. 
Send  gladness  as  to  me,  instead  of  hurt! — 
Pray,  glorious  sirs,  to  honour  my  abode. 
And  with  deep  gratitude  my  heart  to  load 
By  wishing  well  to  me  and  this  mj'  roof: 
Now  of  such  kindliness  to  give  me  proof, 
I  pray  you  take  your  seats,  and  break  your  fast. 
'Tis  your  first  \-isit  here,  I  fear  the  last. 
For  humble  folk  get  not  such  favoiu-s  oft:" 
And  here  his  dame  broke  in — "Hist,  Carlo!  soft; 
Their  presence  now  gives  joj',  and  they  may  take 
Some  fish,  and  fruit,  and  wine.   Our  girl  will  bake 
A  little  flour  upon  the  embers  soon; 
Come  hither,  Lita — Lita.     Here's  a  boon, 
A  pleasure  rare  for  thee.     Thy  bread  shall  be 
Refreshment  to  these  lords  of  high  degi'ce. 
0,  Signers,  'tis  indeed  a  poor  repast, 
But  on  its  winning  has  our  toil  been  cast. 
Come,  Lita— wherefore  lingers  she  r'  Then  came 
Into  the  ruddy  light  of  her  hearth's  flame, 
So  that  it  blazoned  her  j'oung  beauty  forth. 
And  seemed  to  love  with  all  its  charms  to  play, 
The  fisher's  daughter,  pride  of  cape  and  bay! 

Whose  loveliness,  not  such  as  in  the  north 
Blushes  like  sunshine  through  the  morning  mist. 
Was  that  of    southern  eve,   quick  darkening, 

kissed 
By  crimsoned  lightnings  of  her  burning  day. 
A  maid  whose  arching  brow  and  glancing  eyes 
Told  of  a  passing,  timorous  surprise; 
Whose  tresses  half  concealed  a  neck  that  raised 
A  head  that  classic  art  might  well  have  praised. 
Framed  with  the  hair,  in  glossy  masses  thrown 
From  forehead  whiter  than  Carrara's  stone. 
Her  face's  lineaments,  clear  cut  and  straight, 
Might  show  that  sternness  lived  her  nature's  mate. 
Did  not  the  smile  that  over  them  would  steal 
Another  mood,  as  favourite,  reveal; 
Else  had  not  dim]jles  on  the  sunburiU  cheek 
Helped  the  eye's  merriment  so  oft  to  speak. 
O'er  beauteous  mouth  and  rounded  chin  there 

strayed 
The  sign  of  power  that  ardent  will  betrayed; 
But  broken  by  a  gentleness  of  soul 
That  through  her  steadfast  gaze  in  softness  stole. 


510 


MAEQUIS   OF  LOENE. 


Her  form  was  strong  and  lithe.     She  came  and 

made 
A  slight  obeisance,  as  though  half  afraid ; 
Then  stood, — a  coarse  robe  flowing  to  her  feet, 
Each  limb  round  shadowed  in  the  fitful  heat. 
And,  like  the  glow  that  lighted  her,  there  sped 
Through  Guide's  frame  a  pulse  that  quickly  fled, 
But  left  his  breathless  gaze  to  feed  upon 
The  figure  that,  to  him,  like  angel's  shone. 
Till  the  repast  prepared,  his  father  (juaffed 
A  horn  of  wine;  and  turning,  as  he  laughed. 
Said  to  the  wife,  "A  beauteous  maid  in  truth 
You  give  to  serve  us.  That  young  man,  forsooth. 
Has,  as  you  see,  no  eyes  for  food,  because 
They  worship  elsewhere  with  a  mute  applause. 
Nay!  is  she  gone?    I  spoke  with  little  grace, 
Else  had  not  scared   her  from   her  'customed 

place." 

Then  said  the  wife,  "  Oh,  sir,  we  do  not  heed 
If  her  fair  looks  to  admiration  lead 
With  such  gi-eat  folks  as  you,  who  cannot  care 
For  fisher  maidens,  with  your  ladies  rare; 
But  oftentimes,  when  neighbours  come  about. 
They  find  my  welcome  marred  by  anxious  doubt. " 
And  Guido  smiled,  but  could  not  laugh  away 
The  spell  of  silence  that  upon  him  lay. 

When,  turning  from  old  Carlo's  poor  abode, 
The  knights  again  together  homeward  strode. 
So  sti-angc  the  feeling  that  within  found  birth. 
It  seemed  to  him  he  scarcely  walked  the  earth. 


One  thought  could  only  claim  his  wondering  mind, 
Alone  cnce  more  that  humble  hearth  to  find, 
Alone  once  more  that  radiant  face  to  scan. 
And  prove  the  charm,  as  when  it  first  began. 

Ah!  who  can  tell,  when  thus  the  will  is  swayed. 
And  to  emotions  dangerous  train  is  laid, 
The  torch  that  love  or  passion  each  can  fire. 
What  hidden  issue  waits  the  heart's  desire .' 
What  little  grains  the  balance  may  control. 
E'en  though  it  shape  the  fortune  of  the  soul, 
That,  by  its  fervid  longings  all  possessed. 
Yearns  for  the  secrets  of  another's  breast; 
Would  live  or  die,  but  in  the  sight  of  one 
Who  to  its  being  seems  the  central  sun. 
Without  whose  presence  every  scene  is  drear — 
The  world  a  desert,  haunted  but  with  fear! 
Who  from  the  scroll  of  fate  may  knowledge  wring 
Of  the  first  birth  of  life's  mysterious  spring, 
What  is  the  nature  that  so  soon  has  grown 
A  potent  tide,  on  which  our  bark  is  thrown  ? 
Ah!  who  can  tell  if  noblest  impulse  lies 
Within  the  magic  of  the  meeting  eyes, 
Or,  if  the  ruin  of  a  life  be  where 
The  hght  falls  softest  on  some  golden  hair? 

The  knights  of  Orles  regained  the  lofty  keep, 
When,  sinking  slowly  on  the  purpled  deep. 
The  sun  still  lingered  on  the  bannered  tower, 
Though  evening  on  the  shore  now  showed  her 

power, 
And  bathed  it  deeply  in  the  twilight  hour. 


APPENDIX.^ 


THE  LAST  WISH. 

■William  Lindsay  Alexander,  D.D.,  a  minister  of 
theScottish  Congregational  Cliurch;  born  at  Edinburgh. 
August  24,  ISOS.  In  1S54  he  was  appointed  professor  of 
theology  to  his  denomination  in  Scotland,  and  iu  ISTO 
was  chosen  one  of  the  Old  Testament  Revision  Com- 
pany. Dr.  Alexander  is  the  author  of  Anglo-Cat lio- 
licisiii  net  A/'Ostnlical,  Christ  and  Clu-islianity ,  Life  of 
Dr.  Wardlaio,  &c. 

No  more,  no  more  of  the  cares  of  time! 

Speak  to  me  now  of  that  happy  cUme, 

Where    the    ear    never   lists   to    the    sufferer's 

moan, 
And  sorrow  and  care  are  all  unknown: 
Now  when  my  pulse  beats  faint  and  slow. 
And  my  moments  are  numbered  here  below, 
With  thy  soft,  sweet  voice,  my  sister,  tell 
Of  that  land  where  my  spirit  longs  to  dwell. 

Oh!  yes,  let  me  hear  of  its  blissful  bowers, 
And  its  trees  of  life,  and  its  fadeless  flowers ; 
Of  its  crystal  streets,  and  its  radiant  throng. 
With  their   harps  of   gold,   and   their  endless 

song; 
Of  its  glorious  palms  and  its  raiment  white. 
And  its  streamlets  all  lucid  with  living  light; 
And  its  emerald   plains,   where   the   ransomed 

stray, 
'Mid  the  bloom  and  the  bliss  of  a  changeless 

day. 

And  tell  me  of  those  who  are  resting  there, 
Far  from  sorrow  and  free  from  care — 
The  loved  of  my  soul,  who  passed  away 
In  the  roseate  bloom  of  their  early  day; 
Oh!  are  they  not  bending  around  me  now, 
Light  in  each  eye  and  joy  on  each  brow, 
Waiting  until  my  spirit  fly, 
To  herald  me  home  to  my  rest  on  high  ? 

Thus,  thus,  sweet  sister,  let  me  hear 
Thy  loved  voice  fall  on  my  hstening  ear. 
Like  the  murmur  of  streams  in  that  happy  grove 
That  circles  the  home  of  our  early  love; 


'  The  dates  of  birth  being  in  some  cases  uncertain, 
the  names  of  the  authors  in  the  Appendix  have  been 
aiTanged,  not  chronologically,  but  in  alphabetical  order. 
—Ed. 


And  so  let  my  spirit  calml}'  rise, 

From  the  loved  upon  earth,  to  the  blest  in  the 

skies, 
And  lose  the  sweet  tones  I  liave  loved  so  long, 
In  the  glorious  burst  of  the  heavenly  song. 


THE  FOUXTAIX  OF   LIFE. 

John  Anderson,  D.D.,  minister  of  the  parish  of 
Kinnoull;  born  at  Newburgh  in  Fifeshire.  lie  is  the 
author  of  two  poetical  volumes  entitled  The  Pl-afwes 
of  Home  and  The  Lffiend  of  Gmicjc,  and  a  contributor 
to  the  periodicals  of  the  day. 

'Mid  the  hot  desert,  where  the  pilgiim  pines 
For  the  cool  shadow  and  the  streamlet  clear, 

Seeking  his  weary  way  t  j  Zion's  shrines, 
A  fountain  murmm-s  comfort  in  his  ear. 

Stem  winter  seals  not  up  that  source  of  bliss. 
The  eastern  sunbeam  never  drinks  it  dry; 

Fresh  flowers  and  greenest  grass  its  waters  kiss. 
And  whispering  palms  defend  it  from  the  sky. 

There  men  of  every  clime  refreshment  seek; 

All  sins  and  sorrows  meet  securely  there; 
These  waves  have  kiss'd  remorse's  haggard  cheek, 

And  smoothed  the  wrinkles  on  the  brow  of  care. 

The  lip  of  passion  there  hath  quenched  its  flame, 
While  pale  contrition  s;idly  hung  its  head ; 

That  fount  hath  mirror'd  back  the  blush  of  shame. 
And  wash'd  the  savage  hand,  with  murder  red ! 

Sinner,  for  thee  a  purer  fountain  flows, 
To  soothe  the  sorrowful,  to  help  the  weak; 

To  wash  the  reddest  crimes,  like  spotless  snows 
That  gleam  on  Lebanon's  untrodden  peak. 

Come,  men  of  every  clime  and  everj'  care, 

Behold  the  words  upon  that  fountain's  brink — 

"If  any  sigh  in  sin,  to  me  repair; 
Or  thirst  in  sorrow,  come  to  mc  and  drink!" 

The  word  of  God  is  that  unfailing  foimt. 
Life  is  the  desert  where  its  waters  flow; 

Drink,  if  you  hope  to  win  the  holy  mount. 
Where  Zion's  shrines  in  hght  eternal  glow. 


512 


APPENDIX. 


UNGRATEFUL  XAKNIE. 

Charles  Hamilton,  Lord  Binning,  eldest  son  of 
Tlionms,  sixth  Earl  of  Hailciingtoii;  born  in  1696,  Jied 
at  Naples  in  17:3:.'.  This  was  a  popular  song  during 
the  eiirly  part  of  last  century,  and  may  be  nuoted  as  a 
fivourable  specimen  of  the  fasliioiiable  pastoral  which 
then  prevailed.  Allan  Cunningham  says;— "It  is  a 
curious  song,  and  may  be  jueserved  as  the  failure  of  an 
experiment  to  inflict  conventional  wit  and  the  smart- 
ness and  conceit  of  a  town  life  on  country  pursuits  and 
rural  mannera." 

Did  ever  swain  a  nymph  adore 

A.S  I  ungrateful  Nannie  do] 
Was  ever  shepherd's  heart  so  sore  ? 

Was  ever  broken  heart  so  true  ] 
My  cheeks  are  swell'd  witii  tears;  but  she 
Has  never  shed  a  tear  for  me. 

If  Nannie  call'd,  did  IJobin  stay, 
Or  linger  wlien  she  bade  me  run? 

She  only  had  a  word  to  say, 

And  all  she  ask'd  was  quickly  done. 

I  always  thought  on  her;  but  she 

Would  ne'er  bestow  a  thought  on  mc. 

To  let  her  cows  my  clover  taste, 
Have  I  not  rose  by  break  of  day? 

When  did  her  heifers  ever  fast, 
If  Robin  in  liis  yard  had  hay? 

Though  to  my  fields  they  welcome  were, 

I  never  welcome  was  to  her. 

If  Nannie  ever  lost  a  sheep, 

I  cheerfully  did  give  her  two. 
Did  not  her  lambs  in  safety  sleep 

Within  my  folds  in  frost  and  snow? 
Have  they  not  there  from  cold  been  free? 
But  Nannie  still  is  cold  to  me. 

Whene'er  I  climb'd  our  orchard  trees, 
Tiie  ripest  fruit  was  kept  for  Nan: 

Oh,  how  these  hands  that  drown'd  her  bees 
AVcre  stung!  I'll  ne'er  forget  the  pain: 

Sweet  were  tlic  combs  as  sweet  could  be; 

But  Nannie  ne'er  look'd  sweet  on  mc. 

If  Nannie  to  the  well  did  come, 
'Twas  I  that  did  her  pitchers  fill; 

Full  as  tlicy  were,  I  brought  them  home; 
Her  corn  I  carried  to  the  mill; 

My  back  did  l)car  licr  sacks;  but  she 

Could  never  bear  the  sight  o'  me. 

To  Nannie's  poultry  oats  I  gave; 
I'm  sure  they  always  had  the  best; 


Within  this  week  her  pigeons  have 

Eat  up  a  peck  of  peas  at  least. 
Her  little  pigeons  kiss;  but  she 
Would  never  take  a  kiss  from  me. 

Must  Robin  always  Nannie  woo? 

And  Nannie  still  on  Robin  frown? 
Alas,  poor  wretch!  what  shall  I  do 

If  Nannie  does  not  love  me  soon? 
If  no  relief  to  me  she'll  bring, 
I'll  hang  me  in  her  apron  string. 


MY   MAMMY. 

Walter  Graham  Blackie,  Ph  D.,  F.R.G  S.,  born  in 
Glasgow,  1816.  Educated  privately,  and  at  the  univer- 
sity of  his  native  city.  Wliilst  stutlying  in  Germany  lie 
obtained  the  degree  of  Doctor  of  Philosophy  from  the 
University  of  Jen.a.  He  lias  written  seveial  songs  and 
translations  of  poetry  and  prose;  but  his  principal 
work  is  the  Imperivl  Gazetteer,  a  Dictionary  of  General 
Geography,  on  which  he  was  engaged  about  ten  years. 

Ilk  ane  now-a-days  brags  awa'  'b^ut  his  dear. 
And  praises  her  ripe  lips  and  bright  een  sae  clear; 
But  neither  the  ripe  lip  nor  boiniie  blue  e'e 
Can  compai'e  wi'  the  blink  o'  my  mammy  to  me. 

A  baini  in  her  bosom  I  lay  a'  the  night, 

When  there,  neither  bogies  nor  ghaists  could  me 

fright; 
When  yamm'rin',  she  hushed  me  to  sleep  on  her 

knee : 
0!  wha  e'er  can  compare  wi'  my  mammy  to  mc  ? 

Fu'  aft  in  her  face  I  ha'e  look'd  up  fu'  fain. 
While  fondly  she  clasp'd  me  and  croon'd  seme 

auld  strain, 
And  aften  the  saut  tear  wad  start  to  my  e'e: 
They  were  waesomo,  the  sangs  o'  my  mammy,  to 

me. 

0!  yes,  I  ha'e  grat  for  the  twa  bonnie  weans 
The  wee  robins  cover'd  wi'  leaves  wi'  sic  pains: 
And  still,  like  a  sunbeam  that  glints  o'er  the  sea, 
The  auld  sangs  o'  my  mammy  return  back  to  me. 

When  sickness  o'ercam'  me,  she  watch'd  late  and 

air, 
If  opcn'd  my  dull  e'e  I  aye  saw  her  there; 
When  roses  my  pale  cheeks  o'ersjircad,  blytho 

was  she — 
0!  whae'er  was  sac  kind  as  my  mammy  to  me? 

Lang,  lang  I'll  remember  the  days  that  are  gane, 
Since  first  I  could  lisp  mam'  and  toddle  my  lane; 
Though  sair  I  be  toss'd  upon  life's  troubled  sea. 
Yet  my  heart  will  aye  cling  wi'  affection  to  thee. 


APPENDIX. 


513 


LEADER  HAUGHS  AND  YARROW. 

In  the  ■Roxburghe  Ballads  this  song  is  signed  "the 
words  of  Buiiie  the  Violer,"  supposed  to  be  Nicol 
Burne,  a  wandering  minstrel  of  the  seventeenth  cen- 
tury. Although  little  more  tlian  a  string  of  names 
of  places  dear  to  the  author,  it  is  so  full  of  melody 
and  tender  mournful  simplicity  that  it  Inis  been  for 
two  centuries  dear  to  the  Iiearts  of  the  old  minstrel's 
countrymen  in  the  south  of  Scotland,  and  has  long  kept 
its  place  in  collections  of  Scottish  song. 

AVhen  Phoebus  bright  the  azure  skies 

AVith  golden  rays  enlight'neth, 
He  makes  all  nature's  beauties  rise, 

Herbs,  trees,  and  flowers  he  quick'neth; 
Amongst  all  those  he  makes  his  choice. 

And  with  delight  goes  thorow. 
With  radiant  beams,  the  silver  streams 

Of  Leader  Haughs  and  Yarrow. 

When  Aries  the  day  and  night 

In  equal  length  divideth. 
And  frosty  Saturn  takes  his  flight, 

Xae  langer  he  abideth; 
Then  Flora  queen,  with  mantle  green, 

Casts  off  her  former  sorrow, 
And  vows  to  dwell  with  Ceres'  sel', 

In  Leader  Haughs  and  Yarrow. 

Pan,  playing  on  his  aiten  reed. 

And  shepherds,  him  attending, 
Do  here  resort,  their  flocks  to  feed, 

The  hills  and  haughs  commending. 
AVith  cur  and  keut,  upon  the  bent, 

Sing  to  the  sun.  Good-morrow, 
And  swear  nae  fields  mair  pleasures  yield, 

Than  Leader  Haughs  and  Yarrow. 

A  house  there  stands  on  Leader  side. 

Surmounting  my  descriving. 
With  rooms  sae  rare,  and  windows  fair, 

Like  Daedalus'  contriving: 
Men  passing  by  do  aften  cry. 

In  .sooth  it  hath  no  marrow; 
It  stands  as  fair  on  Leader  side, 

As  Newark  does  on  Yarrow. 

A  mile  below,  who  lists  to  ride. 

Will  hear  the  mavis  singing; 
Into  St.  Leonard's  banks  she  bides, 

Sweet  birks  her  head  owerhinging. 
The  lint-white  loud,  and  Progne  proud, 

With  tuneful  throats  and  narrow, 
Into  St.  Leonard's  banks  they  sing, 

As  sweetly  as  in  Yarrow. 

The  lapwing  lilteth  ower  the  lea, 
AVith  nimble  wing  she  sporteth; 

But  vows  she'll  flee  far  from  the  tree 
Where  Philomel  resorteth: 

Vol.  II. — K  k 


By  break  of  day  the  lark  can  sny, 

I'll  bid  you  a  good  morrow; 
I'll  .stretch  my  wing,  and,  mounting,  sing 

O'er  Leader  Haughs  and  Yarrow. 

Park,  Wanton-wa's,  and  Wooden-deuch, 

The  Last  and  Wester  ilainses, 
The  wood  of  Lauder  's  fair  eneuch, 

The  corns  are  good  in  the  Blainslics; 
There  aits  are  fine,  and  said  by  kind. 

That  if  ye  search  all  thorough 
Mcarns,  Buchan,  ilarr,  nane  better  are 

Than  Leader  Haughs  and  Yarrow. 

In  Burn-mill  Bog,  and  AVhit.<laid  Shaws, 

The  fearful  hare  she  hauntetli; 
Brig-haugh  and  Braidwoodsheil  she  knaws. 

And  Chapel  Wood  freiiucnteth: 
Yet,  when  she  irks,  to  Kaidslie  Birks, 

She  rins,  and  sighs  for  sorrow. 
That  she  should  leave  sweet  Leader  Haughs, 

And  cannot  win  to  Yarrow. 

AVhat  sweeter  music  wad  ye  liear 

Than  hounds  and  beagles  crying? 
The  started  hare  rins  hard  wi'  fear, 

Upon  her  speed  relying: 
But  yet  her  strength  it  fails  at  length; 

Nae  bidding  can  she  borrow, 
In  Sorrowless-fields,  Clackmae,  or  Ilags; 

And  sighs  to  be  in  Yarrow. 

For  Rockwood,  Ringwood,  Spotty,  Shag, 

AVith  sight  and  scent  pursue  her; 
Till,  ah,  her  pith  begins  to  flag; 

Nae  cunning  can  rescue  her: 
Ower  dub  and  dyke,  ower  sheuch  and  syke, 

She'll  rin  the  fields  all  thorough, 
Till,  fail'd,  she  fa's  in  Leader  Haughs, 

And  bids  fareweel  to  Yarrow. 

Sing  Erlington  and  Cowdenknowes, 

AVliere  Humes  had  anes  commanding; 
And  Drygrange,  with  the  milk-white  yowes, 

'Twixt  Tweed  and  Leader  standing: 
The  bird  that  flees  through  Redpath  trees 

And  Gladswood  banks  ilk  morrow, 
May  cliaunt  and  sing  sweet  Leader  Haughs 

And  bonnie  howms  of  Yarrow. 

But  minstrel  Burne  cannot  assuage 

His  grief,  while  life  endureth. 
To  see  the  changes  of  his  age, 

AA'hich  fleeting  time  procureth; 
For  mony  a  jdace  stands  in  hard  case, 

AVhere  blythe  folk  kend  nae  sorrow, 
AVith  Humes  that  dwelt  on  Leader  side. 

And  Scotts  that  dwelt  on  Yarrow. 


514 


APPENDIX. 


SWEET   JESSIE   0'   THE  DELL. 

William  Cameron,  bom  in  parish  of  Dunipace,  Stir- 
lingshire, Dec.  3,  ISOl.  He  was  for  some  time  school- 
iiiji^ter  at  Armadale  iievr  Bathgate,  and  afterwards 
removed  to  Glasgow.  He  is  the  author  of  some  popular 
songs,  which  have  been  set  to  excellent  music.  In  1874 
Mr.  Cameron  was  presented  with  a  jmrse  of  one  hun- 
dred guineas  by  his  numerous  friends  and  admirers. 

0  bright  tlie  beaming  queen  o'  night 

Shines  in  yon  flow'ry  vale, 
And  .softly  sheds  her  silver  light 

O'er  mountain,  path,  and  dale. 
Short  i.s  the  way,  when  light's  the  heart 

That's  bound  in  love's  soft  spell; 
Sae  I'll  awa'  to  Armadale, 
To  Jessie  o'  the  Dell, 

To  Jessie  o'  the  Dell, 

Sweet  Jessie  o'  the  Dell, 

The  bonnie  lass  o'  Armadale, 

Sweet  Jessie  o'  the  Dell. 

We've  pu'd  the  primrose  on  the  braes 

Beside  my  Jessie's  cot, 
We've  gather'd  nuts,  we've  gather'd  slaes. 

In  that  sweet  rural  spot. 
The  wee  short  hours  danced  merrily, 

Like  lambkins  on  the  fell; 
As  if  they  join'd  in  joy  wi'  me 

And  Jessie  o'  the  Dell. 

There's  nane  to  me  wi'  her  can  vie, 

I'll  love  her  till  I  dee; 
For  she's  sae  sweet  and  bonnie  aye, 

And  kind  as  kind  can  be. 
This  night  in  mutual  kind  embrace. 

Oh,  wha  our  joys  may  tell; 
Then  I'll  awa'  to  Armadale, 

To  Jessie  o'  the  Dell. 


WILLIE   MILL'S   BUR^^. 

Mrs.  Elizabeth  Campbell,  a  poetess  in  humble  life; 
bom  Feb.  H,  1S04,  in  the  parish  of  Tannadice,  Forfar- 
hliire;  now  resident  at  Lochee,  Dundee.  She  is  entirely 
self-taught,  and  has  found  song  a  tme  solace  in  a 
life  marked  by  no  common  afflictions.  The  following 
simple  description  of  the  wanderings  of  a  Scottish  bum 
— in  its  way  quite  eipial,  says  a  critic,  to  Tennyson's 
"  Brook"— is  from  her  volume  entitled  Soni/s  of  hn> 
Pihidiiwgc,  published  in  187(5,  and  very  favourably 
noticed  by  the  press. 

Koll  away,  you  shining  rill, 
OfF-^pring  of  a  heath-clad  hill, 
Through  tlie  moors  and  mossy  bogs. 
Turn  the  mills  and  fill  the  cogs. 


Roll  among  your  sunny  brae.s, 
'Mid  hazel  buds  and  blooming  slaes; 
Where  the  housewife's  linens  bleach 
By  the  bits  of  silver  beach. 

Roll  away  through  moss  and  moor. 
Where  the  rains  in  torrents  pour; 
Then  the  crowflower's  gentle  bell 
Floats  upon  your  muddy  swell. 

Mountain  thyme  and  heather  grow. 
Bending  o'er  your  gleesome  flow; 
Moorland  trout,  in  rainbow  sheen, 
In  your  amber  floods  are  seen. 

0 !  little  rill  with  many  a  crook. 
Twisting  onward  to  the  brook; 
Singing  in  your  motion  ever. 
Making  haste  to  join  the  river. 

You  with  trailing  fragments  play. 
Flowing  on  your  watery  way; 
To  wimple,  dimple,  day  and  night. 
O'er  your  bed  of  pebbles  bright. 

Precious  are  you,  laughing  thing. 
Onward  still  you  sing  and  ring; 
Gushing,  rushing,  clear  and  cold, 
You  are  better  far  than  gold. 

You  wash  the  braes  in  winter  time; 
Up  the  banks  your  wavelets  climb; 
Rocking,  in  their  beds  so  deep, 
All  the  finny  tribes  to  sleep. 

Charming  rill,  the  Avater  elves 
Rest  upon  your  tiny  shelves; 
"With  shining  scale  and  flashing  fin, 
Merrily  pop  they  out  and  in. 

Where  clinging  cresses  tightly  clasp 
Reeds  and  roots  within  their  grasp. 
Are  palaces  of  elf-kings,  where 
They  may  feast  on  regal  fare: 

Then  doffing  boots  and  spurs  of  gold, 
AVhen  the  day  is  getting  old 
To  the  hidden  nooks  they  creep. 
Safe  and  happily  to  sleep. 

At  the  dawn  starts  many  a  fin, 
Leaping  light  in  loch  and  linn, 
Underneath  the  swinging  rooks 
Where  their  bread  is  in  the  brooks. 

Dancing  down  the  rushy  glen, 
Flowing  on  tiirough  field  and  fen. 
Piping  to  the  clouds  and  stars, 
Overleaping  rocky  bars. 


APPENDIX. 


515 


Sighing:  'mong  the  sand  and  stones, 
In  the  meadows  green  it  moans; 
Murmuring  in  silent  shades, 
Whistling  through  the  forest  glades. 

Tumbling,  rumbling,  on  it  wheels, 
Into  lovers'  corners  reels; 
AVith  a  hearty  tireless  will 
Onward  bounds  the  busy  rill. 

Flash  and  flow  where  roses  throng. 
Where  birds  lengthen  out  their  song; 
Pipe  you  time  into  their  ears. 
As  you  shed  your  crystal  tears. 

Leap  and  run  and  gaily  dance; 
Bright  the  sunbeams  on  you  glance; 
Dashing  down  through  dale  and  dingle. 
Till  you  with  the  salt  sea  mingle. 


She's  backit  like  a  peacock, 

Siic's  breisted  like  a  swan. 
She's  jimp  about  the  middle, 

Iler  waist  ye  wcel  micht  span; 
llcr  waist  ye  wcel  micht  span. 

And  she  has  a  rolling  eye, 
And  for  bonnie  Annie  Laurie 

I'd  lay  doun  my  head  and  die. 


ANNIE  LAURIE. 

Tliese  two  tender  verses  were  written  about  the  close 
of  the  seventeenth  century  by  William  Douglasuf  Fms;- 
land,  in  Kirkcudbriglitshire.  The  fiiir  lady,  however, 
was  deaf  to  his  passionate  appeal,  preferring  Alexander 
Fergusson  of  Craigdearroch,  to  whom  she  was  eventually 
married.  Though  Douglas  was  refused  by  Annie  he 
did  not  pine  away  in  single  blessedness,  but  made  a 
runaway  marriage  with  Miss  Elizabeth  Clerk  of  Glen- 
boig  in  Galloway,  by  wlioni  he  had  four  sons  and  two 
daughters.  He  was  one  of  the  best  swordsmen  of  his 
time,  and  his  son  Archibald  rose  to  the  rank  of  lieu- 
tenant-general in  the  British  army.  We  give  below  an 
anonymous  and  more  popular  version  of  this  lyric,  wUicli 
is  known  and  sung  in  all  quartei-s  of  the  globe. i 

Maxwelton's  banks  are  bonnie. 

Where  early  fa's  the  dew! 
Where  I  and  Annie  Laurie 

Made  up  the  promise  true, 
Made  up  the  promise  true, 

And  never  forget  will  I, 
And  for  bonnie  Annie  Laurie 

I'd  lay  doun  my  head  and  die. 

•  Maxw«lton  brae?  are  bonnie, 

Where  early  fa's  the  dew. 
And  it's  there  that  Annie  Laurie 

Gie'd  me  her  promise  true; 
Gie'd  me  her  promise  true, 

Which  ne'er  forgot  will  be; 
And  for  bonnie  Annie  Laurie 

Id  lay  me  doun  and  dee. 

Her  brow  is  like  the  snaw-drift — 
Her  throat  is  like  the  swan. 

Her  face  it  is  the  fairest 
Tliat  e'er  the  sun  shone  on  — 


THE   MAID   OF    ISLAY. 

■William  Dunbar,  D.D.,  bom  at  Dumfries  in  1TS1; 
died  Dec.  6,  Istil.  He  was  parish  minister  of  Ajiple- 
garth  in  Dumfriesshire  for  upwards  of  fifty  years.  His 
popular  song  "  The  Maid  of  Islay,"  has  by  mistake  been 
ascribed  to  Joseph  Train. 

Eising  o'er  the  heaving  billow, 

Evening  gilds  the  ocean's  swell, 
While  with  thee,  on  grassy  pillow. 

Solitude!  I  love  to  dwell. 
Lonely  to  the  sea-breeze  blowing, 

Oft  I  chaunt  my  love-lorn  strain, 
To  the  streamlet  sweetly  flawing. 

Murmur  oft  a  lover's  pain. 

'Twas  for  her,  the  maid  of  Islay, 

Time  flew  o'er  me  winged  with  joy; 
'Twas  for  her,  the  cheering  smile  aye 

Beamed  with  rapture  in  my  eye. 
Not  the  tempest  raving  round  me, 

Lightning's  flash  or  thunder's  roll. 
Not  the  ocean's  rage  could  wound  me. 

While  her  image  filled  my  soul. 

Farewell  days  of  purest  pleasure. 

Long  your  loss  my  heart  shall  mourn! 
Farewell,  hours  of  bliss  the  measure. 

Bliss  tiiat  never  can  return. 
Cheerless  o'er  the  wild  heath  wand'ring, 

Cheerless  o'er  the  wave-worn  shore. 
On  the  past  with  sadness  pond'ring, 

Hope's  fair  visions  cliarm  no  more. 


That  e'er  the  sun  shone  on — 
And  dark  blue  is  her  e'e; 

And  for  bonnie  Annie  liaurle 
I'd  lay  me  doun  and  dee. 

Like  dew  oti  the  gowan  lying, 

Is  the  fa"  o'  her  fairy  feet, 
And  like  winds  in  summer  sighing, 

Her  voice  is  low  and  sweet. 
Her  voice  is  low  and  sweet, 

And  she's  a'  the  world  to  me; 
And  for  bonnie  Annie  Laurie 

I'd  lay  me  douu  and  dee. 


516 


APPENDIX. 


on,   DINNA  ASK  ME. 

John  Dunlop,  born  at  Cavmyle,  Laiiarksliir=i  Nov- 
ember, IVoo;  died  October,  lS2i>.  He  began  life  as  a 
merchant  in  Glasgow,  and  rose  to  be  lord  provost  of 
that  city.  Dr.  Rogers  states  that  j\Ir.  Dunlop  left  be- 
hind him  fjur  manuscript  volumes  of  poetry,  contain- 
ing many,  compositions  worthy  of  being  presented  to 
the  public. 

Oil!  dinna  a.sk  mc  gin  I  lo'e  thee; 

Trotli,  I  daurna  tell; 
Dinna  ask  me  gin  I  lo'e  ye; 

Ask  it  o'  yersel. 

01  dinna  look  sae  sair  at  me, 

For  weel  ye  ken  me  true; 
0,  gin  ye  look  sae  sair  at  me, 

I  daurna  look  at  you. 

When  ye  gang  to  yon  braw  biaw  town, 

And  bonnier  lasses  see, 
0,  dinna,  Jamie,  look  at  them, 

Lest  you  should  mind  na  nie. 

For  I  could  never  bide  the  lass 
That  ye'd  lo'e  mair  than  me; 

And  0,  I'm  sure,  my  heart  would  break, 
Gin  ye'd  prove  false  to  me. 


now  SWEET  THIS  LONE  VALE. 

Hon.  Andrew  Erskine,  author  of  "  Town  Eclogues" 
and  other  iiieces.  He  was  acquainted  with  Burns,  who 
said  "Mr.  Erskine's  verses  are  all  pretty,  but  his 
'Lone  Vale'  is  divine."     He  died  in  179^. 

How  sweet  this  lone  vale,  and  how  sacred  to 
feeling 
Yon  nightingale's  notes  in  sweet  melody  melt; 
Oblivion  of  woe  o'er  the  mind  gently  .stealing, 

A  pause  from  keen  anguish  a  moment  is  felt. 
The  moon's   yellow  light  o'er  the  .still  lake  is 
sleeping. 
Ah!  near  the  sad  spot  Mary  sleeps  in  her  tomb. 
Again  the  heart  swells,  the  eye  flows  with  weep- 
ing, 
And  the  sweets  of  the  vale  arc  o'ershadow'd 
with  gloom. 


0  WEEL  MAY  THE  BO.VTIE  IJOW. 

John  Ewen,  bom  at  Montrose  in  1741:  dii-il  in  Aber- 
deen, October,  1821.  Rin-ns  says  of  this  song,  *•  It  is 
a  cliarming  display  of  wimianly  affection  mingling  witli 
tlie  concerns  and  iiccupatinns  of  life.  It  is  nearly  equal 
to  ■  There's  nae  Luck  about  the  House.'" 


0  weel  may  the  boatie  row. 
And  better  may  she  speed! 

And  weel  may  the  boatie  row. 
That  wins  the  bairns'  bread! 

The  boatie  rows,  the  boatie  rows, 
The  boatie  rows  indeed; 

And  happy  be  the  lot  of  a' 
That  wishes  her  to  speed! 

1  cuist  my  line  in  Largo  Bay, 

And  fishes  I  caught  nine; 
There's  three  to  boil,  and  three  to  fry, 

And  three  to  bait  the  line. 
The  boatie  rows,  the  boatie  rows. 

The  boatie  rows  indeed ; 
And  happy  be  the  lot  of  a' 

That  wishes  her  to  speed ! 

0  weel  may  the  boatie  row, 

That  fills  a  heavy  creel. 
And  cleads  us  a'  I'rae  head  to  feet, 

And  buys  our  parriteh  meal. 
The  boatie  rows,  the  boatie  rows. 

The  boatie  rows  indeed; 
And  happy  be  the  lot  of  a' 

That  wish  the  boatie  speed. 

When  Jamie  vow'd  he  would  be  mine. 
And  wan  frae  me  my  heart, 

0  muckle  lighter  grew  my  creel! 
He  swore  we'd  never  part. 

The  boatie  rows,  the  boatie  rows. 

The  boatie  rows  fu'  weel; 
And  muckle  lighter  is  the  lade 

When  love  bears  up  the  cretl. 

My  kurtcli  I  put  upon  my  head, 
And  dres.s'd  mysel'  fu'  braw; 

1  trow  my  heart  was  dowf  and  wae. 

When  Jamie  gaed  awa': 
But  weel  may  the  boatie  row, 

And  lucky  be  her  part; 
And  lightsome  be  the  lassie's  care 

That  yields  an  honest  heart! 

When  Sawnie,  .Jock,  and  Janctic, 

Are  up,  and  gotten  Icar, 
They'll  help  to  gar  the  boatie  row, 

And  lighten  a'  our  care. 
The  boatie  rows,  the  boatie  rows. 

The  boatie  rows  fu'  weel; 
And  lightsome  be  her  heart  that  tears 

The  murlain  and  tiie  creel! 

x\nd  when  wi'  age  we  arc  worn  down, 
And  hiri)ling  round  tiie  door, 

They'll  row  to  keep  us  hale  and  warm. 
As  we  did  them  before: 


APPENDIX. 


5i: 


Then,  wocl  may  the  boatie  row 
That  wins  the  bairns'  bread; 

And  happy  be  the  lot  of  a' 
Tliat  wish  the  boat  to  speedl 


THE  TWA  LAIRDS  OF  LESMAHAGOW. 

A   TALE. 

Robert  Galloway,  a  native  of  Stirling.  lie  was  tlie 
author  of  a  volume  bearing  the  following  title:  "  Poems, 
Epistles,  and  Songs,  chiefly  in  the  Scotti-sli  Dialect.  To 
which  are  addetl  a  brief  Acaiunt  of  the  Revolution  in 
168S,  and  a  Narrative  of  the  Rebellion  in  1745-4(3,  con- 
tinued to  the  death  of  Prince  Charles  in  1788.  By 
Robert  Galloway.  Glasgow:  Printed  by  W.  Bell  for 
the  Author:  178S." 

Ye  batchelors  wha  lo'e  a  chapin, 

And  marry'd  men  that  stand  by  pap-in; 

Ye  wha  wad  rather  hear  a  droll 

Than  mak  in  neighbour's  name  a  hole, 

Gi'e  ear  until  I  tell  a  tale. 

That  may  syne  down  a  cap  o'  ale; 

My  nibour  John,  wha  sells  a  gill. 

And  is  nae  huckster  o'  his  mill. 

He  tauld  it  me,  and  ca'd  it  true, 

And  as  I  gat,  I  gie't  to  you. 

In  Lesmahagow  liyed  twa  lairds, 
Baith  had  a  house,  and  baith  kail-yards; 
Under  ae  roof  was  baith  their  dwallin', 
And  only  sep'rate  by  a  liallan; 
Ae  niailin'  baith  they  had  between  them, 
And  nane  was  suffer'd  to  chagrin  them; 
Ane  held  the  pleugh,  the  other  caw'd  it. 
Meanwhile 'twas  baith  their  horse  that  draw'd  it; 
Joseph  was  marry'd,  Eobin  single. 
And  ev'ry  man  burnt  his  ain  ingle; 
Their  stocks  were  equal,  but  the  wife, 
And  she  did  comfort  Jo.sepli's  life. 

Seven  years  did  pass  without  a  word 
That  cou'd  the  least  offence  afford; 
The  wife  was  happy,  men  did  toil. 
In  short,  the  wark  ran  smootli  as  oil: 
Joseph  did  think  him.sel'  respecket, 
And  never  in  the  least  ncglecket. 
While  Jenns  still  thouglit  hersel'  at  ease 
Because  she  could  her  Joseph  please; 
And  liobin  was  right  weel  content 
Because  nae  wife  made  him  repent. 

Ae  iMartinmas,  when  stacks  were  happet. 
And  the  meal  kist  was  bienly  stappet, 
Nae  scant  o'  gear,  nor  fash't  ivi'  weans. 
The  twa  lairds  took  a  jaunt  for  ance 
To  Hamilton,  to  sell  their  barley, 
And  wi'  the  ale  to  try  a  parley. 
Thev  did  their  bus'ness,  saw  the  fair, 


And  it  was  ncitlicr  late  nor  air, 
Wliun  they  did  try  the  roail  for  hame, 
Up  through  the  muir,  they  war  na  lame. 

Whan  they  had  fairly  left  the  town, 
The  ale  began  to  warm  their  crown: 
For  ale,  my  friends,  can  mak  us  kind, 
And  bring  forgotten  tilings  to  mind; 
Can  gi'e  advice  whar  nane  is  Avanted, 
And  finish  deeds  wad  ne'er  been  granted. 

JOSKPH. 

Quo"  Joseph,  now,  for  he  was  auldcst, 
And  pith  o'  maut  had  made  him  bauldest, 
We  lang  iia'e  toil'd  and  won  togither. 
And  mickle  done  by  ane  anither: 
Whan  first  ye  play'd  the  stock  and  horn, 
To  keep  the  kye  frae  'mang  the  corn, 
Before  ye  learn'd  to  dance  a  reel, 
I  thought  you  aye  a  canny  chiel. 
And  fit  to  lead  a  happy  life; 
I  therefore  wad  advise  a  wife. 

ROBI.V. 

A  wife!  hegh  man,  ye' re  farther  seen 
Into  that  tale,  for  I  am  green; 
What  pleasure  matrimony  brings 
To  counterbalance  a'  its  stings, 
To  pay  for  a'  tlieir  plaids  and  gowns. 
To  dress  them  out  vji'  queans  in  towns, 
To  hide  tlieir  fauts  and  keep  their  tid. 
And,  whan  they're  ill,  to  ca'  them  gudc. 

JOSEPH. 

Now,  Robin,  this  I'll  no  admit, 
Sae  sair  against  my  shins  to  hit: 
Women  were  for  our  use  created; 
When  life  is  wersh  they  help  to  saut  it, 
To  gi'e  advice  whan  things  are  kittle. 
And  aftentimes  to  try  our  mettle. 

ROBIN. 

A'  that  is  true,  as  ye  ha'c  tauld  it. 
And  I  ha'e  neither  bann'd  nor  scauldet; 
And  then,  wha  can  be  sure  of  keeping 
These  happy  helps  frae  aftcn  weeping 
For  things  they  want,  nor  can  they  get  it, 
Nor  do  they  mind  how  ill  they'd  set  it. 
They'll  wish  for  men,  and  whan  they  get  them, 
They'll  wish  them  dead  gif  they  but  pet  them; 
And  whan  they're  widows,  then  they'll  marry, 
A  month  they'll  scarcely  wish  to  tarry: 
Accept  the  first  good  match  they  meet, 
Though  e'er  so  soon  or  indiscreet. 

JOSEPH. 

Stap,  Ivobin,  shure  ye're  wrang  in  part. 
For  Jenns  at  hame,  my  ain  sweetheart, 
Wad  ne'er  forget  me,  nor  yet  marry, 
But  ten  lang  years  I'm  sure  she'd  tarry; 


518 


APPENDIX. 


So  dinna  think  sac  aften  wrang, 
Or  else  on  you  I'll  ride  the  stang. 

EOBIN. 

Now,  Joseph,  shure  ye're  no  your  lane, 
Or  else  for  you  I'd  mak  a  mane; 
But  Jenns  is  just  like  ither  fo'k, 
And,  if  ye'U  help  to  try  a  joke, 
I'll  prove  this  night  what  I  ha'e  said, 
Or  else  a  hunder  marks  be  paid. 

JOSEPH. 

■What  is  the  joke,  gif  ane  may  spier  it. 
And  there's  my  hand  in  part  I'll  bear  it; 
But  my  gudewife,  I'm  shure,  wad  keep 
Lang  towmonths  twa,  at  least,  to  weep. 

ROBI>f. 

AVe're   near   han'    hanie;   now   feign   ye've 
fainted. 
And  that  ye're  dead  I'll  ha'e  it  painted; 
And  for  your  wife,  I  winna  steer  her, 
Wi'  hand  nor  fit,  nor  ought  come  near  her; 
But  for  yoursel',  ye  dar  na  stir, 
Xae  mair  than  if  a  log  of  fir: 
And  for  the  outcome  o'  the  story, 
Just  trust  it  to  your  ni'bour  tory. 

Joseph  lay  stiff  on  Eobin's  back. 

Then  wi'  his  fit  he  ga'e  a  crack. 

Wha's  there?  cries  Jenns — Quo'  Eobin,  Me: 

But  be  nae  fear'd  at  what  ye  see: 

Slie  open'd  doors,  and  in  he  went, 

And  then  the  wife  made  this  lament — 

Ah!  wae  is  me!  is  Joseph  dead! 

Tiie  man  that  brought  me  daily  bread; 

"Whar  shall  I  lay  my  lonely  head? 

"Whist  I  liaud  your  peace,  quo'  cunnin'  Rubin, 

Or  do  you  mean  to  bring  a  mob  in; 

Tlie  man  is  gone,  be  is  at  peace; 

Some  time,  we're  shure,  'twill  be  our  case. 

Quo'  Janet,  Shure,  I'll  ne'er  forget  him! 
For  ev'rything  he  did  it  set  him: 
No  man,  I'm  shure,  can  fill  his  place. 
For  I'm  resolv'd  'twill  be  the  case. 

Quo'  Ilobin,  Mak  nae  aiths,  I  pray, 
Nor  do  you  think,  wiien  that  you  say; 
Dinna  ye  ken  I  lia'f  the  inailin', 
And  our  twa  lia'ves  wad  mak  a  hale  ane: 
What  do  we  ken  of  ane  anither, 
But  that  us  twa  may  join  togithcr? 
"Were  Joseph  decently  interred, 
I  do  insist  to  be  preferr'd. 
(iiio'  Janet,  smoothing  up  her  looks, 
1  never  read  tliroiigii  mony  books; 
But  as  I  live,  and  am  a  sinner, 
I  wadna  been  the  first  beginner; 
Soon  as  I  saw  that  he  was  dead. 


That  very  thought  came  in  my  head; 
So  there's  my  hand,  I've  nae  objection, 
AVhan  I  think  on  your  ca'm  reflection. 

The  charm  is  o'er,  the  ivager's  won, 
Rise,  Joseph,  break  the  supper  scon. 
And  learn  a  lesson  frae  this  joke, 
Nae  woman's  patience  to  provoke. 

Joseph  rose  up,  the  wife  was  glad. 
But  yet  thought  shame  of  what  was  said. 
Quo'  Joseph,  Never  mind,  my  dear, 
Of  what  you  said,  or  I  did  hear: 
Back  frae  this  date  to  Abigail, 
I  see  tliat  women  are  on  trial; 
They  keep  the  grip  while  they  are  able.— 
And  here  I  choose  to  end  the  fable. 


OWER  THE  MUIR. 

Jean  Glover,  born  at  Kilmarnock  in  175S;  died  at 
Litteikeiiny,  Ireland,  in  ISOl.  The  world  is  indebted 
for  the  preservation  of  Jean's  song  to  Robert  Burns, 
who  took  it  down  from  lier  singing.  Tliere  is  another 
set  of  the  song,  written  by  Stewart  Lewis,  wlio  claimei 
priority  for  his  verses. 

Comin'  through  the  craigs  o'  Kyle, 

Amang  the  bonnie  bloomin'  heather, 
There  I  met  a  bonnie  lassie, 
Keepin'  a'  her  flocks  tlicgithcr. 

Ower  the  muir  amang  the  heather, 
Ower  the  muir  amang  the  heather. 
There  I  met  a  bonnie  lassie, 
Keepin'  a'  her  flocks  thegithei". 

Says  I,  ]\ry  dear,  where  is  thy  hame? 

In  muir  or  dale,  pray  tell  me  whether? 
Says  she,  I  tent  the  fleecy  flocks 

That  feed  amang  the  bloomin'  heather. 

We  laid  us  doAvn  upon  a  bank, 

Sae  warm  and  sunnie  was  the  weather; 

She  left  her  flocks  at  large  to  rove 
Amang  the  bonnie  bloomin'  heather. 

Slie  charm'd  my  heart,  and  aye  sinsyne 
I  could  nae  think  on  ony  ither: 

By  sea  and  sky!  .she  shall  be  mine, 
Tiie  bonnie  lass  amang  the  heather. 


CAULD   KAIL  IN  ABERDEEN. 

Alexander,  fourth  Duke  of  Gordon;  bom  in  1743, 
died  in  IS'J".  Burns  was  "charmed"  with  this  song. 
Other  vei-aions  of  it  by  AVilliam  Ueid  and  Lady  Nairne 
are  given  at  p.  402  and  4:i2,  vol.  i.  Dr.  K.  Chambei-s,  in 
Biieaking  of  the  duke's  vereion,  rem.irksthat  it  does  not 


APPENDIX. 


519 


refer  to  any  "miss  connected  witli  the  ancient  city, 
but  a  niet;vi)lK)rical  allusion  to  the  faded  love-favours 
of  an  aged  nobleman,  who,  in  spite  of  yeara,  was  pre- 
suming to  pay  his  addresses  to  a  young  lady." 

There's  cauld  kail  in  Aberdeen, 

And  custocks  in  Stra'bogie, 
Gin  I  ha'e  but  a  bonnie  lass, 

Ye're  welcome  to  your  cogie. 
And  ye  may  sit  up  a'  the  night, 
And  drink  till  it  be  braid  daylight; 
Gi'e  me  a  lass  baith  clean  and  tight, 

To  dance  the  reel  o'  Bogie. 

In  cotillions  the  French  excel, 

John  Bull  loves  country  dances; 
The  Spaniards  dance  fandangoes  well. 

Mynheer  an  allemande  prances; 
In  foursome  reels  the  Scots  delight, 
At  threesome's  they  dance  wondrous  light, 
But  twasome's  ding  a'  out  o'  sight, 
Danc'd  to  the  reel  o'  Bogie. 

Come,  lads,  and  view  your  partners  weel. 
Wale  each  a  blythesome  rogie; 

I'll  tak'  this  lassie  to  mysel', 
She  looks  sae  keen  and  vogie: 

Now,  piper  lad,  bang  up  the  spring; 

The  country  fashion  is  the  thing, 

To  prie  their  mou's  ere  we  begin 
To  dance  the  reel  o'  Bogie. 

Now  ilka  lad  has  got  a  las.s, 

Save  yon  auld  doited  fogie, 
And  ta'en  a  fling  npon  the  grass. 

As  they  do  in  Stra'bogie; 
But  a"  the  lasses  look  .<ae  fain, 
We  canna  think  oursel's  to  hain. 
For  they  maun  ha'e  their  come-again 

To  dance  the  reel  o'  Bogie. 

Now  a'  the  lads  ha'e  done  their  best, 

Like  true  men  o'  Stra'bogie; 
We'll  stop  a  while  and  tak'  a  rest. 

And  tipple  out  a  cogie. 
Come  now,  my  lads,  and  tak'  your  glass. 

And  try  ilk  other  to  surpass 
In  wishing  health  to  ev'ry  lass, 

To  dance  the  reel  o'  Bogie. 


TUnXIMSriKE. 

Dougald  Graham,  the  Glasgow  bellman;  born  near 
Stirling  iu  1724;  died  July  'JO,  1779.  In  addition  to 
this  song,  which,  according  to  Sir  Walter  Scott,  was 
sufficient  of  itself  to  "  entitle  its  author  to  immortal- 
ity," Graham  wrote  numerous  ballad.s,  songs,  and 
stories,  also  a  metrical  history  of  the  rebellion  of  1745. 


Ilensell  pe  IIiu:liland  shcntleman, 
Pe  auld  as  rotliwcll  Prig,  man; 

And  many  alterations  seen 

Amang  tc  Lawland  Whig,  man. 
Fa  a  dra,  diddle,  diddle  dee,  &c. 

First  when  she  to  tc  Lawlands  came 
Nainsell  was  driving  cows,  man. 

There  was  na  laws  about  liim's  nerse. 
About  te  prceks  or  trews,  man. 

Xain.sell  did  wear  te  philabeg, 
Te  plaid  prick'd  on  her  shouder; 

Tc  gude  claymore  hung  py  her  pelt; 
Her  pistol  sharged  with  powder. 

But  for  whereas  these  cursed  preeks, 
Wherewith  her  legs  pe  lockit; 

Ohon  that  ere  she  saw  the  day! 
For  a'  her  houghs  pe  prockit. 

Everything  in  te  Highlands  now 

Pe  turn'd  to  alteration; 
Te  sodger  dwall  at  our  door  check, 

And  tat  pe  great  vexation. 

Scotland  pe  turn'd  a  Ningland  now, 
The  laws  pring  in  tc  cawdger; 

Nainsell  wad  dirk  him  for  his  deeds. 
But,  oh!  she  fears  tc  sodger. 

Anither  law  came  after  tat. 

Me  never  saw  the  like,  man, 
They  mak'  a  lang  road  on  te  crund, 

And  ca'  him  Turnimspikc,  man. 

And  wow  she  be  a  ponny  road. 
Like  Loudon  corn  riggs,  man, 

Where  twa  carts  may  gang  on  her. 
And  no  preak  ither's  legs,  man. 

They  charge  a  penny  for  ilka  horse. 
In  troth  she'll  no  be  sheaper. 

For  naught  but  gaun  upon  the  ground, 
And  they  gi'e  her  a  paper. 

They  take  the  horse  then  py  te  head, 
And  there  they  make  him  stand,  man; 

She  tell  them  she  had  seen  the  day 
They  had  nae  sic  command,  man. 

Xae  doubt  nainsell  maun  draw  her  pur.se. 
And  pay  him  what  him  like,  man; 

She'll  .see  a  shudgemcnt  on  his  toor. 
That  filtiiy  turnimspikc,  man. 

But  she'll  awa'  to  ta  Highland  hills, 
Where  deil  a  ane  dare  turn  her. 

And  no  come  near  te  turnimspikc. 
Unless  it  pe  to  purn  her. 


520 


APPENDIX. 


THE  WAYWARD  WIFE. 

Janet  Graham,  a  now  forgotten  iwetess;  bom  near 
Lockeibie,  Dumfiiesshire,  in  1724.  Her  later  years  were 
spent  principally  in  Edinburgh,  where  she  died,  April, 
1S05.  Miss  Graham  composed  many  other  verses,  but 
the  following  alone  escaped  from  her  hand  into  popu- 
larity. An  anecdote  is  told  of  lier  in  reference  to  a 
remark  of  John,  second  Lord  Hopetoun,  who  was  so 
much  charmed  by  her  graceful  movements  in  the  dance 
that  he  inquired  in  what  school  she  was  taught.  "  In 
my  mother's  washing  tub,''  she  replied;  but  in  after 
times  used  to  say,  "Guid  forgie  me  for  saying  sae!  1 
was  never  in  a  washiug-tub  in  my  life." 

Alas!  my  son,  you  little  know 
The  sorrows  which  from  wedlock  flow: 
Farewell  sweet  hours  of  mirth  and  ease, 
AVhen  you  have  gotten  a  wife  to  jDleasc. 

Your  hopes  are  high,  your  wisdom  small, 
Woe  has  not  had  you  in  its  thrall; 
The  black  cow  on  your  foot  ne'er  trod, 
AVhich  makes  you  sing  along  the  I'oad. 

Stay  Solway's  tide,  rule  Criffel's  wind, 
Turn  night  to  day,  and  cure  the  blind; 
JIake  apples  grow  on  alder-trees. 
But  never  hope  a  wife  to  please. 

Wliate'er  you  love  she'll  mock  and  scorn, 
Weep  when  you  sing,  sing  when  you  mourn; 
H«r  nimble  tongue  and  fearless  hand 
Are  ensigns  of  her  high  command. 

When  I,  like  you,  Avas  young  and  free, 
I  valued  not  the  proudest  she; 
Like  you,  my  boast  was  bold  and  vain. 
That  men  alone  were  born  to  reign. 

Great  Hercules  and  Samson  too 
Were  stronger  far  than  1  or  you, 
Yet  they  were  baflfled  by  their  dears, 
And  felt  the  distaff  and  the  shears. 

Stout  gates  of  brass,  and  well-built  walls, 
Are  proof  'gainst  sAvords  and  cannon-balls; 
But  nought  is  found,  by  sea  or  land, 
Tliat  can  a  wavward  wife  withstand. 


0  TELL  ME  now  TO  WOO  THEE. 

Robert  Graham  of  Gartmore:  born  1750,  died  1707. 
The  song  was  first  piiblislied  in  the  "  Minstrelsy  of  the 
Scottish  Border,"  IS'il.  Sir  Walter  Scott  at  one  time 
snpjviscd  it  to  have  been  the  comixjsition  of  the  great 
Marquis  of  Montrose. 


If  doughtj'  deeds  my  lady  please, 

liight  soon  I'll  mount  my  steed: 
And  strong  his  arm,  and  fast  his  seat. 

That  bears  frae  me  the  meed. 
I'll  wear  thy  colours  in  my  cap. 

Thy  picture  in  my  heart; 
And  he  that  bends  not  to  thine  eye. 
Shall  rue  it  to  his  smart. 

Then  tell  me  how  to  avoo  thee,  love, 

0  tell  me  how  to  woo  thee  I 
For  thy  dear  sake,  nae  care  I'll  take. 
Though  ne'er  another  trow  me. 

If  gay  attire  delight  thine  eye, 

I'll  dight  me  in  array; 
I'll  tend  thy  chamber  door  all  night. 

And  squire  thee  all  the  day. 
If  sweetest  sounds  can  win  thine  ear. 

These  sounds  I'll  strive  to  catch; 
Thy  voice  I'll  steal  to  woo  thysell, 

That  voice  that  nane  can  match. 

But  if  fond  love  thy  heart  can  gain, 

I  never  broke  a  vow; 
Kae  maiden  lays  her  skaith  to  me; 

I  never  loved  but  you. 
For  you  alone  I  ride  the  ring, 

For  you  I  wear  the  blue; 
For  you  alone  1  strive  to  sing — 

0  tell  me  how  to  avoo! 


ROY'S  WIFE  OF  ALDIVALLOCH. 

Mrs.  Grant  of  Carron,  a  single-song  poetess;  born  in 
1745,  died  about  1814.  This  exceedingly  iwpular  song 
has  been  sometimes  erroneously  attributed  to  Mrs.  Anne 
Grant  of  Laggan.  Both  Burns  and  Allan  Cunningham 
admired  and  praised  it.  The  former  said  on  one  occa- 
sion, after  listening  to  the  song,  "  Dinna  let  him  despair 
that  way,  let  Johnnie  sing  this,"  and  he  at  once  re- 
peated the  following  additional  stanza: — 

"  But  Roy's  years  are  three  times  mine, 
I'm  sure  his  days  can  no  be  nionie; 
And  when  that  lie  is  dead  and  gane, 
She  may  repent  and  tak'  her  Johnnie." 

Eoy's  Avife  of  Aldivalloch, 

Eoy's  Avife  of  Aldivalloch, 

Wat  ye  how  she  cheated  me, 

As  I  cam'  o'er  the  braes  of  Balloch? 

She  voAv'd,  she  sAvore  she  Avad  be  mine; 

She  said  she  lo'ed  me  best  of  onie; 
But  ahl  the  fickle,  faithless  quean, 

She's  ta'en  the  carle,  and  left  her  Johnnie. 
Roy's  Avife,  &c. 


APPENDIX. 


521 


0,  she  was  a  cantic  quean, 

Weel  could  .she  dance  the  Highland  walloch; 
How  happy  I,  had  she  been  mine, 

Or  1  been  Roy  of  Aldivalloch. 
IJoy's  wife,  &c. 

Her  hair  sae  fair,  her  een  sae  clear, 
Her  wee  bit  mou'  sae  sweet  and  bonnie; 

To  me  she  ever  will  be  dear, 

Though  she's  for  ever  left  her  Johnnie. 
Rov's  wife,  &c. 


'TWAS  SUMMER  TIDE. 

John  Grieve,  born  at  Dunfermline  in  1781,  died  in 
Edinburgh  in  1836.  He  was  the  author  of  several  j>opu- 
lar  songs,  and  will  long  be  leraerabered  as  the  generous 
friend  of  the  Ettrick  Shepherd,  who  dedicated  his 
"Mador  of  the  Moor"  to  hira,  and  also  introduced  him 
as  one  of  the  competing  minstrels  in  the  "Queen's 
Wake." 

'Twas  summer  tide;  the  cushat  sang 

His  am'rous  roundelay; 
And  dews,  like  clustered  diamonds,  hang 

On  flower  and  leafy  spray. 
The  coverlet  of  gloaming  gray 

On  everything  was  seen, 
When  lads  and  Tas.ses  took  their  way 

To  Polwarth  on  the  green. 

The  spirit-moving  dance  went  on, 

And  harmless  revelry 
Of  young  hearts  all  in  unison, 

Wi'  love's  soft  witcherie; 
Their  hall  the  open-daisied  lea, 

While  frae  the  welkin  sheen 
The  moon  shone  brightly  on  the  glee 

At  Polwarth  on  the  green. 

Dark  een  and  raven  curls  were  there, 

And  cheeks  of  rosy  hue, 
And  finer  forms,  without  compare. 

Than  jiencil  ever  drew; 
But  ane,  wi'  een  of  bonnie  blue, 

A'  hearts  confes.s'd  the  queen. 
And  pride  of  grace  and  beauty  too, 

At  Polwarth  on  the  green. 

The  miser  hoards  his  golden  store. 

And  kings  dominion  gain; 
While  others  in  the  battle's  roar 

For  honour's  trifles  .strain. 
Away,  such  pleasures!  false  and  vain; 

Far  dearer  mine  have  been. 
Among  the  lowly  rural  train, 

At  Polwarth  on  the  green. 


LOGIE  0'   BUCHAX. 

Attributed  to  George  Halket.  an  Aberdeenshire 
schoolmaster,  who  died  in  ITiS.  He  was  a  great  Jaco- 
bite, and  wrote  various  songs  in  support  of  his  party, 
one  of  tlie  best  known  of  whicli  is  "  Whirrv  Whigs, 
a«a',  man." 

0  Logie  o'  Buchan,  0  Logic  the  laird, 

They  ha'c  ta'en  awa'  Jamie,  that  delved  in  the 

yard, 
Wlia  play'd  on  the  pipe  and  the  viol  sae  sma'; 
They  ha'e  ta'en  awa'  Jamie,  the  flower  o'  them  a'. 

He  said,  Think  na  lang  lassie  tho'  I  gang  awa'; 

He  said,  Think  na  lang  lassie  tho'  I  gang  awa'; 

For  simmer  is  coming,  canld  winter's  awa', 

And  I'll  come  and  see  thee  in  spite  o'  them  a'. 

Tho'  Sandy  has  ousan,  has  gear,  and  has  kye; 
A  house  and  a  hadden,  and  siller  forbye: 
Yet  I'd  tak'  mine  ain  lad,  wi'  his  staff  in  his  hand, 
Before  I'd  ha'e  him,  wi'  the  houses  and  land. 
He  said,  Think  nae  lang,  &c. 

My  daddy  looks  sulky,  my  minnic  looks  sour, 
They  frown  upon  Jamie  because  he  is  poor: 
Tho'  I  lo'c  them  as  weel  as  a  daughter  should  do, 
They're  nae  hauf  sae  dear  to  me,  Jamie,  as  you. 
He  said,  Think  nae  lang,  kc. 

1  sit  on  my  creepie,  I  spin  at  my  wheel, 

And  think  on  the  laddie  that  lo'ed  me  sae  weel; 
He  had  but  ae  saxpence,  he  brak  it  in  twa, 
And  gied  me  the  hauf  o't  when  he  gade  awa'. 
Then  haste  ye  back,  Jamie,  and  bide  na  awa'. 
Then  haste  ye  back,  Jamie,  and  bide  na  awa', 
The  simmer  is  coming,  cauld  winter's  awa', 
And  ye'U  come  and  see  me  in  spite  o'  them  a'. 


MUCKLE-MOU'ED  MEG. 
G.  Bachanan  Hall. 

Lived  a  knicht  in  tower, 

Tweedside  nigh, 
Gripsome,  greedy,  dour; 

Reivers  drave  his  kic. 
Knicht's  lads  were  nigh, 

Catched  a  squire  sae  free, 
Harled  him  aft"  to  tower, — 

"  Hangit  sail  he  be?" 
Auld  knicht  says,  "Aye! 

Hangit  let  him  be." 

Gudewife  she  spake  owcr, 

"  111  mought  ye  be. 
Hang  a  lad  like  that. 

Us  Avi'  dochtcrs  throe! 


522 


APPENDIX. 


Gar  him  marry  Meg, 

Meiklc-mouthcd  .she  be; 
Better  wared  on  her, 

Tliau  tuckit  up  to  tree." 
Auld  knicht  says,  "Aye, 

Gif  he  and  she  agree." 

Young  squire  was  dour, 

Winsome  hxd  was  he, 
Nae  meikle-mou's  for  him — 

Trailed  him  aff  to  tree. 
Meg  -she  glinted  ower, 

The  tear  was  in  her  e'e. 
Squire  melteth— "  Meg,  Ich  swear 

Ye  sail  not  murn  for  me." 
Auld  knicht  says,  "Aye? 

Gar  tak  him  doon  frae  tree." 

Then  passed  they  into  bower, 

Bride  and  maidens  three; 
Kindred  marching  a'. 

And  meikle  revelry; 
Trumpets  loud  did  blaw. 

Clarions  on  hie, 
Eang  the  rair  on  Tweed 

Of  their  minstrelsy. 
Auld  knicht  sang  aye, 

"Merry  let  us  be," 


MY  AIN  FIRESIDE. 

Mrs.  Elizabeth  Hamilton,  author  of  "The  Cottagers 
of  Gleubuniie,"  ami  various  otlier  vohimes;  born  175S, 
died  1S16.  "My  ain  Fireside"  has  shared  tlie  plague 
of  ixjpularity,  numerous  versions  of  it  having  appeared 
since  tlie  time  of  its  author. 

I  ha'e  seen  great  anes,  and  sat  in  great  ha's, 
Mang  lords  and  fine  ladies  a'  coverVi  wi'  braws; 
At  feasts  made  for  princes,  wi'  princes  I've  been, 
Whare  the  grand  shine  o'  splendour  has  dazzled 

my  een; 
But  a  sight  sae  delightfu'  I  trow  I  ne'er  .spied, 
As  the  boimie  blytho  lilink  o'  my  ain  fireside. 
My  ain  fireside,  my  ain  fireside, 

0  cheery's  the  blink  o'  my  ain  fireside. 

My  ain  fireside,  my  ain  fireside, 
0  there's  nought  to  compare  wi'  ane's  ain 
fireside. 

Anco  mair,  gude  be  thankit,  round  my  ain  heart- 
some  ingle, 
Wi'  the  friends  o'  my  youth  I  cordially  mingle; 
Nae  forms  to  compel  me  to  seem  wae  or  glad, 

1  may  laugh  when  I'm  merry,  and  sigh  when  I'm 

.sad. 
Nae  faLsehood  to  dread,  and  nae  malice  to  fear. 
But  truth  to  delight  me,  and  fricndshij)  to  cheer; 


Of  a'  roads  to  happiness  ever  were  tried. 
There's  nane  half  so  sure  as  ane's  ain  fireside. 

My  ain  fireside,  my  ain  fireside, 

0  there's  nought  to  compare  wi'  ane's  ain 
fireside. 

When  I  draw  in  my  stool  on  my  cozy  hearthstane. 
My  heart  loups  sae  light  I  scarce  ken't  for  my  ain ; 
Care's  down  on  the  wind,  it  is  clean  out  o'  sight, 
Past  troubles  they  seem  but  as  dreams  of  the 

night. 
I  hear  but  kend  voices,  kend  faces  I  see. 
And  mark  saft  affection  glint  fond  frae  ilk  e'e; 
Nae  fleetchings  o'  flattery,  nae  boastings  of  pride, 
'Tis  heart  speaks  to  heart  at  ane's  ain  fireside. 

My  ain  fireside,  my  ain  fireside, 

0  there's  nought  to  compare  wi'  ane's  ain 
fireside. 


FAITH   AND   HOPE. 

Lady  Flora  Hastings,  eldest  daughter  of  the  Marquis 
of  Hastings,  born  in  Edinburgh,  February  11,  IsOO; 
died  July  5,  18.39.  A  volume  of  her  poems,  edited  by 
her  sister  the  late  Marchioness  of  Bute,  Wiis  published 
in  1841. 

0  thou,  vfho  for  our  fallen  race 
Didst  lay  thy  crown  of  glory  by; 

And  quit  thy  heavenly  dwelling-place, 
To  clothe  thee  in  mortality. 

By  whom  our  vesture  of  decay, 

Its  frailty  and  its  pains,  were  worn; 

Who,  sinles.s,  of  our  sinful  clay 

The  burden  and  the  griefs  hast  borne. 

Who,  stainless,  bore  our  guilty  doom; 

Upon  the  cross  to  save  us  bled; 
And  who,  triumphant  from  the  tomb, 

Captivity  hast  captive  led; 

0  teach  thy  ransom'd  ones  to  know 
Thy  love  who  diedst  to  set  them  free; 

And  bid  their  torpid  .spirits  glow 
With  love  which  centres  all  in  thee. 

And  come,  triumphant  victim,  come, 
In  the  brightness  of  thy  holy  love: 

And  make  this  earth,  our  purchased  home, 
The  image  of  thy  courts  above. 

Dimly,  0  Lord,  our  feeble  eyes 
The  dawning  rays  of  glory  see: 

But  brightly  shall  the  morning  rise, 
Which  bids  creation  bend  to  thee. 

Ivise,  Sun  of  Righteousness,  and  shed 
Thy  beams  of  searching  light  abroad. 


APPENDIX. 


5^3 


That  earth  maj-  know  (licr  darkness  fled) 
Her  King  in  tliee,  incarnate  God! 

And  oh,  wliile  yet  tliy  mercy  speaks, 
So  may  the  words  of  love  prevail, 

That  when  the  morn  of  judgment  breaks, 
Jlany  may  tliine  appearing  haill 


AVHEN   AUTUMN"   COMES. 

Robert  Hogg,  a  nephew  of  the  Ettrick  Sliepherd, 
born  in  parish  of  Stobo,  Peeblesshire,  Dec.  2,  1799;  died 
in  1S34.  He  was  educated  for  the  ministry,  but  aban- 
doned that  intention,  and  became  press-reader  with  the 
Messrs.  Ballantyne  of  Edinburgh.  He  afterwards  acted 
as  literary  assistant  to  John  Gibson  Lockliait,  and  as 
amanuensis  to  Sir  Walter  Scott.  Mr.  Hogg  contributed 
largely  to  the  press  both  in  poetry  and  jirose.  His 
songs  and  ballads  liave  never  been  published  in  a  col- 
lected form ;  they  are  to  be  found  scattered  among  the 
periodicals  of  the  day,  and  some  remain  in  manuscript. 

When  autumn  comes,  an'  heather  bells 
Bloom  bonnic  ower  yon  moorland  fells. 
An'  corn  that  waves  on  lowland  dales 
Is  yellow  ripe  appearing; 

Bonnie  lassie,  will  ye  gang 
Shear  wi'  me  the  hale  day  lang; 
An'  love  will  mak'  us  eithly  bang 
The  weary  toil  o'  shearing? 

An'  if  the  lasses  should  envy, 
Or  say  we  love,  then  you  an'  I 
Will  pass  ilk  ither  slyly  by. 
As  if  we  werna  caring. 

But  aye  I  wi'  my  heuk  will  whang 
The  thistles,  if  in  prickles  Strang 
Your  bonnie  milk-white  hands  they  wrang, 
AVhen  we  gang  to  the  shearing. 

An'  aye  we'll  hand  our  rig  afore. 
An'  ply  to  hae  the  shearing  o'er, 
Syne  you  will  soon  forget  you  bore 

Your  neighbours'  jibes  and  jeering. 

For  then,  my  lassie,  we'll  be  wed, 
When  we  hae  proof  o'  ither  had. 
An'  nae  mair  need  to  mind  wiiat's  said 
When  we're  thegither  shearing. 


PEKISH   THE   LOYE. 

Lord  Francis  Jeffrey,  the  eminent  jurist  and  still 
more  distinguished  critic;  born  at  Edinburgh,  October 
-3,  1773;  died  January  "0,  1S50.     The  iirst  of  the  two 


following  pieces  Owtb  hitherto  unpublis)ied)  was  ad- 
dressed in  17'.»j  to  Miss  Mary  Grant,  the  eldest  daughter 
of  Mrs.  Grant  of  Laggan,  and  was  written  apparently 
for  the  purpose  of  reconciling  her  feelings  to  the  advice 
and  anticipations  contained  in  some  verses  sent  to 
her  the  year  previous.  The  second  j  ieco  was  written 
in  the  same  year,  and  was  addressed  to  his  cousin  Miss 
Margaret  Loudoun.  These  pieces  may  not  be  considered 
of  great  jx)etical  merit,  but  they  are  interesting  as 
mementoes  of  the  author's  early  years. 


Perish  the  love  that  deadens  young  desire, 
And  ever  curs'd  be  th:it  ungentle  hand 

That  aims  to  dump  the  fond  enthusiast's  fire, 
Or  disenchant  the  scenes  of  fairy  land. 

And  if  my  hands  with  such  disastrous  aim 
Have  hurt,  sweet  maid,  thy  gentle,  timid  breast. 

That  careless  hand  no  better  doom  .shall  claim. 
Which  has  so  ill  my  pensive  soul  expi-cst. 

For,  0!  believe  that  my  admiring  mind 
Melted  in  love  while  it  foretold  decay, 

And  bending  o'er  the  fairy  scenes,  repined 
To  think  how  soon  their  sweets  would   pass 
away. 

And  sure  my  sighs  their  fading  .should  have  stay'd. 
Not  hasted  on  the  doom  at  which  I  grieved. 

Since  ever  as  1  blessed  their  charms  I  praj'ed 
To  have  my  fond  foreboding  fears  deceived. 

The  tears  of  pity,  whose  romantic  .shower 
Falls  on  the  short-lived  lil}''s  o])ening  breast. 

May  kill  perchance  the  soft  and  tender  flower; 
But  meant  not,  sure,  its  vernal  bloom  to  waste. 

Therefore,  blest  child!  let  thy  soft  hand  again 
Awake  thy  deep  and  wildly  sounding  shell, 

And  tune  once  more  that  rude  romantic  strain. 
Whose  soothing  piow'r  my  bosom  knows  so  well! 

Nor  fear,  sweet  innocence,  that  e'er  the  muse 
Can  lead  thy  steps  from  virtue's  paths  astray; 

In  flower}^  vales  of  indolence  amu.se, 

Or  check  thy  course  in  duty's  rugged  way. 

The  fire  that  kindles  in  the  poet's  strain, 

And  that  which  glows  in  virtue's  ardent  breast, 

From   the  same  hallow'd   source  at   first  were 
drawn. 
And  still  each  other's  energy  assist. 

As  loveliest  shines  the  landscape  wdiose  survey, 
With  scenes  of  humble  joy,  enchants  the  sight. 

And  beauty  triumphs  with  the  widest  sway, 
When  health  and  innocence  their  charms  unite; 

So  from  the  breast  where  sovereign  reigns  the 
love 

Of  \-irtue  most  the  poet's  fancies  play; 
As  sainted  spirits  ever  hymn  above, 

And  angels  tune  their  golden  harps  for  ay. 


524 


APPENDIX. 


Ask  of  thyself,  when  from  thy  melting  heart 
Flow'd  in  sweet  melody  thy  simple  lay, 

Was  any  virtue  so  severe  as  start 

Indignant  from  the  lovely  tones  away  ? 

No — raptur'd   with    the    heavenly   sounds  that 
glowed 

■\Vith  tenfold  ardour  in  thy  spotless  breast, 
And  blessed  the  magic  song  that  kindling  flowed, 

With  all  their  fire  and  jjurity  possest. 

Amid  the  calm  of  closing  eve  retired, 
I  see  thee  sit,  and  in  thy  sainted  frame 

I  read  the  motions  of  thy  soul  inspired 

By  pensive  genius  and  young  virtue's  flame. 

Thy  soft  heart  burns  with  love  to  humankind, 
Thy  sweet  eyes  gleam  with  pity's  dewj'  light, 

There  forth  proceeds  the  simple  song  refined, 
SubUmed  by  virtue  to  celestial  height. 

Yet  0!  beware — and  hei-e  my  song  again 
Resumes  its  boding,  do  not  urge  the  flame 

Beyond  where  pleasure  prompts  the  happy  strain. 
In  hopes  to  win  the  high  rewards  of  fame. 

Sweet  is  its  dfiwning  ray  when  half  displayed. 
First  on  our  startled,  timid  eyes  it  falls, 

And  gilds  with  checkered  light  the  lovely  shade. 
Where  blooming  childhood  yet  delighted  dwells. 

But,  ah!  if,  won  by  this  deceitful  blaze, 

Thou  leav'st  the  shade  yon  shining  ridge  to 
gain, 

\\'hence  from  afar  the  streaming  glory  plays, 
What  long,  long  toils  and  weary  v.-ays  remain! 

Th'  imperious  glare  will  hurt  thy  modest  eye. 
And  beam  oppressive  on  thy  giddy  head. 

While  tainted  blasts  from  envious  rivalry 
Shall  oft  thy  steep  ascending  path  invade. 

Thus  baffled,  harassed,  injured,  and  afraid, 
How  shalt  thou  pour  those  rude  romantic  lays 

That  flow'd  before  as  careless  pleasure  bade. 
And  pleased  the  more  because  they  sought 
not  praise  ? 

Ah,  me!  that  lay  the  voice  of  joy  no  more 
Ambition's  rules  to  method  shall  restrain. 

And  these  wild  airs  that  won  our  hearts  before, 
Shall  never  soothe  our  mindful  ears  again ! 

Like  native  music  heard  on  foreign  hills, 

Deep  on  my  heart  thy  melting  numbers  fall; 

My  pensive  breast  with  sad  remembrance  fill. 
And  many  a  simple  childish  joy  recall. 

Such  as  thou  art,  when  in  her  first  essay 
Impatient  fancy  lifts  the  tow'ring  strain, 

Such  was  I  once — and  as  I  read  thy  lay, 
I  fondly  seem  to  be  so  once  again. 


At  every  note  a  clearer  lustre  steals 

O'er  the  dim  landscape  of  my  early  days. 

Till  full  restor'd  my  faithful  bosom  feels 
Its  youthful  ijleasures  in  thy  simple  lays. 

Again  I  seem  to  tread  the  enchanted  grove, 
Where  first  the  mvise  enflamed  my  youthful 
breast. 
And  bend  again  before  that  dawn  of  love, 

Whose  pure  mild  rays  my  trembUng  soul  pos- 
sest. 

But,  ah!  my  stream  of  life  that  sweetly  rose 
In   these   delightful   scenes,    and    long   while 
stray 'd 
Thi"o'  temperate  vales,  now  dark  and  troubled 
flows. 
Or  stagnates  idly  in  the  joyless  shade. 

From  troublous  scenes  of  care,  and  toil,  and  noise, 
And  painful  bustling  in  ambition's  ways. 

Scarce  even  this  hour  I  steal,  with  hurried  voice. 
Sweet  maid,  to  thank  thee  for  thy  lavish  praise. 

My  grateful  thanks,  blest  hannonist,  receive, 
For  much  thy  song  has  soothed  my  pensive 
breast. 

And  howsoe'er  my  hand  have  err'd,  believe 
That  still  my  heart  that  gentle  song  has  blest. 


WHILE   YET   MY  BREAST. 

While  yet  my  breast  with  fond  remembrance 
bums 

Of  all  the  joys  that  late  with  thee  I  know, 
My  vacant  fancy  pensively  returns 

At  thy  command  their  image  to  review. 

As  western  clouds  that  on  some  summit  drear 
Lean  their  loose  breasts,  and  drink  the  purple 
beams 

Which  the  sun  pours  through  the  still  summer  air. 
Just  as  he  sinks  amid  the  ocean's  streams. 

Their  towering  piles  are  bright  with  golden  dyes. 
Their  fleecy  folds  embalm'd  with  many  a  stain. 

And  tho'  the  sun  have  left  the  darksome  skies. 
Their  glittering  skirts  his  gathered  light  retain. 

So  tho'  mj'  sun  behind  the  western  hills 

Has  long  since  sunk  from  my  sad  eyes  away, 

Yet  still  my  breast  its  trcasur'd  lustre  fills, 
Nor  in  my  heart  the  secret  fires  decay. 

The  sweet  reflected  light  of  memory 

Yet  gilds  those  lovely  forms  with  tenderest 
beams, 
Wliich  still  enchant  my  fond  regretful  eye. 

And  cheat  my  fancy  with  deUghtful  dreams. 


APPENDIX. 


525 


But  thee,  sweet  maid,  the  loving  scenes  surround. 

Whose  pale  remembrance  warms   my   lonely 

heart; 

And  near  thee  still  those  lovely  forms  are  found, 

From  which  my  lingei-ing  feet  were  forced  to 

part, 

0  long-loved  scenes!     0  objects  long  adored! 

Could  I  so  soon  have  bade  you  all  adieu, 
Had  not  remembrance  faithfully  restored 

Yom-  shadow'd  beauties  to  my  soften'd  view. 

Yes,  fond  remembrance  oft  on  you  shall  dwell, 
Tho'  I,  perhaps,  am  (|uite  forgotten  there. 

And  oft  my  heart  with  warm  emotion  swell, 
Tho'  no  soft  heart  that  warm  emotion  share. 

With  fond  regret  my  melting  soul  reviews 

The  simjile  scenes  which  cheered  its  happy 
morn, 

When,  waked  with  love  and  innocence,  my  muse 
Amid  the  roses  of  the  spring  was  born. 

There  too,  accomplished  maid,  my  wandering 
eyes 

Saw  beauty  dawning  in  thine  infant  cheek. 
Saw  day  by  day  some  riper  charm  arise. 

And  softer  meaning  in  each  dimple  speak. 

With  what  delight  I  saw  thy  beauties  rise 

Like  vernal  buds,  that  thro'  the  glittering  dew 

Slow  bursting  show  their  soft  and  tender  dyes, 
And  opening  kindle  in  the  enchanting  view. 

With  what  delight  even  now  returns  my  mind 
To  those  blest  days  that  flew  so  fast  away. 

As  if  it  hoped  in  memory  to  find 

The  living  image  of  those  scenes  so  gay. 

As  one  who  wanders  sadly  by  the  roar 

Of  some  broad  stream  whose  public  waters  glow 

With  swarming  keels  from  many  a  distant  shore, 
Feels  from  his  heart  his  blood  enlightened  flow; 

When  far  behind  that  sordid  scene  he  leaves, 
And  winding  upwards  sees  the  peaceful  groves, 

Low  bending  o'er  the  clear  sequester'd  stream. 
And  grots  and  shadows  that  his  fancy  loves: 

So  as  I  backward  cast  my  weaiy  eye. 

Along  the  stream  of  time  with  bursting  tears, 

These  lovely  vales  of  childhood  I  espy. 

Thro'  which  unstained  it  flowed  in  other  years. 

And  there,  where  memory  most  delights  to  dwell, 
The  sweetest  scene  of  all  her  pilgrimage; 

Thine  infant  graces  open  to  foretell 
The  higher  beauties  of  thy  riper  age! 

O  lovely  child,  whose  pure  accomplished  frame 
Is  as  the  shrine  of  innocence,  whose  breast 

Suspicion  never  chilled,  whose  cheek  dark  shame 
Has  never  flushed— nor  care  thine  eyes  deprest. 


Hope  not  for  greater  happiness — the  days 
Of  future  years  may  see  thee  yet  possest 

Of  greater  beautj'  or  of  wisdom's  praise, 
But  not  more  lovely — No!  nor  half  so  blest! 

And  yet  forgive  tho  muse  whose  pensive  gloom 
Has  stained  the  brightness  of  a  soul  so  gay, 

And  chilled  awhile  thy  youth's  unfolding  bloom, 
With  the  dull  maxims  of  the  serious  lay. 

Believe  that  fancy's  sportive  shadows  fly 
Where  true  affection  lifts  her  solemn  strain; 

And  rarely  frolic  in  her  pensive  eye 

The  playful  shapes  that  grace  the  muse's  strain. 

Nor  will  T  mix  the  monitory  strain, 
To  thee  w  hose  soul  is  pure  as  those  mild  airs 

That  fanned  the  flowers  in  Eden,  which  in  vain 
My  praise  would  reach,  but  trembles  as  it  dares. 

And  now,  farewell,  sweet  maid!  my  artless  hand 
For  thee  a  rude  unseemly  wreath  has  twined. 

And  in  obedience  to  thy  dear  command 
The  glaring  tints  of  flattery  declined. 

And  I  believe  that  not  with  idle  show, 

To  please  thine  eyes,  or  win  delusive  praise 

For  courtly  sounds,  thus  negligently  flow 

From  my  full  heart  these  harsh  unpolished  lays. 

The  only  merit  of  my  simple  lines 

Is  that  their  author  felt  the  scenes  he  drew; 
And  all  reward  he  steadfastly  declines. 

But  that  you  hold  his  painting  to  be  true. 


LINES   TO   THE   MEMORY   OF   A 
BELOVED   WIFE. 

Ellen  Johnston,  the  "Factory  Girl,"  born  in  Hamil- 
ton,  Lanarkshire,  wliere  lier  father  worked  as  a  mason. 
She  became  well  known  llirougliout  Scotlaml  by  lier 
poetical  efi'usions,  which  appeareil  in  several  of  the 
weekly  newspapers.  Along  with  Janet  Hamilton  the 
Coatbridge  poetess,  she  received  a  gift  of  £.iO  from  the 
royal  bonuty  fund.  A  volume  of  her  "Poems  and 
Songs"  was  jniblished  in  ISOO,  containing  some  pieces 
of  considerable  merit.  Miss  Johnston  was  unfortunate 
in  life,  and  latterly  became  an  inmate  of  the  Barony 
poorhouse,  Glasgow,  where  she  ilied  in  1.S73,  at  an  early 
age.  Rev.  George  Gilfillan  says:  — "Her  rhymes  are 
highly  creditable  to  her  heart  and  head  too:  they  are 
written  always  with  fluency,  and  often  with  sweetness." 

Thou  art  gone,  my  loved  and  loving, 
Tiiou  hast  vanished  from  this  earth 

Like  an  angel  spirit  moving 
Through  the  glory  of  its  worth. 

Though  each  coming  morrow  bringeth 
Dark  shadows  o'er  my  doom, 


526 


APPENDIX. 


Thy  hallow'd  memory  flingetli  . 
A  sunshine  o'er  my  gloom. 

Thou  sleep' st  thy  dreamless  slumber 

In  the  gloomy  vale  of  death, 
My  sighs  thou  canst  not  number, 

For  still's  thy  balmy  breath 
That  oft  came  stealing  o'er  me. 

And  made  my  heart  rejoice; 
When  care-clouds  lowered  before  me, 

Tliou  dispelled  them  witli  thy  voice. 

The  sun  awakes  in  gladness, 

And  hails  the  dark  blue  sea; 
But  he  cannot  cheer  my  sadness. 

Nor  bring  each  joy  to  me. 
His  golden  crest  is  blazing 

On  sweet  Clutha's  silvery  Avave, 
Whilst  sadly  I  am  gazing 

Ou  my  Mary's  silent  grave. 

In  fancy  I  behold  thee 

.Still  blooming  in  thy  pride. 
As  when  first  I  did  enfold  thee, 

My  lovely  chosen  bride, 
When  I  led  thee  from  the  altar 

In  the  happy  long-ago. 
With  love  that  ne'er  did  falter. 

Still  the  same  in  joy  or  woe. 

All  in  vain  now  I  deplore  thee. 

And  heave  the  burning  sigh, 
For  I  never  can  restore  tiiee 

From  thy  home  beyond  the  sky. 
I  knoAv  thou'rt  there,  my  Mary, 

Thy  spirit  beckons  me, 
And  bids  me  not  to  tarr\-, 

13ut  haste  and  come  to  tliec. 

Wlicn  my  last  sad  task  is  ended 

In  tliis  world  of  busy  strife; 
Wlien  my  dust  with  thine  is  blended, 

My  dear,  beloved  wife; 
Tiie  world  siiall  tell  my  story 

Wlien  death  this  form  enfolds 
In  literary  glory, 

Where  my  name  was  long  enrolled. 

Fare-thee-well,  my  gentle  Mary, 

I'll  sec  thy  form  no  more 
Glide  past  me  like  a  i'airy 

Of  dreamland's  sunny  shore. 
When  life's  silver  links  arc  riven. 

Oh  may  we  meet  on  liigh. 
In  the  bright  realms  of  Heaven, 

IJeyond  tiie  starry  sky, 

Where  love  can  never  die. 


ANNAN'S  WINDING  STREAM. 

Stuart  Lewis,  born  in  Ecclesfechan,  Dumfriesshire, 
about  1756;  died  Sept.  '2'2,  1S18.  He  was  the  author  of 
a  small  volume  entitled  "  The  African  Slave,  with  otlier 
I'oems  and  Songs."  He  led  a  strangely  chequered  life, 
and  for  many  yeais  before  his  death  was  a  wanderer 
over  the  country,  partly  supporting  himself  by  the  sale 
of  his  poems,  but  mainly  dependent  on  the  casual 
assistance  of  the  benevolent. 

On  Annan's  banks,  in  life's  gay  morn, 

I  tuned  "my  wood-notes  wild;" 
I  sung  of  flocks  and  floAv'ry  plains, 

Like  nature's  simple  child. 
Some  talked  of  wealth — I  heard  of  fam?, 

But  thought  'twas  all  a  dream, 
For  dear  I  loved  a  village  maid 

By  Annan's  winding  stream. 

The  dew-bespangled  blushing  rose. 

The  garden's  joy  and  pride. 
Was  ne'er  so  fragrant  nor  so  fair 

As  her  I  wish'd  ni}'  bride. 
The  sparkling  radiance  of  her  eye 

Was  bright  as  Phoebus'  beam; 
Each  grace  adorn'd  my  village  maid 

By  Annan's  winding  stream. 

But  war's  shrill  clarion  fiercely  blew — 

The  sound  alarm'd  mine  ear; 
My  country's  wrongs  call'd  for  redress — 

Could  I  my  aid  forbear? 
No;  soon,  in  warlike  garb  array'd, 

AVith  arms  tiiat  bright  did  gleam, 
I  sigh'd,  and  left  my  village  maid 

By  Annan's  winding  stream. 

Perhaps  blest  peace  may  soon  return. 

With  all  her  smiling  train; 
For  Britain's  conquests  still  proclaim 

Her  sovereign  of  the  main. 
Whene'er  that  wish'd  event  appears, 

I'll  hail  the  auspicious  gleam, 
And  haste  to  clasp  my  village  maid 

Near  xVnnan's  winding  stream. 


XEIL  GOW'S  FAREWELL  TO  WHISKY. 

Mrs.  Agnes  Lyon,  bom  at  Dundee  in  17G2;  died 
Sept.  14,  1810.  She  wrote  this  song  at  the  request  of 
the  celebrated  Neil  Gow,  to  accompany  an  air  composed 
by  him.  Mrs.  Lyon  bccjiieathed  to  a  relative  four  manu- 
script volumes  of  her  poetry,  which  have  nut  been 
published. 

You've  surely  beard  of  famous  Neil, 
The  man  who  play'd  the  fiddle  wcel; 
He  was  a  heartsome  merry  chicl. 
And  wecl  he  lo'ed  the  whisky,  0! 


APPENDIX. 


517 


For  e'er  tiince  he  wore  the  tartan  hose 
He  dearly  liket  Atkole  hrose.'^ 
And  grievfed  was,  you  may  suppose, 
To  bid  "  Farewell  to  whisky,"  0! 

Alas!  says  Xeil,  Fm  frail  and  auld, 
And  whiles  my  hame  is  unco  cauld; 
I  think  it  makes  me  blythe  and  bauld, 

A  wee  drap  Highland  whisky,  0! 
But  a  the  doctors  do  agree 
That  whisky's  no  the  drink  for  me; 
Fm  fley'd  they'll  gar  me  tyne  my  glee, 

By  parting  me  and  whisky,  0! 

But  I  should  mind  on  "auld  langsyne," 
How  paradise  our  friends  did  tyne, 
Because  something  ran  in  their  mind — 

Forbid— like  Highland  whisky,  0! 
AVhilst  I  can  get  good  wine  and  ale, 
And  find  my  heart  and  fingers  hale, 
ril  be  content,  though  legs  should  fail, 

And  though  forbidden  whisky,  0 ! 

Fll  tak'  my  fiddle  in  my  hand. 

And  screw  its  strings  whilst  they  can  stand, 

And  mak'  a  lamentation  grand 

For  guid  auld  Highland  whisky,  01 
Oh!  all  ye  powers  of  music,  come. 
For,  'deed,  I  think  Fm  mighty  glum, 
My  fiddle-strings  will  hardly  bum. 

To  say  "  Farewell  to  whisky,"  0! 


THE  SEA  OF  GALILEE. 

Rev.  Roloert  Murray  MCheyne,  bom  in  Eilin- 
burgh,  May  '21,  1S13;  became  minister  of  St.  Peter's, 
Dundee,  where  he  died,  after  a  short  illness,  March  25, 
1 843.  He  was  the  author  of  various  religious  poems,  and 
one  of  the  most  earnest  of  modern  Scottish  preachers. 

How  pleasant  to  me  thy  deep-blue  wave, 

0  Sea  of  Galilee! 
For  the  glorious  One,  who  came  to  save. 

Hath  often  stood  by  thee. 

Fair  are  the  lakes  in  the  land  I  love, 
Where  pine  and  heather  grow; 

But  thou  hast  loveliness  far  above 
AVhat  nature  can  bestow. 

It  is  not  that  the  wild  gazelle 
Comes  down  to  drink  thy  tide; 

But  He  that  was  pierced  to  save  from  bell 
Oft  wandered  by  thy  side. 


It  is  not  that  the  fig- tree  grows, 

And  palms,  in  thy  soft  air, 
But  that  Sharon's  fair  and  bleeding  Rose 

Once  spread  its  fragrance  there. 

Graceful  around  thee  the  mountains  meet, 

Thou  calm  reposing  sea; 
But  ah!  far  more  the  beautiful  feet 

Of  Jesus  walked  o'er  there. 

These  days  are  past:  Bethsaida,  where  \ 

Chorazin,  whei'e  art  thou  ? 
His  tent  the  wild  Arab  pitches  there. 

The  wild  reed  shades  thy  brow. 

Tell  me,  ye  mouldering  fragments,  tell, 

AVas  the  Saviour's  city  here? 
Lifted  to  heaven,  has  it  sunk  to  hell, 

■\Vith  none  to  shed  a  tear? 

Ah!  would  my  flock  from  thee  might  learn 

How  days  of  grace  will  flee; 
How  all  an  off'ered  Christ  who  spurn, 

Shall  mourn  at  last  like  thee. 

And  was  it  beside  this  very  sea 

The  new-risen  Saviour  said 
Three  times  to  Simon,  "  Lovest  thou  me? 

My  lambs  and  sheep  then  feed?" 

0  Saviour!  gone  to  God's  right  hand. 

Yet  the  same  Saviour  still; 
Graved  on  thy  heart  is  this  lovely  strand. 

And  every  fragrant  bill. 

0!  give  me,  Lord,  by  this  sacred  wave. 

Threefold  thy  love  divine, 
That  I  may  feed,  till  I  find  my  grave, 

Thy  flock— both  thine  and  mine. 


1  A  mixture  of  whisky  and  honey,  of  which  the  poor 
violinist  was  somewhat  too  fond.— Ed. 


ISABELLE:  A  LEGEND  OF  FROYENCE. 

Alexander  Macduff  of  Bonhard,  Perthshire;  died 
in  180(5,  aged  forty  nine.  He  studied  at  Edinburgh 
Univei-sity,  and  was  distinguished  for  proficiency  in  ma- 
thematics and  the  physical  sciences.  Jlr.  Macduff  choso 
the  profession  of  a  writer  to  the  signet.  His  business 
talents  were  combined  witli  many  other  accomplish- 
ments, and  his  acquaintance  with  general  literature 
was  very  considerable.  Tlie  fallowing  lines  (extracted 
among  othei-s  from  a  man\iscript  volume  found  at  his 
deatlCand  which  have  been  transcril.eil  by  his  brother 
the  Rev.  J.  R.  Macduff,  D.D.,  in  his  "  Gates  of  Praise"), 
will  testify  that  he  i»ssessed  some  share  of  the  jioetic 
gift.  Shortly  before  his  prematiire  removal  from  a  life 
of  influence  and  usefulness,  Mr.  Macduff  was  elected  a 
Fellow  of  the  Royal  Society  of  Edinburgh. 

An  aged  man,  with  tresses  gray, 
AVhose  eyes  bespoke  familiar  tears, 


528 


APPENDIX. 


'With  trembling  lips  poured  forth  this  lay 
To  sympathizing  ears: — 

"Oh!  many  a  sweet  beguiles  the  bee 
In  gay  Pi-ovence's  lovely  bowers, 
And  roses  garland  many  a  tree 

Entwined  with  fragrant  fljwers. 

In  light  festoons,  the  clustering  vine 
O'ercauopies  the  sylvan  glade, 
And  countless  flow'rets  gaily  shine 
Beneath  its  graceful  shade. 

The  hum  of  glittering  insect  Aving 
AVakes  music  in  these  fairy  groves, 
And  nightingales  delight  to  sing, 
In  silvery  notes,  their  loves.' 

I've  seen  that  land  of  beauty  dressed 
In  radiant  summer's  mantle  green, 
And  oft  does  pensive  memory  rest 
Upon  each  witching  scene! 

But  sacred  above  all  the  themes, 
On  which  in  lonely  hours  I  dwell, 
Is  she  whose  image  haunts  my  dreams — 
The  gentle  Isabelle! 

Oft  had  I  blessed  the  path  I  took 
That  led  me  to  her  cottage  door; 
^Methought  it  wore  a  hallowed  look 
I  ne'er  had  seen  before. 

The  aged  father  welcomed  me 
Within  his  humble,  peaceful  cot, 
And  bade  his  duteous  daughter  see 
My  wants  were  not  forgot. 

"Oh  yes,"  she  answered,  "father  dear, 
I'll  make  a  fragrant  flowery  bed. 
And  welcome  is  the  stranger  here 
To  rest  his  weary  head." 

Away  slie  tripped,  with  noiseless  tread, 
As  if  some  Heavenly  Being  fair 
Had  left  the  regions  of  the  dead 
To  dwell  with  mortals  there. 

I  gazed  upon  the  spot,  where  she 
Had  nimbly  vanished  from  my  sight. 
The  old  man  marked  my  ecstasy 
And  smiled  with  fond  delight. 

"Thou'rt  right,"  he  said,  in  accents  mild — 
"Yes,  by  my  troth,  thou  Judgest  Avcll, 
She  is  indeed  a  blessed  child 
My  darling  Isabelle! 

"She  is  my  sole  surviving  friend, 
All  other  joys  from  me  are  fled; 


And  she  alone  is  left,  to  tend 
Her  aged  father's  head: 

"The  angel  of  my  closing  years. 
In  undeserved  mercy  given. 
To  guide,  amid  this  vale  of  tears, 
My  feeble  steps — to  heaven!" 

Oft  I  recall  the  guileless  jo_y 
In  which  that  summer  glided  by! 
As  cloudless  as  the  canopy 
Of  fair  Provence's  sky. 

The  hour  of  prayer  together  spent. 
Adoring  Him  in  accents  meet, 
When  Avith  united  hearts  we  bent 
Before  the  Mercy-seat! 

Who  can  describe  the  hymn  of  praise. 
Its  soft  and  silvery  sweetness  tell. 
Poured  from  her  lips  in  holiest  lays 
As  evening  shadows  fell. 

ITow  shall  I  paint  the  thornless  bliss 
In  which  the  fleeting  hours  went  past. 
Mid  joys— in  such  a  world  as  this — ■ 
Too  exquisite  to  last] 

Methinks  I  see  the  trembling  tear 
Which  stole  from  eyes  unused  to  sorrow. 
When  first  I  whispered  in  her  ear, 
"  We  part — upon  the  morrow!" 

The  old  man  raised  his  withered  head. 
And  gazed  upon  the  azure  sky: 
Then — "Fare  thee  well  awhile,"  he  said, 
"  We  yet  shall  meet — on  high!" 

"Kay — speak  not  thus,  my  father  dear. 
But  one  short  yea?'  away" — and  then, 
"Make  promise — thou  wilt  wander  here, 
And  visit  us  again. 

"Daily  I'll  watch  thy  favourite  vine 
Put  forth  its  verdant  shade  of  leaves. 
And  train  its  tendrils  to  entAvine 
And  trellis  all  the  eaves. 

"Fondly  I'll  note,  when  budding  flowers 
O'erhang  thy  favourite  Avindow-scat;  — 
And  eager  count  the  passing  hours 
Until,  at  length,  we  meet! 

"Oh,  quickly  speed  thee  back  again! 
And  noAv,"  she  cried,  "a  fond  farewell! 
Soon  Avill  a  year  elapse :^ — till  then 
Remember  Isabelle!" 

Even  noAv,  methinks,  her  parting  words. 
As  if  prolonged  by  magic  spell. 


APPENDIX. 


529 


Still  vibrate  on  my  spirit's  chords 
"Remember  Isabelle!" 


The  tedious  years  at  length  went  past: 
Again  I  reached  a  foreign  shore : 
AVith  joyful  steps,  I  trode  at  last 
Trovence's  soil  once  more. 

I  stood  upon  a  vine-clad  spot 
O'erhauging  yon  romantic  dell, 
AVhere  stands  the  lone  sequestered  cot 
That  sheltered  Isabelle. 

The  balmy  breath  of  summer  eve 
(Exhaled  from  many  a  fragrant  flower), 
Seemed  to  my  fancy  to  receive 

Fresh  sweetness  in  that  hour. 

With  eager  steps,  I  culled  a  flower, 
And  quickly  cleared  the  briery  brake, 
"And  here,"  said  I,  "we'll  form  a  bower 
Beside  that  fairy  lake." 

■\Vhat  though  the  gathering  clouds  at  lat 
Were  shrouding  all  the  sunset  sky. 
And  evenings  hues  were  yielding  fast 
To  the  fair  moon  on  high  1 

I  knew  the  scenes  of  former  days, 
Familiar  every  nook  to  me; 
The  names  of  all  the  friendly  fays 
That  owned  each  haunted  tree  ! 

Each  blooming  plant  that  smiled  around, 
Each  ivied  root— each  grassy  swell; 
"For  oft  I've  trode  the  hallowed  ground 
With  her  I  loved  so  well. 

"The  rose-slip  on  the  churchyard  wall 
Has  now  become  a  verdant  tree, 
The  orange-plants  are  now  grown  tall, 
Can  time  have  altered  thee? 

"Oh  yes,"  methought,  "thine  eye  will  show 
A  deeper  shade  of  heavenly  blue. 
Thy  cheek  will  have  a  ruddier  glow- 
Tinged  with  a  brighter  hue. 

"Thy  hair  in  richer  tresses  shine, 
Thy  voice  have  lost  its  childish  tone; 
But  still,  thy  faithful  heart  is  mine — 
My  beautiful:  my  own!" 

I  trode  the  path  along  the  dell, 
Down  by  the  spreading  churchyard  tree, 
Beneath  whose  shade  my  Isabelle 
First  pledged  her  troth  to  me  I 

Vol.  II. — L  l 


I  passed  the  holy  precincts,  where 
I!er  sainted  mother's  ashes  lay: 
The  moonlight  cold  was  shaded  there, 
Across  my  grave-strewn  way. 

On  new-laid  turf,  with  daisies  fair. 
The  chilly  moonbeams  gently  fell: 
But  what:  oh: — what  was  ijraven  there! 
"Kemembek  Isabelle!" 


OX  THE  DEATH  OF  WELLINGTON. 

Hugh  Buchanan  MacPhail,  bom  in  Glasgow  July 
•2t).  1S17.  He  was  brought  up  ami  educated  .it  Old 
Kilpatrick,  on  the  bunks  of  the  Clyde;  afterwards  held 
various  situations  throughout  the  country,  and  tinally 
settled  in  liis  native  city.  A  love  attachment  in  early 
life  first  inspired  his  muse,  the  fruit*  of  which  appeared 
in  a  volume  entitled  Lyrics:  Luve,  Fretihim,  and  MuhI;/ 
IndeiienJence.  published  in  ISoti.  Mr.  MacPhail  is  also 
the  author  of  the  Suprtmucy  of  IVomtin,  .and  is  well 
known  for  his  advocacy  of  the  rightj  of  the  fair  sex. 

Wail  for  the  dead!  the  mighty 's  gone, 
At  last  by  death  was  forced  to  yield; 

A  brighter  star  hath  never  shone 
Upon  this  world  in  battle-field. 

The  conqueror  of  conquerors  be — 

High  was  the  mission  to  him  given — 

Xot  to  enslave,  but  make  man  free. 

That  was  the  voice  to  him  from  heaven: 

As  brave  have  fought,  and  bled,  and  died, 
Their  country  from  oppression  save. 

And  all  the  tyrant's  power  defied. 
And  welcomed  freedom  or  the  grave; 

But  for  his  like  we  look  in  vain. 
No  equal  his  on  history's  page — 

The  chief  of  chiefs,  the  man  of  men, 
As  warrior,  statesman,  saint,  and  sage. 

Sweet  Erin!  England  cannot  claim 

This  matchless  one,  nor  Scotia's  shore — 

While  living  an  unbounded  fame. 
And  now,  till  time  shall  be  no  more! 

Sleep,  warrior,  sleep:  with  Nelson  lie, 
Your  names  will  nerve  our  inmost  heart, 

Should  e'er  renewed  the  battle  cry 
For  freedom:  and  new  life  impart: 

Your  names;  a  spell  on  field  or  main, 
Wiiere'er  the  British  flag's  unfurled. 

Till  universal  i)eace  shall  reign. 

And  war  be  banished  from  the  world. 


530 


APPENDIX. 


A   CHRISTMAS  REVERIE. 

Lieut.  John  Malcolm,  born  in  the  Orkneys,  Dec.  30, 
1795;  died  Sept.  1S:'5.  He  served  as  a  volunteer  in  the 
Peninsular  war,  and  was  severely  wounded  at  the  battle 
of  Toulouse.  On  leaving  the  army  he  took  up  his  resi- 
dence in  Edinburgh,  and  became  a  constant  contributor 
of  verse  and  prose  to  the  Edinburgli  )y'eekii/  Journal, 
Literary  Journal,  CoiistaOle's  Miscdlany,  and  the  An- 
nuals so  common  in  those  days.  From  1831  till  his 
death  he  was  editor  of  the  Edinhnrfjh  Observer  news- 
paper. In  182S  he  published  Scenes  of  War  and  other 
Poems,  followed  by  the  Buccaneer  and  other  Potms. 
Lieut.  Malcolm  was  remarkable  for  his  gentle  and  un- 
assuming manners,  and  was  a  very  general  favourite  in 
the  literary  circles  of  Edinburgh. 

The  knell  of  night — the  chime 

Deep,  dreamy,  and  sublime, 
Far  sounding,  like  the  boom  of  ocean  waves — 

Seems  unto  Fancy's  ear 

Of  the  departing  year 
The  farewell,  pealing  from  the  place  of  graves. 

There — all  that  wake  shall  sleep — 

A  hundred  years  shall  sweep 
Into  the  land  of  silence  and  of  shade 

All  li\nng  things  that  dwell 

In  this  fail'  day — to  swell 
The  cold  pale  generations  of  the  dead. 

A  hundred  years  shall  close 

All  present  joys  and  woes; 
Lay  kings  and  conquerors  down,  with  banners 
furl'd— 

Earth's  pageantry  and  pride. 

And  power  and  glory  hide — 
And  blench  the  beauteous  roses  of  the  world. 

All  voices  now  that  fill 

The  sky,  shall  then  be  still — 
An  awful  hush  succeed  the  mighty  hum  — 

All  sounds  of  moan  and  mirth. 

Now  ringing  o'er  the  earth 
In  one  vast  mingled  chorus,  shall  be  dumb. 

Tlie  cloud  .shall  then  sit  deep 

Upon  the  dreamless  sleep 
Of  all  the  race  of  beauty's  radiant  forms — 

The  smiles  be  dimm'd  and  gone. 

And  closed  the  eyes  that  shone 
To  light  our  spirits  o'er  this  land  of  storms. 

And  peace  shall  balm  each  breast, 

And  universal  rest 
This  mo\-iiig  scene  shall  close,  and  that  dark  bourn, 

Life's  final  goal,  be  gain'd. 

Its  cup  of  trembling  drain'd 
By  all  that  now  beneath  the  sun  sojourn. 


MAGGY  MACLANE. 

James  Mayne,  a  native  of  Glasgow,  and  nephew  of 
the  author  of  "The  Siller  Gun."  He  died  in  1S42,  in 
the  island  of  Trinidad,  where  he  had  gone  some  years 
lireviously  to  edit  a  newspaper.  Tins  admirable  song  was 
first  published  in  1S35  in  the  Glasgow  Journal  of  Gene- 
ral Ldcrature, 

Doon  i'  the  glen  by  the  lown  o'  the  trees, 

Lies  a  wee  theeket  bield,  like  a  bike  for  the  bees; 

But  the  hinnie  there  skepp'd — gin  ye're  no  dour 

to  please — 

It's  virgin  Miss  Maggy  Maclane! 
There's  few  seek  Meg's  shed  noo,  the  simmer  sun 

jookin'; 
It's  aye  the  dry  floor,  Meg's — the  day  e'er  sae 

drookin' ! 
But  the  heather-blabs  hing  whare  the  red  blude's 

been  shooken 
I'  bruilzies  for  Maggy  Maclane ! 

Doon  by  Meg's  howf -tree  the  gowk  comes  to  woo ; 

But  the  corncraik's  aye  fiey'd  at  her  hallan-door 
joo! 

An'  the  redbreast  ne'er  cheeps  but  the  weird's  at 
his  mou'. 

For  the  last  o'  the  roses  that's  gane! 

Nae    trj-stin'   at    Meg's    noo — nae    Hallowe'en 
rockins! 

Nae    howtowdie    guttlens  —  nae    mart-puddin' 
yockins ! 

Nae  bane  i'  the  blast's  teeth  blaws  snell  up  Glen- 
dock  ens! 

Clean  bickers  wi'  Maggy  Maclane ! 

Meg's  auld  lyart  gutcher  swarf'd  dead  i'  the 

shawe; 
Her  bein,  fouthy  minnie, — she's  aff  an'  awa'! 
The  gray  on  her  pow  but  a  simmerly  snaw! — 

The  couth}',  cosh  Widow  Maclane! 
0  titties  be  ten  tie!  though  air  i'  the  day  wi'  ye, — 
Think  that  the  green  grass  may  ae  day  be  haj- 

wi'  ye!— 
Think  o'  the  leal  minnie — mayna  be  aye  wi'  ye ! 
When  sabbin'  for  Maggy  Maclane. 

Lallan'  joes — Hielan'  joes — Meg  ance  had  wale; 

Fo'k  wi'  the  siller,  and  chiefs  wi'  the  tail  I 

The  yaud  left  the  burn  to  drink  out  o'  Meg's  pail : 

The  sheltie  braw  kcnt  "  the  ]Maclane." 
Awa'    owre    the    muir    they    cam'    stottin'   an' 

stoicherin' ! 
Tramper  an'  traveller,  a'  beakin'  an'  broicherin'! 
Cadgers  an'  cuddj'-creels,  oigherin'! — hoigherin'! 
"  The  lanlowpers!" — quo'  Maggj'  Maclane. 

Cowtes  were  to  fother : — Meg  owre  the  bum  flang! 
Nowte  were  to  tether:— Meg  through  the  wood 
rang! 


APPENDIX. 


531 


The  widow  she  kenn'd-na  to  bless  or  to  bann !        ' 

Sic  waste  o'  glide  wooers  to  hain ! 
Yet,  aye  at  the  souter,  Meg  grumph'd  her!  an' 

grumph'd  her! 
The  loot-shouther'd  wabster,  she  humph'd  her! 

and  humph'd  her! 
The  lamiter  tailor,  she  stump'd  her!  an'  stump'd 
her! 

Her  minnie  might  groo  or  graac! 

The  tailor  he  likit  cockleckie  broo; 
An'  doon  he  cam'  wi'  a  beck  an'  a  boo: — 
Quo'  Meg — "  We'se  sune  tak'  the  clecken  aff 
you;"- 

An'  plump  i'  the  burn  he's  gane ! 
The  widow's  cheek  redden'd;  her  heart  it  play'd 

thud!  aye; 
Her  garters  she  cuist  roun'  his  neck  like  a  wuddie! 
She  linkit  him  oot;  but  wi'  wringin'  his  duddies. 

Her  weed-ring  it's  burst  in  twain ! 

Wowf  was  the  widow — to  haud  nor  to  bing! 
The  tailor  he's  aff,  an'  he's  coft  a  new  ring! 
The  deil  squeeze  his  craig's  no  wordy  the  string ! — 

He's  waddet  auld  Widow  Maclane ! 
Auld? — an'  a  bride!    Na,  ye'd  pitied  the  tea-pat! 
O  saut  were  the  skadyens!  but  balm's  in  Glen- 

livat! 
The  haggis  was  bockiu'  oot  bluters  o'  bree-fat. 

An'  hotch'd  to  the  piper  its  lane! — 

Doon  the  burnside,  i'  the  lown  o'  the  glen, 
Meg  reists  her  bird-lane,  i'  a  but-au'-a-ben: 
Steal  doon  when  ye  dow, — i'  the  dearth,  gentle- 
men,— ■ 

Ye'se  be  awmous  to  Jlaggy  Maclane ! 
Lane  banks  the   virgin — nae   white   pows  now 

keekin' 
Through  key-hole  an'  cranny;    nae  cash  blade 

Stan's  sleekin' 
His  nicherin'  naigie,  his  gaudaraous  seekin'! 
Alack  for  the  days  that  are  gane! 

Lame's  fa'n  the  souter! — some  steek  i'  his  thie! 
The  cooper's  clean  gyte,  wi'  a  hoopin'  coughee! 
The  smith's  got  sae  blin'— wi'  a  spunk  i'  his  e'e! — 

He's  tyned  glint  o'  Maggy  Maclane ! 
Meg  brake   the   kirk   pew-door —Auld   Bcukie 

leuk'd  near-na  her! 
She  dunkled  her  pattie — Young  Sneckie  ne'er 

speir'd  for  her ! 
But  the  warst's  when  the  wee  mouse  leuks  out, 

wi'  a  tear  to  her, 

Frae  the  meal-kist  o'  Maggy  Maclane! 


THE  COTTAR'S  SAXG. 

Andrew  Mercer,  born  at  Selkirk  in  1775;  died  in 
Duufermline,  June  11,  1842.      He  was  the  ultimate 


associate  of  Dr.  John  Leyden,  and  Dr.  A.  Murray 
afterwjirdi  profe-ssor  of  oriental  languages,  and  contri- 
buted like  them  various  essays  in  jirose  and  vei-se 
to  the  Edinljurgk  and  Scots  Muffaziuts.  To  liis  liter- 
ary jiursuits  lie  conjoined  a  love  of  art.,  and  devoted 
himself  to  drawing  and  jainting  miniatures,  but 
never  attained  to  great  eminence.  Mr.  Mercer  wjis  a 
man  of  gentle  and  amiable  manners  and  uiKiuestioned 
talent.  He  ultimately  settled  at  Dunfermline,  where  for 
many  years  he  lived  by  teaching,  a  id  drawing  patterns 
for  the  damask  manufacturers.  He  imblisheil  a  history 
of  Du7ifermline  and  of  its  celebrated  abbey  in  1S2S,  and 
ten  years  later  a  small  coUectiou  of  poems  entitled 
SuiMiier  Months  araong  the  Mountains. 

The  hair.st  now  is  owre. 

An'  the  stacks  are  a'  theckit; 
The  barn-yard  is  fu". 

An'  the  vett's  fairly  steekit. 
The  potatoes  are  np. 

An'  are  a'  snugly  pitted ; 
The  crap  o'  the  puir  man 

For  winter  fare  fitted. 

0  how  happy  the  hynd 

Wha's  laid  in  for  the  winter, 
Wi'  his  eldin  an'  meal. 

His  cow  an'  bit  grantor. 
Though  he  toil  a'  tlie  day, 

Tlirough  the  cauld  sleety  weather, 
By  his  ingle  at  e'en 

It's  forgot  a'  tbcgithcr. 

Sync  the  bairns  are  drappin'  in 

Frae  the  neist  farm-steadins, 
To  claver  owre  the  new.s, 

Or  speak  o'  new  cleadins: 
Ilk  ane  tells  his  tale. 

The  day's  simple  story; 
An'  the  cottar's  fireside 

Is  a'  in  its  glory! 

The  Jofkics  and  Jennies 

Are  joking  and  jeering, 
An'  proud  o'  the  braws 

Tiiey  ha'e  won  at  the  shearing. 
An'  courtsliip  is  rife, 

An'  ilk  look  has  a  meaning, 
As  an  e'e  meets  an  e'e. 

In  the  edge  o'  the  e'ening. 

There's  love  in  ilka  lane, 

In  ilka  fine  gloamin'; 
An'  bridals  there  will  be 

At  Martinmas  coining. 
Their  minds  are  a'  made  up, 

An'  a'  thing  looks  chcerie; 
0  lang  may  it  last, — 

Ilk  lad  wi'  his  dearie. 


532 


APPENDIX. 


ALWYN:  A  ROMANCE  OF  STUDY. 

(extracts.  ) 

James  C.  Moffat,  born  in  Glencree,  Gallowayshire, 
>Iay  30,  ISll;  professor  of  church  history  in  the  Tlieo- 
logical  Seminary  at  Princeton,  New  Jersey.  Dr.  Moffat 
is  the  author  of  a  small  volume  of  miscellaneous  poems 
and  several  volumes  of  prose.  "  Alwyn"  is  a  poem  in 
seven  cantos,  published  in  New  York  in  1ST6.  It 
describes  the  )jrogress  of  the  mind  of  a  Scottish  shep- 
herd-boy from  its  earliest  unfoldings:  its  searchings 
after  truth;  the  dawning  of  the  true  light,  and  at 
length  its  satisfaction  and  peaceful  rest. 

Or  when  the  angry  winds  raved  through  the  glen, 
Driving  the  stormy  legions  in  their  wrath, 

On  some  high  cliff,  far  from  the  abodes  of  men, 
Would  he  delight  to  watch  the  tempest's  path, 
As  it  swept  on,  o'er  mountain,  lake,  and  strath. 

With  all  its  cloudy  train  in  long  arraj'. 

And  the  wild  grace  which  Nature's  fury  hath. 

Till  he  would  long  to  leave  his  form  of  clay, 

Rise  on  the  warring  winds,  and  mingle  with  the 
fray. 

And  heavy  drops  fall  far  apart  and  slow, 
Each  on  the  sand  a  momentary  stain: — 

The  winds  leap  forth — an  ambuscade — and  lo ! 
The  forest  writhes  and  tosses  as  with  pain. 
The  dust  is  swept  in  clouds  along  the  plain; 

Again  the  thunders  issue  their  command, 
And  freely  falls  the  cool  refreshing  rain. 

Copious  but  gentle,  and  with  teeming  hand 

Poui's  down  new  stores  of  life  uj^on  the  fainting 
land. 

And  then  on  Plato's  bolder  wing  he  rose 
To  loftier  flight  and  more  extensive  view, 

Where  rays  of  purer  intellect  disclose 

A  fairer  world,  uncircumscribed  and  new, 
And  strains  of  eloquence  the  air  imbue, 

The  faultless  labours  of  the  sacred  Nine, 
Whose  harmonics  the  willing  soul  subdue : 

How  would  lie  dwell  upon  the  graceful  line 

In  dalliance  with  truth,  and  reveries  divine: 

Now  plajnng  with  a  web  of  gossamer. 

To  which  the  breath  of  zephyr  were  a  shock; 
Now  soaring  giddily  to  regions  where 

The  golden  rays  his  waxen  pinions  mock; 

Then  slowly,  surely,  as  on  living  rock, 
Ascending  by  the  steps  of  argument, — 

Or  stooping,  some  deep  secret  to  unlock 
Of  thought  or  pa.ssion,  while  through  the  extent 
Of  all  his  range  Delight  still  followed  as  he  went. 

'Tis  sometimes  well  that  weeping  clouds  should 
spread 
Their  gloomy  jiall  across  the  burning  sky. 
'Tis  sometimes  well,  with  aching  heart  and  head, 


That  one  should  see  his  dearest  prospects  die. 

Full  oft  the  failures  which  our  hopes  deny 
Are  forces  of  deep  verity  and  right, 

A  barren  confidence  to  mortify ; 
To  drive  tlie  ploughsliare,  with  relentless  might, 
Through  hfe,  and  bring  its  best  fertility  to  light. 

To  height  sublime  a  stately  fabric  rose. 

Solemn,  yet  light,  and  in  its  grandeur  fair. 
Where  studious  art  had  laboured  to  dispose 

Her  ponderous  masses  with  the  subtlest  care, 
That  all  might  seem  to  rise  and  none  to  bear, 
In  lightly  sjiringing  arches,  to  the  eye 
Like  gossamer  suspended  in  mid  air. 
And  lines  and  spires  all  pointing  to  the  sky, 
As  if  to  guide  the  soul  to  its  true  home  on  high. 

Vast  mullioned  windows  on  the  assembly  threw 

A  sober  light,  like  the  departing  ray 
Of  summer's  eve,  in  many-tinted  hue, 

Saddening  the  lively  biilliancy  of  day; 

And  from  the  walls  stood  forth,  in  long  array, 
Full  many  a  sculptured  form  of  snowy  white. 

Like  angels  hovering  on  their  heavenly  way, 
And  dwelling  fondly  on  the  pleasing  sight. 
Ere  back  to  holier  scenes  they  urge  their  upward 
flight. 

Self-humbled  Son  of  God,  atoning  Lamb, 

Who  once  for  men  descended  from  thy  throne, 

How  shall  I  praise  thee,  sinful  as  I  am, 
All  holy  as  thou  art?    Through  thee  alone 
Is  God  to  man  in  love  and  mercy  known. 

In  thy  commands  all  duty  lies  enshrined. 

From  beauty's  full  perfection  hast  thou  shown 

Thyself  more  fair  than  form  of  human  kind; 

And  thou  alone  hast  peace  to  calm  the  troubled 
mind. 


THE   FLITTIN'    0'   AULD   AUNTY 
GARTLEY. 

Alexander  G.  Murdoch,  born  in  Glasgow,  April, 
184.!.  He  is  by  trade  a  working  engineer;  and,  Jiot- 
withstanding  the  disadvantage  of  a  scanty  education  in 
youth,  has  become  known  to  the  public  as  the  author 
of  many  meritorious  Scotch  pieces.  In  1S70  he  con- 
tributed to  tlie  Wce.hh)  Mail  newspaper  a  humorous 
poem,  "The  Brae  o'  Life,"  which  was  followed  in  rapid 
succession  by  others  of  a  simil.ir  kin<l.  In  1872  Mr. 
Murdoch  was  induced  to  collect  and  publish  his  poetical 
pieces  in  a  volume  entitleil  Liltn  an  tlic  Doric  Lj/rr,  wliich 
has  received  the  favourable  notice  of  the  Scottish  and 
Canadian  press. 

Auld  Aunty  Gartlcy,  rest  lier  bancs! 

Tlie  niclit  she  slip't  awa', 
AVas  c'liair'd  beside  oor  auld  lum-clicck — 

A  wreath  o'  winter  suaw; 


APPENDIX. 


533 


The  Book  o'  God  lay  on  her  knee, 

An'  frae  the  haly  Psalnir* 
Slie  waled  a  canny  verse  or  twa, 

To  soothe  her  moral  qualms; 
It  wisna  that  she  feared  the  blow, 

For  in  her  young  days  t\\iee"t 
She'd  been  at  death's  untimely  door, 

But  lippen'd  aye  to  Christ. 
'.•'An'  noo,  guid  freens,  I  howp  an'  tru>t 

I  binna  be  to  blame. 
But,  an'  the  Lord  wad  hear  my  prayer, 

I'm  wearying  for  hame. " 

When  just  as  she  had  spak  the  words, 

Oct  on  the  laigh  door-stap 
An  oorie  fit  was  heard  to  fa'; 

An'  syne  a  solemn  chap. 
Owre  to  the  auld  door-cheek  I  gaed; 

But  when  the  sneck  I  drew, 
A  flowlf  o'  wander'd  win'  cam'  in, 

An'  wail'd  the  haill  hoose  through. 
An'  sowfF'd  roun'  aunty's  pillow'd  held, 

Syne  rumbl'd  up  the  lum. 
Quo'  she,  "  That  weird  win'  warns  me 

Jly  time  is  near-hau'  come; 
Yon  candle  lowe  is  film'd  wi'  death, 

An'  burns  a  dredgie  flame; 
But,  an'  it  please  the  Lord,  this  nicht 

I'd  flit,  an'  e'en  gang  hame." 

Then  a'  the  mair  to  comfort  her, 

An'  stey  her  heartie  up, 
"We  wailed  some  verse  that  airted  her 

To  haud  the  blessed  grup. 
When  a'  at  ance  the  waukrife  cock, 

Oot  in  the  auld  kailyard. 
Ere  yet  the  dawn  had  toueh'd  tlie  hills, 

Untimeously  was  heard. 
"Ay,  ay,"  quo'  Aunty,  "deed  I'll  come; 

Noo,  lay  me  in  my  bed. 
The  waukit  cord  o'  life  wears  thin. 

The  riddle's  near- ban'  read. 
For  when  the  cock,  at  twal'  o'  nicht, 

Erects  its  scarlet  kame, 
Tak'  ye  nae  fear,  there's  some  lane  soul 

Gaun  to  its  lang,  lang  hame. 

"Then  read  me  yet  anither  verse, 

An'  snuflf  the  crusie  licht. 
The  death-yirm  gathers  in  my  throat. 

An'  bleerit  grows  my  sicht;" 
An'  as  the  chap  o'  twal'  Avas  heard. 

Quo'  she,  "  It's  maybe  wrang, 
But  I  weary  for  His  coming, 

.\n'  his  coming's  lang,  lang." 
AVhen,  sudden,  on  oor  hearts  an'  ears 

A  noise  amang  the  delf 
Gard  ilk  ane  cast  a  speerin'  e'e 

Up  to  the  binmost  shelf. 


An'  when  we  turned  aboot  ance  mair, 
To  catch  her  pairtin'  sigh. 

The  licht  o'  heaven  lay  on  her  face — 
The  Lord  himsel'  stood  bye! 


THE    POET'S   GRAVE. 

William  Nicoll,  a  younger  Ijiother  of  Robert  ami  a 
genuine  lyric  poet.  He  was  biirieil  in  the  same  grave 
with  his  gifted  brother,  in  North  Le;th  chun-hyanl. 
Their  niotlier,  now  (Feb.  ISTO)  in  her  eighty  eighth 
year,  is  living  in  New  Zealand.  The  subject  of  ihe^e 
elegiac  lines  is  Eobert  Nicoli's  last  resting  ijlace. 

Is  the  poet's  grave  in  some  lonely  spot, 
Is  his  requiem  sung  by  the  wild  bird's  throat, 
Where  the  forest  flowers  are  first  in  bloom, 
Is  this  the  place  of  the  poet's  tomb? 

Do  his  bones  repose  in  his  native  hills. 

Is  his  spirit  soothed  by  their  dashing  rills, 

Where  the  heather  waves  and  the  free  winds 

come. 
Is  this  the  place  of  the  poet's  tomb? 

Is  his  last  long  sleep  made  in  hallowed  mould, 
Where  the  bones  of  his  fathers  rest  of  old  ? 
Does  the  same  gray  stone  record  his  doom  ? 
Is  this  the  place  of  the  poet's  tomb  ?  , 

No!  alas,  bright  thoughts  of  a  deathless  name 
With  o'ermastering  power  on  his  spirit  came; 
And  his  childhood's  home,  and  his  father's  hearth, 
He  forsook  for  the  busy  haunts  of  earth ! 

He  had  dreamed  a  dream  in  the  moorland  glen. 
Of  oppression  and  pain  'mongst  his  fellowmen; 
He  buckled  his  helmet  with  clasps  of  gold, 
But  fell  ere  half  his  tale  was  told. 

Nor  tree,  nor  flower  o'er  his  lonely  bed, 
Their  bright  spring  tears,  or  sere  leaves  shed, 
For  'mid  countless  graves  and  a  city's  gloom. 
Sleeps  Nature's  child,  in  a  nameless  tomb.i 


THE  ANNUITY. 

Gsorga  Outram,  born  at  Glasgow,  March  25,  1S0'> ; 
di-id  there  in  1850.  He  was  called  to  the  bar  in  18--'7; 
became  part  proprietor  and  editor  of  the  fi-'/cw/oic //('rc(f(/, 
and  wrote  a  number  of  humorous  .-iiid  satirical  verses. 
A  collection  of  his  poems  was  published  by  Blackwood 
&  Sons. 

I  gaed  to  spend  a  week  in  Fife — 
xVn  unco  week  it  proved  to  be — 


1  A  tablet  was  afterwards  placed  over  his  brother's 
grave  by  Williatu  Nicoll. — Eu. 


534 


APPENDIX. 


For  there  I  met  a  wacsome  wife 

Lament! n'  her  viduity. 
Her  grief  brak  out  sae  fierce  and  fell, 
I  tiiought  her  lieart  wad  burst  the  shell; 
^\nd — I  was  sae  left  to  mysel' — 

I  sell't  her  an  annuity. 

The  bargain  lookit  fair  eneugh— 

Slie  just  was  turn'd  saxty-three — 
I  couldna  guess'd  she'd  prove  sae  teugh 
By  human  ingenuity. 
But  years  have  come,  and  years  have  gane, 
And  there  she's  yet  as  stieve's  a  stane — 
The  limmer's  growin'  young  again. 
Since  she  got  her  annuity. 

She's  crined  awa'  to  bane  and  skin; 

But  that  it  seems  is  naught  to  me. 
She's  like  to  live — although  she's  in 
The  last  stage  of  tenuity. 
She  munches  wi'  her  wizen'd  gums, 
An'  stumps  about  on  legs  o'  thrums, 
But  comes  as  sure  as  Christmas  comes — 
To  ca'  for  her  annuity. 

I  read  the  tables  drawn  wi'  care 

For  an  Insurance  Company: 
Ilcr  chance  o'  life  was  stated  there 
Wi'  perfect  perspicuity. 
But  tables  here,  or  tables  there. 
She's  lived  ten  years  beyond  her  share, 
An's  like  to  live  a  dozen  mair. 
To  ca'  for  her  annuity. 

Last  Yule  she  had  a  fearfu'  hoast — 

I  thought  a  kink  might  set  me  free — 
I  led  her  out,  'mang  snaw  and  frost, 
Wi'  constant  assiduity. 
But  deil  may  care!  the  blast  gacd  by, 
And  miss'd  the  auld  anatomy; 
It  just  cost  me  a  tooth,  forbye 
Discharging  her  annuity. 

If  thcre'.s  a  sough  of  cholera. 

Or  typhus — wha  sae  gleg  as  she! 
She  buys  up  baths,  and  drugs  an'  a'. 
In  siccan  superfluity! 
She  doesna  need— she's  fever  proof: 
The  pest  walk'd  o'er  her  very  roof — 
She  tauM  me  sae — and  then  her  loof 
Held  out  for  her  annuity. 

Ac  day  she  fell— her  arm  she  brak— 
A  compound  fracture  as  could  be; 
Xac  leech  the  cure  wad  undcrtak, 
Wliatc'cr  was  the  gratuity. 
It's  cured! — she  handles't  like  a  flail — 
It  docs  as  wecl  in  bits  as  hale: 


But  I'm  a  broken  man  mysel' 
Wi'  her  and  her  annuity. 

Her  broozled  flesh  and  broken  banes 

Are  weel  as  flesh  and  banes  can  be; 
She  beats  the  taeds  that  live  in  stanes 
And  fatten  in  vacuity. 
They  die  when  they're  exposed  to  air — 
They  canna  thole  the  atmosphere; 
But  her! — expose  her  onywhere. 
She  lives  for  lier  annuity. 

If  mortal  means  could  nick  her  thread 

Sma'  crime  it  wad  appear  to  me: 
Ca't  murder,  or  ca't  homicide, 
I'd  justify't — and  do  it  tae. 
But  how  to  fell  a  wither'd  wife 
That's  carved  out  o'  the  tree  o'  life! 
The  timmer  limmer  daurs  the  knife 
To  settle  her  annuity. 

I'd  try  a  shot ;  but  whar's  the  mark  ? 

Her  vital  parts  are  hid  frae  me; 
Her  backbane  wanders  through  her  sark, 
In  an  unkenn'd  cork-screwity. 
She's  palsified,  and  shakes  her  head 
Sae  fast  about,  ye  scarce  can  see't: 
It's  past  the  power  o'  steel  or  lead 
To  settle  her  annuity. 

She  might  be  drown'd;  but  go  she'll  not 

Within  a  mile  o'  loch  or  sea; 
Or  hang'd — if  cord  could  grip  a  throat 
0'  siccan  exiguity. 
It's  fitter  far  to  hang  the  rope — 
It  draws  out  like  a  telescope: 
'Twad  tak  a  dreadfu'  length  o'  drop 
To  settle  her  annuity. 

Will  puzion  do't?— It  has  been  tried. 

But  be't  in  hash  or  fricassee, 
That's  just  the  dish  she  can't  abide, 
Whatever  kind  o'  gout  it  hae. 
It's  needless  to  assail  her  doubts: 
She  gangs  by  instinct,  like  the  brutes, 
And  only  eats  and  drinks  what  suits 
Hersel'  and  her  annuity. 

The  Bible  says  the  age  o'  man 

Threescore  and  ten  perchance  may  be; 
She's  ninety-four. — Let  them  wha  can 
Explain  the  incongruity. 
She  should  hae  lived  afore  the  flood; 
She's  come  o'  patriarchal  blood: 
She's  some  auld  Pagan  mummified, 
Alive  for  her  annuity. 

She's  been  enibalm'd  inside  and  out: 
She's  sauted  to  the  last  degree; 


APPENDIX. 


535 


Tlierc's  pickle  in  licr  very  snout, 

Sae  caper-like  and  cruety. 
Lot's  wife  was  fresh  compared  to  her: 
They've  kyanized  the  useless  knir  (witch); 
She  cauna  decompose — nae  mair 

Tiian  her  accurs'd  annuity. 

The  water-drap  weai's  out  the  rock, 

As  this  eternal  jaud  wears  me. 
I  could  Avithstand  the  single  shock, 
But  not  the  continuity. 
It's  pay  me  here,  and  pay  me  there. 
And  pay  me,  pay  me,  evermair; 
I'll  gang  demented  wi'  despair — 
I'm  charged  for  her  annuity. ^ 


1  At  a  dinner  given  by  Dr.  Robert  Chambers  in 
Edinburgh  to  Outram  and  a  select  party  of  liis  friends, 
the  following  verses  were  sung  in  character  Ijy  Mrs. 
R.  C. ,  after  "Tlie  Annuity"  had  been  sung  by  Peter 
Fraser.  The  "  lionest  Maurice"  mentioned  in  the  last 
stanza  is  the  late  Maurice  Lothian  of  Edinburgh:  — 

THE  ANNUITANT'S   ANSWER. 

My  certy!  but  it  sets  him  weel 

Sae  vile  a  tale  to  tell  o'  me; 
I  never  could  suspect  the  chiel' 

O'  sic  disingenuity. 
I'll  no  be  ninety-four  for  lang, 
Jly  liealth  is  far  frae  being  Strang, 
And  he'll  mak'  profit,  riclit  or  wrang, 

Ye' 11  see,  by  this  annuity. 

My  friends,  ye  weel  can  undei-stand 

This  world  is  fu'  o'  roguery; 
Anil  ane  meets  fo'.k  on  ilka  hand 

To  rug,  and  rive,  and  pu'  at  ye. 
I  thought  that  this  same  man  o'  law 
Wad  save  my  siller  frae  them  a', 
And  sae  I  gave  the  whilliewha 

The  note  for  the  annuity. 

He  says  the  bargain  lookit  fair. 
And  sae  to  him,  I'm  sure  'twad  be; 

I  got  my  hundred  pounds  a  year. 
An'  he  could  well  allow  it  tae. 

And  does  he  think — the  deevii's  limb — 

Although  I  lookit  auld  and  grim, 

I  was  to  die  to  pleasure  him. 
And  squash  my  braw  annuity. 

The  year  had  scarcely  turned  its  back 

When  he  was  irking  to  be  free  — 
A  fule  the  thing  to  undertak', 

And  then  sae  sune  to  me  it  ye. 

I've  never  been  at  peace  sin'  syne — 

Nae  wonder  that  sae  sair  I  coyne — 

It's  jist  through  terror  that  I  tyne 

My  life  for  my  annuity. 

He's  twice  had  pushion  in  my  kail, 
And  sax  times  in  my  cup  o'  tea; 

I  could  unfauld  a  shocking  tale 
O'  something  in  a  cruet,  tae. 

His  arms  he  ance  flang  round  my  neck — 

I  thought  it  was  to  sliow  res^eck; 


DEAR    ISLAY. 

Thomas  Pattison,  a  native  of  Islay,  whose  early 
death  disappointed  the  fair  promise  of  high  poetic  fame. 
He  wiis  the  avitlior  of  "  Selections  from  the  Gaelic  Uards, 
Metrically  Translated,  with  liiograi)liical  Prefaces  and 
Explanatory  Notes,  also  Original  Poems,"  an  Svo  vol- 
ume published  in  1SG6. 

0  Islay!  sweet  Islay! 
Thou  green,  grassy  Islay! 
AViu',  why  art  thou  lying 

So  far  o'er  the  sea? 
0  Islay!  dear  Islay! 
The  daylight  is  dying, 
And  here  am  I  longing, 

And  longing  for  thee! 

0  Islay!  fair  Islay! 
Thou  dear  mother  l.-lay! 
Where  my  spirit  awaking 

First  look'd  on  the  day. 
0  Islay!  dear  Islay! 
That  link  of  God"s  making 
Must  last  till  I  wing  me 

Away,  and  away ! 

Dear  Islay!  good  Islay! 
Thou  holy-soU'd  Islay! 
My  fathers  are  sleeping 

Beneath  thy  green  sod. 
0  Islay!  kind  Islay! 
Well,  well  be  thou  keeping 

He  only  meant  to  gie  a  check. 
Not  for,  but  to,  the  annuity. 

Said  ance  to  me  an  honest  man, 

"Try  an  insurance  comjiany; 
Ye'll  find  it  an  eifective  plan 

Protection  to  secure  to  you. 
Ten  pounds  a  year!  — ye  weel  can  sfare't! — 
Be  that  wi'  Peter  Fr.aser  wareil; 
His  office  syne  will  be  a  guard 

For  you  aiid  your  annuity." 

I  gaed  at  ance  an'  spak'  to  Pats 

O'  a  five  hundred  policy. 
And  "Faith!"  says  he,  "ye  are  n.ae  blate; 

I  maist  could  clamahewit  ye, 
Wi'  that  duel's  fingers  at  the  knife, 
What  chance  liae  ye  o'  length  o'  life? 
Sae  to  tlie  door,  ye  silly  wife, 

Wi'  you  and  your  annuity." 

The  procurator  fiscal's  now 

The  only  friend  that  1  can  see; 
And  it's  snia'  thing  that  he  can  do 

To  end  this  sair  ankshiwity. 
But  honest  Maurice  has  agreed 
That  if  the  villain  does  the  deed, 
He'll  swing  at  Libberton  Wyndhead 
For  me  and  mv  annuitv. 


536 


APPENDIX. 


That  dear  dust  awaiting 
Tiae  great  day  of  God. 

Old  Islay!  God  bless  tliee, 
Thou  good  mother,  Islay! 
Bless  thy  wide  ocean! 

And  bless  tliy  sweet  lea! 
And  Islay!  dear  Islay! 
Jly  heart's  best  emotion, 
For  ever  and  ever 

Shall  centre  in  thee! 


THE  FAIRY  DAXCE. 

Mrs.  Caroline  E.  Scott  Richardson,  born  .at  Forse 
in  Dumfriessliire,  Nov.  24,  1777;  died  there  Nov.  9, 
1 853.  Slie  received  a  liberal  education,  and  ".vas  brought 
uxianiid  the  scenes  of  Border  song  and  story.  When 
young  she  went  out  to  India,  vriiere  she  married  her 
coujin  Gilbert  G.  Richardson,  captain  of  au  East  InUia- 
man.  Early  left  a  widow,  Mrs.  Richardson  returned 
with  her  children  to  Scotland,  and  devoted  herself  to 
their  education.  In  1S28  and  again  in  1834  she  published 
a  volume  of  poetry,  botli  of  w  liich  were  well  received. 
She  also  wrote  a  novel  entitled  Adoiiia,  and  numerous 
tales  and  essays. 

The  fairies  are  dancing — how  nimbly  they  bound! 

They  flit  o'er  the  grass  tops,  they  touch  not  the 
gi-ound; 

Their  kii-tles  of  gi-een  are  with  diamonds  bedight, 

All  glittering  and  sparkling  beneath  the  moon- 
light. 

Hark,  hark  to  their  music !  how  silvery  and  clear — 
'Tis  surely  the  flower-bells  that  ringing  I  hear; 
The    lazy-wing'd   moth   with   the    gi-asshopper 

wakes, 
And  the  field-mouse  peeps  out,  and  their  revels 

partakes. 

How  featly  they  trip  it!  how  happy  are  they 
Who  pass  all  their  moments  in  frolic  and  play; 
Who  rove  where  they  list,  without  sorrows  or 

cares. 
And  laugh  at  the  fetters  mortality  wears! 

But  where  have  they  vanish'd? — a  cloud's  o'er 

the  moon; 
I'll  hie  to  the  spot — they'll  be  .';een  again  soon; 
I  hiusten — 'tis  lighter,  and  what  do  I  view  ? — 
The  fairies  were  grasses,  the  diamonds  were  dew  1 

And  thus  do  the  sparkling  illusions  of  j-outh 
Deceive  and  allure,  and  we  take  them  for  truth ; 
Too  happy  are  they  who  the  juggle  un.shroud 
Ere  the  hint  to  inspect  them  be  brought  by  a 
cloud. 


THE   TOOil   MEAL   POCK. 

John  Robertson,  born  in  Paisley,  Nov.  30,  1707;  died 
at  Portsmouth  in  April,  1810.  He  was  well  educated, 
and  intended  for  one  of  the  learned  professions ;  but 
family  misfortune  obliged  him  to  become  a  salesman, 
and  he  finally  enli.-ited  in  the  local  militia,  where  he 
was  employed  as  regimental  schoolmaster.  Robertson 
was  a  man  of  some  ability  and  scholarship,  and  with 
ordinary  carefulness  might  have  attained  a  good  posi- 
tion in  life;  but  he  became  dissipated  in  his  habits, 
and  ended  his  life  by  suicide.  His  verses  display  con- 
siderable merit.  In  the  following  song,  which  has  long 
been  popular  in  the  w  est  of  Scotland,  he  half-jocularly 
describes  a  time  of  dull  trade  in  his  native  town. 

Preserve  us  a'!  what  shall  we  do, 

Tliir  dark  unhallowed  times? 
We're  surely  dreeing  penance  now 

For  some  most  awfu'  crimes. 
Sedition  daurna  now  appear. 

In  reality  or  joke. 
For  ilka  cliiel  maun  mourn  Avi'  me 

0'  a  hinging  toom  meal  pock. 

And  sing.  Oh  waes  me! 

AYhen  lasses  braw  gaed  out  at  e'en, 

For  sport  and  pastime  free, 
I  seem'd  like  ane  in  paradise, 

The  moments  quick  did  flee. 
Like  Yeuuses  they  a'  appeared, 

AVeel  poutliered  was  their  locks, 
'Twas  easy  dune,  when  at  their  hame, 

AVi'  the  shaking  o'  tlieir  pocks. 

And  sing.  Oh  waes  me! 

IIow  happy  past  my  former  days, 

Wi'  merry  heartsome  glee. 
When  smiling  fortune  held  the  cup, 

And  peace  sat  on  my  knee; 
Nae  wants  had  I  but  were  supplied, 

Jly  heart  wi'  joy  did  knock. 
When  in  the  neuk  I  smiling  saw 

A  gaucie  weel-fill'd  pock. 

And  sing.  Oh  waes  me  I 

Speak  no  ae  word  about  reform, 

Nor  petition  parliament, 
A  wi.ser  scheme  I'll  now  propose, 

I'm  sure  ye'll  gi'e  consent — 
Send  up  a  cliiel  or  twa  like  me, 

As  a  sample  o'  the  Hock, 
Wiiase  hollow  cheeks  will  be  sure  proof 

O'  a  hinging  toom  meal  pock. 

And  sing.  Oh  waes  me! 

An<l  should  a  .sicht  .sae  ghastly  like, 
Wi'  rags,  and  banes,  and  skin, 

Ila'c  nae  impression  on  yon  folks, 
But  tell  ye'll  stand  ahin: 


APPENDIX. 


537 


0  what  a  contrast  will  yc  sliaw, 

To  the  glowriu'  Lunnun  folk, 
When  ill  St.  James'  ye  tak'  your  stand, 

\\i  a  hinging  toom  meal  pock! 

And  sing,  Oh  ivacs  me! 

Then  rear  your  hand,  and  glowr,  and  stare, 

Before  yon  hills  o'  heef, 
Tell  them  ye  are  frae  Scotland  come, 

For  Scotia's  relief; 
Tell  them  ye  are  the  vera  best, 

Wal'd  frae  the  fattest  flock. 
Then  raise  your  arms,  and  oh !  display 

A  hinging  toom  meal  pock. 

And  sing,  Oh  waes  me! 

Tell  them  ye're  wearied  o'  the  chain 

That  hands  the  state  Ihegither, 
For  Scotland  wishes  just  to  tak' 

Gude  nicht  wi'  ane  anither. 
We  canna  thole,  wc  canna  bide, 

This  hard  unwieldy  yoke. 
For  wark  and  want  but  ill  agree, 

"\Vi'  a  hinging  toom  meal  pock. 
And  sing,  Oh  waes  me! 


Come,  and  learning  of  me,  your  tii-ed  soul  shall 
find  rest." 

What  songs  of  rejoicing  are  rising  above, 

From  the  blest  who  repose  on  the  bosom  of  Love! 

'Tis  the  voice  of  the  ransom'd;  ho'.v  joyful  the 

strain^ 
"Glory,  blessing  and  power  to  the  Lamb  that 

was  slain; 
For  He  suffered  for  us,  and  with  him  we  shall 

reign." 


TOICES  FKOM  HEAVEN. 

Rev.  James  G.  Small,  born  in  Edinburgh  in  1817, 
and  fornearly  thirty  years  minister  of  the  Free  Churcli, 
Bervie,  Kinc'ardinesliire.  He  is  the  autlior  of  several 
volviraes  of  poems,  among  otliers  "  Tlie  Higlilands,  <S:c.,' 
which  has  passed  throngli  several  editions.  He  has 
also  produced  a  prose  volume  entitled  Rtftoiativii  (uai 
Revival. 

What  strains  of  compassion  are  heard  from  above. 
Calling  sinners  to  flee  to  the  bosom  of  Love! 
'Tis  the  voice  of  the  Saviour  who  speaks  from  on 

high — 
"Turn,  turn,  ye  poor  wanderers,  0  why  will  ye 

die? 
Tin-n,  turn,  ere  ye  perish;  for  judgment  is  nigh." 

What  a  sweet  invitation  is  heard  from  above! 

Calling  children  to  fly  to  the  bosom  of  Love! 

'Tis  the  voice  of  the  Shepherd!  how  kind  is  its 
tone — 

"  Come,  ye  yoimg  ones,  to  me,  ere  life's  spring- 
time be  flown; 

I  will  take  you,  and  bless  you,  and  make  you 
mine  oWn." 

What  accents  of  comfort  are  heard  from  above. 
Calling  mourners  to  rest  on  the  bosom  of  Love! 
'Tis  the  voice  of  our  tender  and  faithful  High 

Priest — 
"Come   to   me,    yc   who   labour,  with   sorrows 

oppi-ess'd; 


WIIEX  THOU  AKT  XE.VR  ME. 

Lady  John  Scott  Spottiswoode,  of  Spottiswoode, 
Berwicksliire,  widow  of  I.ord  Jolin  Douglas  Scott, 
brother  of  the  Duke  of  Buccleuch.  Dr.  Brown  remarks 
in  Hnrw  Snbsccirce,  after  quoting  the  song,  "Can  the 
gifted  author  of  these  lines  and  of  their  mvisic  not  be 
prevailed  on  to  give  them  and  odiei-s  to  the  world,  as 
well  as  to  her  friends?" 

When  thou  art  near  mo 

Sorrow  seems  to  fly. 
And  then  I  think,  as  well  I  may. 
That  on  this  earth  there  is  no  one 

More  blest  than  I. 

But  when  thou  leav'st  me. 

Doubts  and  fears  arise, 
And  darkness  reigns 

Where  all  before  was  light. 
The  sunshine  of  my  soul 

Is  in  those  eyes. 
And  when  they  leave  me 

All  the  world  is  night. 

But  when  thou  art  near  me 

Sorrow  seems  to  fly. 
And  then  I  feel,  as  well  I  may. 
That  on  this  earth  there  dwells  not  one 

So  blest  as  I. 


THE  BANKS  OF  DEE. 

John  Tait,  a  writer  to  the  signet,  and  some  time 
judge  of  the  Edinburgh  police  court;  born  174S,  died 
1817.  Mr.  Tait  in  early  life  wrote  many  fugitive  pieces, 
which  appeared  in  the  periodicals  of  the  day.  The  fol- 
lowing song  has  been  frequently  ascribed  to  John  Home, 
author  of  the  tragedy  of  "  Douglas."  It  was  composed 
by  Tait  in  1775,  on  the  occasion  of  a  friend  leaving 
Scotland  to  join  the  British  forces  in  America.  Hence 
the  allusion  to  the  "  proud  rebol.s"  in  the  second  stanza, 
America  being  then  struggling  for  her  independence. 

'Twas  summer,  and  softly  the  breezes  were  blow- 
■  ing. 
And  sweetly  the  wood-pigeon  coo'd  from  the 
tree; 


538 


APPENDIX. 


At  the  foot  of  a  rock,  where  the  wild  rose  was 
growing, 
I  sat  myself  down  on  the  banks  of  the  Dee. 
Flow  on,  lovely  Dee,  flow  on,  thou  sweet  river. 
Thy  banks,  purest  stream,  shall  be  dear  to  me 

ever: 
For  there  first  I  gain'd  the  affection  and  favour 
Of  Jamie,  the  glory  and  pride  of  the  Dee. 

But  now  he's  gone  from  me,  and  left  me  thus 
mourning, 
To  quell  the  proud  rebels — for  valiant  is  he; 
And  ah  I  there's  no  hope  of  his  speedy  returning, 

To  wander  again  on  the  banks  of  the  Dee. 
He's  gone,  hapless  youth,  o'er  the  loud  roaring 

billows. 
The  kindest  and  sweetest  of  all  the  gay  fellows. 
And  left  me  to  stray  'mongst  the  once   loved 
willows, 
The  loneliest  maid  on  the  banks  of  the  Dee. 

But  time  and  my  prayers  may  perhaps  yet  restore 
him. 

Blest  peace  may  restore  my  dear  shepherd  to  me ; 
And  when  he  returns,  with  such  care  I'll  watch 
o'er  him, 

He  never  shall  leave  the  sweet  banks  of  the  Dee. 
The  Dee  then  shall  flow,  all  its  beauties  displaying. 
The  lambs  on  its  banks  shall  again  be  seen  playing. 
While  I  with  my  Jamie  am  carelessly  straying. 

And  tasting  again  all  the  sweets  of  the  Dee. 


I  IIA'E  LAID  A  HERRING  IX  SAUT. 

James  Tytler,  born  at  Brechin  in  1747;  died  in 
Jlassachusettrf,  North  America,  in  1S05.  Though  ed\i- 
cated  fii-st  for  the  Clmrcli,  ;xnd  afterwards  for  the  medi- 
cal profession,  he  was  mainly  employed  through  life  in 
literary  and  chemical  speculations.  He  was  commonly 
c-Uled  liuUooH  Tijtler,  from  having  been  the  first  in 
Scotland  who  ascended  in  a  fire  balloon  upon  the  plan 
of  Alontgolfier.  Uurns  describes  him  .as  "a  mortal 
«ho,  though  he  drudges  about  Edinburgh  as  a  common 
printer,  with  leaky  shoes,  a  sky-lighted  hat,  and  knee- 
buckles  as  unlike  as  George-by-the-graco  of-God  and 
8olomon-the-son-of- David,  yet  that  same  unknown 
drunken  mortal  is  author  and  compiler  of  three  fourths 
of  Elliofs  pompous  Encyclopedia  Jiri'annica,  which  he 
comiioseil  at  half  a-guinea  a  week  !"  Mr.  Mack.ny  of 
the  Edinburgh  theatre  used  to  sing  this  song  \dtl. 
pawkie  glee,  and  was  instrumental  in  rendering  it 
IKJimlar. 

I  ha'e  laid  a  herring  in  saut, 
Lass  gin  ye  lo'e  mo  tell  me  now! 
I  ha'e  l)rew'd  a  forpct  o'  maut, 
An'  I  canna  come  ilka  day  to  woo. 
I  lia'c  a  calf  will  soon  I)c  a  cow, 
La.-s  gin  yc  lo'e  mc  tell  mo  now! 
I  ha'e  a  pig  will  .soon  be  a  sow, 
An'  I  canna  come  i!ka  day  to  woo. 


I've  a  house  on  yonder  muir, 

Lass  gin  ye  lo'e  me  tell  me  now! 

Three  sparrows  may  dance  upon  the  floor, 

An'  I  canna  come  ilka  day  to  woo. 

I  ha'e  a  but  an'  I  ha'e  a  ben, 

Lass  gin  ye  lo'e  me  tell  me  now! 

I  ha'e  three  chickens  an'  a  fat  hen. 

An'  I  canna  come  ony  mair  to  avoo. 

I've  a  hen  wi'  a  happity  leg, 
La.ss  gin  ye  lo'e  me  tak'  me  now! 
Which  ilka  day  lays  me  an  egg, 
An'  I  canna  come  ilka  day  to  woo. 
I  ha'e  a  kebbuck  upon  my  shelf, 
Lass  gin  ye  lo'e  me  tak'  me  now! 
I  downa  eat  it  a'  mysel'; 
An'  I  winna  come  ony  mair  to  woo. 


GRIZELL    COCHRANE;    OR,    THE 
DAUGHTER  DEAR.i 

Charlotte,  Lady  Wake,  born  1801;  second  daughter 
of  Crawford  Tait.  Esq.  of  Harvieston,  Clackmannan- 
shire, and  sister  of  the  Archbishop  of  Canterbury.  Her 
mother  was  a  daughter  of  Sir  Islay  Campbell,  Bart., 
Lord-president  of  the  Court  of  Session,  son  of  tlie  only 
daughter  of  John  Wallace  of  EUerslie,  lineal  descend- 
ant of  the  eldest  brotherof  Sir  William  Wallace.  Miss 
Charlotte  Tait  married  in  1S2-2  Charles  Wake,  eldest 
son  of  Sir  William  Wake,  Bart,  of  Courteen  Hall, 
Xorth.amptonshire,  foimerly  of  Clevedon,  Somerset- 
.shire,  who  succeeded  to  his  fatlier's  title  and  estate  in 
1846,  and  died  in  1804.  Lady  Wake  informs  the  Editor 
that"Grizell  Cochrane;  or  the  Daughter  Dear,"  was 
written  when  she  was  only  fifteen,  to  please  her  father, 
in  whose  family  (on  the  mother's  side)  the  circumstances 
related  in  the  ballad  took  place. 

Frae  morning  clouds,  wi'  gladsome  ray, 
The  sun  shone  bright  and  cheery; 

An'  glittered  o'er  the  prison  wall. 
An'  thro'  the  grate  sae  dreary. 

"  Keep  up  your  heart,  my  father  dear, 

Tlie  morning  sun  shines  sweet  and  fair" — 

"  It  weel  may  shine  this  day,  my  bairn. 
For  it  maun  .shine  for  me  nae  mair. 


'  The  intiepid  act  of  filial  devotion  which  is  the  sub- 
ject of  this  b;illad  took  place  in  July,  1685.  The  heroine 
was  a  daughter  of  Sir  John  Cochrane  of  Ochiltree,  who 
was  found  guilty  of  high  treason  for  accession  to  the 
l]lot  entered  into  towards  theend  of  Charles  II. 's  reign, 
cliietly  for  the  purpose  of  excliuling  the  Duke  of  York 
(James  II.)  from  succeeding  to  the  throne.  It  was  for 
their  alleged  connection  with  the  same  plot  that  Lord 
Willi.im  Russell  and  Algernon  Siilney  were  executed 
in  lOS:!;  and  it  was  afterwards  followed  by  the  rising 
of  Argyle  in  Scotland. 


APPENDIX. 


539 


"Tliis  day  the  fatal  warrant  comes, 
That  takes  from  me  my  breath; 
But  oil!  the  thought  of  thee,  my  dear, 
Is  sharper  far  than  death. 

'•  When  I  maun  yield  my  hoary  head 
Unto  the  axeman  stern, 
They'll  lay  the  rebel  in  his  grave, 
But  wha  will  shield  his  bairn?" 

"With  playful  hand  slie  smoothed  his  hair. 
Syne  slie  kissed  his  foreliead  gray; 
"My  breast  shall  be  thy  resting-place, 
I  ween  for  mony  a  day." 

About  his  neck  her  lily  arm 
She  threw  Avi'  maiden  grace — 
"  Be  this  my  father's  only  bond. 
His  daughter's  fond  embrace. 

"An'  now  farewell,  my  father  dear. 
For  surely  I  maun  go; 
For  Heaven  has  breathed  into  my  heart 
To  ward  the  coming  blow." — 

She's  buckled  a  horseman's  cloak 

Atour  her  slender  waist; 
She's  doffed  her  maiden  robes  sae  gay. 

Her  feet  in  buskins  laced. 

She's  doffed  awhile  her  silken  snood. 

An'  braided  back  her  hair; 
An'  deeply  slouched  her  warrior  cap, 

To  hide  her  forehead  fair. 

She's  mounted  on  a  mettled  steed. 
Her  lily  hands  the  pistols  bear; 

An'  wha  that  met  this  knight  could  guess 
It  was  a  maiden  fair? 

An'  if  she  struggled  wi'  a  sob, 

Or  felt  a  maiden  fear, 
She  drew  a  lang,  lang  breath,  an'  thought 

Upon  her  father  dear. 

She's  ta'en  the  road  that  travellers  go, 
Her  heart  prepared  for  dule  and  strife: 

She's  met  the  postman  on  his  way. 
An'  he  maun  stand  or  yield  his  life. 

"  Xow  yield  to  me,  ye  coward  loon, 
If  ye  the  morrow's  sun  wad  see; 
Good 'sooth  this  day  shall  be  thy  last 
If  ye  that  packet  winna  gie." 

She's  clasped  the  warr.int  to  her  breast, 
Kor  heeds  tlic  cravjn's  stare, 

Whose  wonder  irew  t'lat  robber  bold 
Should  e'er  ha'e  form  so  fair. 


She  gave  her  gudc  steed  to  the  wind. 

An'  dashed  away  the  tear; 
'Twas  joy  that  wet  her  lovely  check — 

She's  saved  her  father  dearl 

Frae  morning  cloud:*,  wi'  gladsome  ray. 
The  sun  slione  bright  an'  cheery; 

An'  glittered  o'er  the  prison  walls. 
An'  thro'  the  grate  sac  dreary — 

But  the  sunbeam  fell  on  an  empty  cell. 

It  held  no  prisoner  gray; 
For  tliey've  fled  o'er  the  sea  to  a  far  countr'.c 

To  bide  a  blyther  day. 

Oh,  bonnieblue  hills!  tho'  shadowed  with  ills. 
Have  trust  in  thy  daughters  dear; 

For  Heaven  has  care  for  the  maiden's  prayer, 
And  blesses  the  maiden's  tear. 


OUR  MITHER   TOXGUE. 

Andrew  Wanless,  of  Detroit.  Michigan;  born  in 
Berwickshire,  Jlay  ia,  1S:;4.  He  is  the  author  of  Poems 
and  So'iips,  second  edition,  Detroit,  1S73. 

It's  monie  a  day  since  first  we  left 

Auld  Scotland's  rugged  liills — 
Her  heath'ry  braes  and  gow'ny  glens, 

Her  bonnie  winding  rills. 
AVe  lo'ed  her  in  the  bygane  time, 

AVhcn  life  and  hope  were  young, 
We  lo'e  her  still,  wi'  right  guid  will, 

And  glory  in  her  tongue! 

Can  we  forget  the  summer  days 

Whan  Ave  got  leave  frae  scliulc, 
How  we  gaed  birrin'  down  the  braes 

To  daidlc  in  the  pool? 
Or  to  the  glen  Ave'd  slip  aAva', 

Where  hazel  clusters  hung, 
And  wake  the  echoes  o'  the  hills — 

AVi'  our  auld  mither  tongue. 

Can  we  forget  the  lonesome  kirk 

Where  gloomy  ivies  creep  ? 
Can  Ave  forget  the  auld  kirkyard 

AVhere  our  forefathers  sleep? 
We'll  ne'er  forget  the  glorious  land. 

Where  Scott  and  Burns  sung — 
Their  sangs  are  printed  on  our  hearts 

In  our  auld  mither  tongue. 

Auld  Scotland!  land  o'  mickle  fame! 

The  land  where  Wallace  trod, 
The  laud  Avhere  heartfelt  i)raise  ascends 

Up  to  the  throne  of  God! 


540 


APPENDIX. 


Land  where  the  martyrs  sleep  in  peace, 
Where  infant  freedom  sprung, 

Wliere  Ivnox  in  tones  of  thunder  spoke 
In  our  auld  mither  tongue! 

Now  Scotland  dinna  ye  he  hlate, 

'j\[ang  nations  crousely  craw. 
Your  callants  are  nae  donnert  sumphs, 

Your  lasses  hang  them  a'. 
Tlie  glisks  o'  heaven  will  never  fade, 

That  hope  around  us  flung — 
When  first  we  breathed  the  tale  o"  love 

In  our  auld  mither  tongue. 

0!  let  us  ne'er  forget  our  hame, 

Auld  Scotland's  hills  and  cairns; 
And  let  us  a',  where'er  we  he, 

Aye  strive  "to  be  guid  bairns!" 
And  when  we  meet  wi'  want  or  age 

A-hirpling  ower  a  rung, 
We'll  tak'  their  part  and  cheer  their  heart 

Wi'  our  auld  mither  tongue. 


THE  LOG.i 

Thomas  Watson,  tlie  Arbroath  poet,  a  painter  by 
trade;  born  March  10,  1807;  died  January  2*5,  1875. 
In  1851  he  published  the  Rhpuer's  Famili/,  which  in- 
cludes his  best-known  poem  "The  Deil  in  Love,"  and 
other  pieces  of  sterling  merit.  In  1S73  Mr.  Watson 
issued  a  new  and  enlai'ged  edition  of  his  worlds,  entitled 
lloiaely  Pearls  at  Random  Strung,  consisting  of  poems, 
songs,  and  prose  sketches. 

I  was  a  nursling  of  untrodden  soil; 
In  dim  primeval  forest  of  the  West 
I  grew,  and  reared  aloft  my  leafy  crest, 
Remote  from  men's  turmoil. 

And  when  the  spring  had  clad  my  branches  bare, 
I  waved  them  in  the  breeze,  all  blossom-laden, 
And  shook  my  green  locks  like  a  gleesome  maiden 
Whose  light  heart  flouts  at  care. 

And  when,  impervious  to  the  summer  heat, 
I  gave  my  shade  to  worlds  of  fluttering  things 
That  stirred  tlic  air,  beneath  my  brooding  wings, 
With  humming  music  sweet. 


1  The  author  exphiins  the  origin  of  this  song  as 
follows: — "Chancing  to  be  in  the  workshop  of  a  young 
friend  who  wjis  fond  of  writing  verses,  he  suggested 
that  we  should  try  to  string  together  a  few  lines  on  a 
given  subject.  I  agreed.  'Well,  what  shall  it  be?'  I 
inr|uircd.  'There  is  a  log  of  wood  lying  on  the  floor; 
wliat  Ray  you  to  that  for  a  subject?'  In  sliort,  tlie  log 
was  taken  >ip  and  done  for  with  jiens  instead  of  edge- 
tools."— Ed. 


Then  in  my  green  recesses  carolled  free 
The  meiry  minstrels  of  the  listening  woods. 
Wearying  sweet  echcr  in  their  solitudes, 
"With  warbling  melody. 

And  silvery  threads,  by  fairy  fingers  drawn. 
At  eve  on  my  unbending  twigs  were  hung; 
But  all  unseen,  till  rich  with  pearls  strung, 
And  glittering  in  the  dawn. 

When  the  old  forest  hoard  the  pealing  thunder. 
And  the  rent  clouds  came  rushing  down  amain, 
The  hunter  listened  to  the  pattering  rain 
My  leafy  covert  under. 

Sear  autumn  came,  like  Death  in  fair  disguise, 
And,  as  the  dying  dolphin,  changing  aye 
Her  variegated  beauty  of  decay 

With  tints  of  many  dyes: 

And  in  her  withering  breath  my  branches  waved. 
And  every  twig  its  leafy  honours  shed 
In  rustling  showers,  until  the  ground  was  clad, 
With  wreck  of  summer  paved. 

Cold  winter  came !  I  was  a  naked  tree. 
Streaked  with  the  whiteness  of  his  hoary  hair, 
And  wild  winds  howling  through  my  branches 
bare. 

Like  the  loud  moaning  sea. 

And  thus  return  the  seasons,  o'er  and  o'er, 
In  endless  round,  with  blossom  and  decay; 
But  never  more  to  me,  or  night  or  day — 
I  reckon  time  no  more. 

The  spoilers  came,  the  ruthless  pioneers. 
My  giant  stem,  that  bent  not  to  the  breeze, 
Fell  by  the  axe :  the  crash  of  falling  trees, 
Was  music  to  their  ears. 

They  lopped  my  boughs,  and  launched  me  on  the 

river : 
With  many  a  lifeless  log  I  floated  down. 
Through  mangled  woods,  by  many  a  mushroom 

town. 

Leaving  my  home  for  ever. 


TAK'   IT,   MAN,   TAK'    IT. 

David  Webster,  born  in  Dunblane,  Sept.  25,  1787; 
died  January  22, 1837.  He  was  apprenticed  to  a  weaver 
in  Paisley,  and  continued  to  work  at  tlie  loom  through 
a  life  much  chequered  by  misfortune.  In  1835  he  pub- 
lished a  small  volume  of  poems  entitled  Oripinal  Si^ot- 
Ihh  Rhiihics.  Many  of  the  pieces  are  marked  by  keen 
satire  and  humour. 

When  I  was  a  miller  in  Fife, 
Losh!  I  thought  that  the  sound  o'  the  happcr 


APPENDIX. 


541 


Said,  Tak'  hame  a  wco  flow  to  your  wife, 

To  help  to  be  brose  to  your  supper. 
Then  my  conscience  was  narrow  and  pure, 

But  someway  by  random  it  rackit; 
For  I  Hftet  twa  neivefu'  or  niair, 

While  the  happor  said,  Tak'  it,  man,  tak'  it. 
Then  hey  for  the  mill  and  the  kill; 

The  garLand  and  gear  for  my  cogie! 
And  hey  for  the  whiskey  and  yill, 
That  washes  the  dust  frae  my  craigie! 

Although  it's  been  lang  in  repute, 

For  rogues  to  make  rich  by  deceiving: 
Yet  I  see  that  it  disna  weel  suit 

Honest  men  to  begin  to  the  thieving. 
For  my  heart  it  gaed  dnnt  upon  dunt, 

O'd,  I  thought  ilka  dunt  it  wad  crackit; 
Sae  I  flang  frae  my  neive  what  was  in't, 

Still  the  happer  said,  Tak'  it,  man,  tak'  it. 
Then  hey  for  the  mill,  kc. 

A  man  that's  been  bred  to  the  plough. 

Might  be  deav'd  wi'  its  clamorous  clapper; 
Yet  there's  few  but  would  suffer  the  sough, 

After  kenning  what's  said  by  the  happer. 
I  whiles  thought  it  scoff'd  me  to  scorn, 

Saying,  Shame,  is  your  conscience  no  chac'.cit; 
But  when  I  grew  dry  for  a  horn. 

It  chang'd  aye  to  Tak'  it,  man,  tak'  it. 
Tlien  hey  for  the  mill,  &c. 

The  smugglers  whiles  cam'  wi'  their  packs, 

'Cause  they  kent  that  I  liked  a  bicker, 
Sae  I  bartered  whiles  wi'  the  gowks, 

Gi'ed  them  grain  for  a  soup  o'  their  liquor. 
I  had  lang  been  accustomed  to  drink, 

And  aye  when  I  purposed  to  quat  it, 
That  thing  wi'  its  clapertie  clink, 

Said  aye  to  me,  Tak'  it,  man,  tak'  it. 
Then  hey  for  the  mill,  &c. 

But  the  warst  thing  I  did  in  my  life — 

Nae  doubt  but  ye'll  think  I  was  wrang  o't — 
O'd,  I  tauld  a  bit  bodie  in  Fife 

A'  my  tale,  and  he  made  a  bit  sang  o't. 
I  have  aye  had  a  voice  a'  my  days, 

But  for  singin'  I  ne'er  gat  the  knack  o't; 
Yet  I  try  whyles,  just  thinking  to  please 

My  frien's  here,  wi'  Tak'  it,  man,  tak'  it. 
Then  hey  for  the  mill,  &c. 

Xow  miller  and  a'  as  T  am. 

This  far  I  can  see  through  the  matter; 
There's  men  mair  notorious  to  fame, 

Mair  greedy  than  me  o'  the  mutter. 
For  'twad  seem  that  the  hale  race  o'  men. 

Or  wi'  safety,  the  ha'f  we  may  mak'  it, 
llae  some  speaking  happer  within, 

That  says  aye  to  them,  Tak'  it,  man,  tak'  it. 
Then  hey  for  the  mill,  &c. 


KISS  THE  GOBLET. 

John  Wright,  born  in  Ayrshire.  Sept.  1,  1S05;  died 
in  Glasgow  about  lSo3.  lie  resided  for  some  years  at 
Canibnslang  near  Glasgow,  and  followed  the  trade  of  a 
weaver.  In  ISil  lie  issued  a  jioeni  entitled  "The  Re- 
trospect," wliieli  was  well  received  by  the  press,  and 
contains  many  beautiful  passages.  In  1843  tlie  whole 
of  liis  poetical  pieces  were  published  in  one  volume. 
The  latter  part  of  Wright's  life  was  clouded  by  iuteni- 
perauce. 

Ki.ss  the  goblet,  and  live!  it  is  sweeter  to  sip, 
And  richer  than  Beauty's  ambrosial  lip, 
And  fairer  than  fairyland  poets  have  sung, 
'Tis  the  nectar  of  Friendship's  mellifluous  tongue ! 
When  clouds  o'er  the  bright  sky  of  young  hope 

are  driven, 
Fill  the  bowl,  fill  it  highl— it  will  waft  you  to 

heaven ! 

When  Penury  shoots  his  sharp  frosts  through  the 

blood. 
Or  Passion  would  weave  ns  an  untimely  shroud, — 
When     Conscience    starts    up    like    a    sibilant 

snake, 
And  the  glory  sets  darkly  that  shone  to  awake— 
A  fire  and  a  feeling  that  must  ever  thrall, — 
Fill  the  bowl,  fill  it  highl— 'tis  the  Lethe  of  all. 

When  Obloquj-  pours  forth  her  poisonous  breath, 
And    saddens    our  sky  with   the    darkness   of 

death, — 
Wlien  Friendship's  sweet  smile  is  converted  for 

aye 
To  the  frown  of  contempt  ami  the  glance  of  di.-5- 

may; 
Though  such  clouds  lour  through  life,  and  our 

ashes  o'erhang. 
Fill  the  bowl,  fill  it  high!— it  will  soften  the  pang. 

What  is  life  but  a  load  lulled  by  languor's  dull 

chime  ? 
And  love's  a  shrunk  tree  in  the  desert  of  time. 
And  only  can  blossom  and  bloom  in  the  glow 
Of  spirit  that  beams  on  its  branches  of  woo. 
In  the  tempest  all  shattered,  leaves  pallid  and 

few ; 
Fill  the  bowl,  fill  it  high! — and  its  verdure  renew. 

What  allures  but  false  meteors  that  dance  on  our 

way '' 
Our  bosoms,  still  hea^•ing,  can  phantoms  allay? 
Pursuing,  we  wander  from  woe  to  despair — 
We  grasp,  and  the  mockery  hath  vanished  in 

air. 
I  have  searched— I  have  found  out  a  balm  for  the 

breast. 
Fill  the  bowl,  fill  it  high!— and  for  ever  be  blest. 


542 


APPENDIX. 


When  manhood  declines,  and  the  gray  hairs  of 
age 

Come  to  tell  that  we  tread  on  life's  last  leaden 
stage — 

When  the  lights  of  the  heart  all  in  darkness  sub- 
side, 

And  the  gay  hours  no  more  winged  with  ecstacy 
glide — 

When  death's  semblance  rests  on  the  spiritless 
frame — 

Fill  the  bowl,  fill  it  high!— and  rekindle  the  flame. 


TWEEDSIDE. 

Lord  Tester,  aftenvards  Marquis  of  Tweeddale; 
born  1645,  tiled  1713.  The  air  to  this  soug  is  very 
beautiful,  and  is  traditionally  ascribed  to  the  unfortun- 
ate David  Rizzio.  Another  lyric  with  the  same  title 
appeai-s  in  page  135  of  vol.  i. 

When  Maggy  and  I  were  acquaint, 

I  carried  my  noddle  fu'  hie, 
Kae  lintwhite  in  a'  the  gay  plain, 

Nae  gowdspink  sae  bonnie  as  she! 
I  whistled,  I  piped,  and  I  sang; 

I  woo'd,  but  I  cam'  nae  great  speed; 
Therefore  I  maun  Avandcr  abroad. 

And  lay  my  banes  far  frae  the  Tweed. 

To  flaggy  my  love  I  did  tell; 

My  tears  did  my  passion  express; 
Alasl  for  I  lo'ed  her  ower  weel, 

And  the  women  lo'e  sic  a  man  loss. 
Her  licart  it  was  frozen  and  cauld; 

Ilcr  pride  liad  my  ruin  decreed; 
Therefore  I  maun  wander  abroad. 

And  lay  my  banes  far  frae  the  Tn-ced. 


THE   HAPPY  LAND. 

Andrew  Young,  formerly  head -master  of  the  City 
Scliool,  Edinliurgh,  and  late  head  English  master  of 
Madras  College,  St.  Andrews;  author  of  a  volume  of 
University  prize  poems  and  other  poetical  productions. 
Mr.  Young's  earliest  hymn,  "  There  is  a  Happy  Land," 
composed  in  1S3S,  has  been  translated  into  nearly  every 
modern  language,  though  comparatively  few  are  aware 
that  its  author  is  living,  and  now  residing  in  Edin- 
burgh, in  which  city  he  was  born  early  in  tlie  iiresent 
century.  In  1876  Mr.  Young  published  a  volume  en- 
titled The  Sc'ittifh  Highlands  and  other  Poems,  which 
was  most  favourably  noticed  by  the  press,  and  has 
obtained  a  hirge  cu'culatiou. 

There  is  a  happy  land 

Far,  far  away, 
Where  saints  in  glory  stand, 

Bright,  bright  as  day. 
Oh  how  they  sweetly  sing, 
Worthy  is  our  Saviour  King; 
Loud  let  his  praises  ring — 

Praise,  praise  for  aye! 

Come  to  this  happy  land, 

Come,  come  away; 
Why  will  ye  doubting  stand — 

AVhy  still  delay? 
O  we  shall  happy  be. 
When,  from  sin  and  sorrow  free, 
Lord,  we  shall  live  with  Thee — 

Blest,  blest  for  aye. 

Bright  in  that  happy  land 

Beams  every  eye: 
Kept  by  a  Father's  hand. 

Love  cannot  die. 
On  then  to  glory  run; 
Be  a  crown  and  kingdom  won; 
And  bright  above  the  sun 

Keign,  reign  for  aye. 


INDEX. 


TITLES  OF  THE  POEMS,  BALLADS,   DEAISLITIC  PIECES,  &c. 


PAGE 

Address  to  a  Wild  Deer, 80 

Address  to  my  Auld  Blue  Bonnet, 443 

Afar  in  the  Desert, 101 

Agnes  Died, 503 

A  Lay  of  Fairy-land, 74 

Alwyn:  a  Romance  of  Study, 532 

A  Alay  Morning  in  Glenshira 306 

America, 233 

A  ^Mother's  Love, 206 

Annie  o'  Tharaw 38 

An  October  IMusing, 488 

An  old  Sermon  with  a  new  Text, 450 

Anster  Fair, 50 

A  Parable:  Tell  me, 455 

Apologue  from  "Egeria," 387 

Archie  Allan, 94 

Archy  o'  Kilspindie, 47 

A  Remembered  Spot, 239 

A  Thought, 289 

Baby  Died  To-day, 490 

Balade 40 

Beautiful  World, 322 

Bernardo  and  Alphonso, 145 

Bertram's  Last  Picture, 458 

Blood  on  the  Wheel, 502 

Bookworld, 483 

Cademuir, 465 

Casa  Wappy, 107 

Da\'id  Livingstone, 418 

Death, 377 

Death  of  Gertrude, 17 

Discovery  of  tlie  North-west  Passage 439 

Dryburgh  Abbey, 271 

Evening  (MacDiarmid), 115 

Evening  (Lyte) 13S 

Evening  Address  to  Loch  Lomond, 308 

Falling  Leaves  (Brydson), 288 

Falling  Leaves  (Ballantine) 301 

I'arewell  to  Palestine, 420 

First  Grief, 378 

Flower-life, 32!) 

Fragment  of  a  Dream, 189 

Glasgow, 475 

Going  out  and  Coming  in, 481 

Going  to  the  Country 353 

Grace  Darling's  Deathbed 139 

Gran'faither  at  Cam'slang, 150 

Grizell  Cochrane;  or,  the  Daughter  Dear,   .     .    .  538 
Guide  and  Lita, 506 


PACE 

Hallowed  Ground, 19 

Hannibal,  on  Drinking  the  Poison, 269 

Harvcst-lnime, 299 

Helen's  Tomb, 202 

Hope 3S9 

Humbie  Wood,  Abordour, 23 1 

Hymns  and  Sacred  Pieces:— 

Abide  with  me, 140 

A  Little  Wliile, 300 

All  Well, 312 

A  Lost  Day, 223 

A  ilother's  Funeral, 305 

Benedicite, 320 

Beyond 147 

"Blessed  is  the  Man  whom  Thou  Chastenest,"     SO 

Bread  on  the  Waters, 224 

Chastening, 441 

Comfort  under  Affliction SO 

Cui  Bono? l.')4 

Desire  of  Death, 223 

Dying  in  Darkness, 223 

Evening  Hymn  of  the  Alpine  Shepherds,      .     .  130 

Faith  and  Hope, 522 

Far,  far  away, 390 

Friends  I  love, 440 

Gideon's  War-song 120 

Gifts  to  God, 222 

HarpofZion, 109 

Heaven 311 

How  much  ow'st  tliou? 459 

Hynm  of  tlie  Churcliyard, 332 

Hynm— Oh  God  above, 295 

Lay  up  Treasures  in  Heaven, 301 

Litany  (Grant), S5 

Litany  (Penney), 224 

"  Lo,  we  have  left  all,  and  followed  Thee,"  .    .140 

Lucy, 311 

Nature's  Hymn, 421 

Newly  fallen  Asleep, 310 

No  more  Sea, 312 

On  the  Divine  Jlcrcy, 105 

"Our  Father," 481 

Prayer, 355 

Psalm  xlvi., lf>4 

Sacramental  Hjinn 333 

Sunday  in  the  Highlands 305 

Tlie  Deatli  of  a  Believer, 441 

The  Fuuntain  of  Life, 511 

The  Happy  Land M2 

Tlie  Last  Wish 511 

The  Lost  Eden  found  agaui .'■i04 

Tlie  Martyrs  of  Scotland, 311 

The  Meeting-place, 313 


544 


INDEX. 


PAGE 

Tlie  Sea  of  Galilee, 527 

The  Season  of  Youth, 110 

The  Star  iu  the  East, 223 

The  Young  Inquirer  and  Aged  Christian,     .     .    98 

To-morrow, 110 

Voices  from  Heaven, 537 

■\Ve  are  not  there.  Beloved ! 364 

"\VIu)ni  liave  I  iu  heaven  but  Thee?"     ...     86 
AVork  is  Prayer, 230 

Incense  of  Flowers, 437 

In  Memoriam:  the  Prince  Consort, 417 

Isabelle:  a  Legend  of  Provence, 527 

Is  not  the  Earth, 356 

John  o'  Arnha', 88 

Keats  and  David  Gray,  . 505 

Lady  Jean, 257 

Lament  of  Cona, 387 

Life's  Pilgrimage, 371 

Lines  on  a  Portrait, 138 

Lines  to  the  ilemory  of  a  Beloved  Wife,     .     .     .  525 
Lines  written  in  a  Higliland  Burial-ground,     .    .    79 

Lines  written  on  Tweedside, 147 

Lochiel's  Warning, 21 

Loch  Slvene 326 

Lord  Lindsay's  Return, 405 

Lord  lllin's  Daughter, 20 

Loughrig  Tarn, 83 

Louis  XV., 284 

Love  and  Friendship, 431 

Marlv  Bozzari, 394 

Mary  Queen  of  Scots, 273 

Mason-lodge 154 

May-day  Fancies, 357 

Middle  Age 380 

Mirabcau 285 

Monody  on  Death  of  Thomas  Campbell,      .    .    .  134 

Mortality, 108 

Musings  of  Convalescence 206 

Musings  on  the  Banks  of  the  Teviot, 328 

My  Cottage, 77 

My  -Mother's  Grave, 247 

My  Rowan-tree, 305 

My  Vis-ii-Vis, 277 

Napoleon's  Midnight  Review, 395 

October, 321 

Ode  on  the  Centenary  of  Burns 477 

Ode  to  Craigdarrocli  Water 250 

Ode  to  Memory  of  Biu'ns, 25 

Ode  to  Peace 50 

On  a  Naval  Officer  liuried  in  tlie  Atlantic,  .     .     .  138 

On  hearing  Jessica  play  Sweet  Music,     ....  4.56 

On  seeing  a  Redbreast  Shot 201 

On  seeing  a  Sun-dial  in  a  Churchyard 2.53 

On  the  Death  of  aChild  (Macl)iarniid),  .     .     .     .117 

On  the  Death  of  a  ClilM  (Weir), 157 

On  tlie  Death  of  Wellington 529 

Our  Mai7 193 

Parted  Love 350 

I'erish  the  Love 523 


TAGE 

Porti)  Santo, 438 

Remembrances  of  Xature, 384 

Retrospection, 288 

Ruth, 407 

Sabbath  Morning  in  the  Woods, 229 

Saint  Margaret, 350 

Saint  Ullin's  Pilgrim, £20 

Scotch  Words, 430 

Shadows  on  the  Wall, 485 

Shakspere, 283 

Silent  Love, 290 

Sir  Alan  Mortimer, 118 

Sir  Oluf  and  the  Elf -king's  Daughter,      ....    33 
Sonnets  :— 
If  it  must  be;  if  it  must  be,  0  God!      .    .     .     .  488 

Milton, 377 

^Moonlight  Churchyard, 171 

My  IMother, 348 

Rural  Scenery, 171 

The  Sabbath 171 

The  School  Bank, 171 

To  a  Lady, 340 

Sorrow  and  Song 380 

Squire  Maurice, 469 

Summer  Evening, 458 

Tammy  Little, 55 

Tedium  Vilw, 354 

Tempora  Mutantur, 365 

Tlie  Abdication  of  Charles  v., 408 

Tlie  Anxious  Mother, 364 

The  Approach  of  Age, 209 

The  Arrow  and  the  Rose, 214 

The  Bagpipes, 442 

The  Ballad  of  Judas  Iseariot, 496 

The  Bapteesement  o'  the  Bairn, 433 

The  Battle  of  Drumiiemoor 499 

The  Bedouins, 255 

The  Bridal  of  Andalla 148 

The  Brownie  of  Blednocli, 44 

The  Brownie  of  Fearnden, 96 

Tlie  Cameronian's  Dream, 184 

The  Cameronian's  Vision,  ....         ....  185 

The  Captive  of  Fez, 244 

The  Cliieftain's  Coronach 431 

The  Child  and  the  ilourners, 383 

The  Child  of  Promise, 307 

"Tlie  City  of  the  Crystal  Sea," 422 

The  Cloud-berry, 4G0 

The  Convict  Sliip, 200 

The  Course  of  Time, 197 

The  Dead  Mother 495 

The  Death  of  CoUimba 317 

The  Downfall  of  Dalzell, C7 

The  Dream SO 

The  Dream  Harp, 457 

The  Dying  Poet 165 

The  Earthquake 288 

The  Emigrant  Lassie, 321 

The  End 278 

The  Evening  Cloud 83 

The  Fall  of  the  Leaf 122 

The  Flitting  o'  auld  .\unty  Gartley, 532 

The  Frog  and  llie  Steer, 155 


INDEX. 


545 


PAGE 

The  Gipsies, 2S8 

The  Gloamyne  Buchte 218 

The  Grave  of  Sir  Walter  Scott 411 

The  Graves  of  Bessie  Bell  and  Mary  Gray,  .     .     .  20-1 

The  Ha  Bible 373 

The  Hart  of  Mosfennan 4GC 

The  Heart's  Dirge 202 

The  Highlander's  Wife, 444 

The  Highland  Manse, 322 

The  Holy  Cottage, 24C 

The  Interment  of  Thomas  Campbell, 393 

The  King's  Daughter, 275 

The  Lamentation  for  CeKn, 144 

The  Last  Man 22 

The  Lay  of  the  Brave  Cameron, 319 

The  Leaf  of  Woodruff, 4S9 

The  Lion  and  Giraffe, 102 

The  Longings  of  Genius, 351 

The  Master  of  Weemys, 159 

The  Mermaid  of  Galloway C4 

The  Moor  of  Rannoch, 427 

The  Morning-star, 372 

The  iluirlan'  Cottars, 91 

The  ]S^ight  before  the  Wedding, 474 

The  Old  Churchyard  of  Aberdour, 235 

The  Past, 83 

The  Peerless  One, 240 

The  Pleasures  of  Hope, 5 

The  Poet's  Grave .533 

The  Prisoner  of  Spedlins, 242 

The  River, 245 

The  Ruined  City, 484 

The  Sacramental  Sabbath, 424 

The  School  Examination 413 

The  Scottish  Sacramental  Sabbath, 1S2 

The  Sheep  and  the  Goat 450 

The  Skylark— Caged  and  Free, 150 

The  Starling, 500 

The  Streamlet 400 


PAGE 

Tlie  Templo  of  Nature 12C 

The  Three  Ages, 293 

The  Tliree  Seasons  of  Love 82 

The  Twa  Lairds  of  Lesniahagow, 517 

The  Toinl>  in  tlie  Cliancel 42!) 

The  Two  ileek  Margarets, 320 

The  Unseen 3(57 

The  Voice  of  the  Spirit, 2(J8 

The  Way  in  the  Wood 479 

The  Widow's  Wake 481 

The  Wilderness  Well 293 

The  Winter  Wild, 1(58 

The  Wooer's  Visit, 107 

To  a  Child, 2*2 

To  a  Friend 354 

To  a  Lintie, 209 

To  a  Sleeping  Child, 81 

To  a  Wild  Flower 270 

To  my  Children, 220 

To  my  First  Gray  Hair 17" 

To  my  Infant  Daughter, 170 

To  my  Mother's  Spinning-wheel 57 

To  October, 402 

To  the  Aurora  Borealis, 231 

To  the  Clyde 208 

To  the  Rhine ■i:i7 

Tragedy  of  the  Night-moth, 152 

Ulysses  m  Ogygia, 433 

Waiting  for  the  Ship, 381 

Wee  Annie  o'  Auchineden, 399 

What  makes  Summer'? 451 

While  yet  my  Breast 524 

Willie  Baird 491 

Withered  Flowers, 333 

Woodstock  Maze 34S 

Zara's  Enr-rings,    .    .  146 


FIEST    LINES    OF    THE    SONGS. 


A  bit  happy  hame  this  auld  world  would  be,  .     .  374 

Across  the  dull  and  brooding  night 483 

Afore  the  Lammas  tide, 324 

Ah!  do  not  bid  me  wake  the  lute, 29 

A  herd  laddie  sat  in  his  plaidie  o'  gi-ay 391 

Alake  for  the  lassie!  she's  no  right  at  a",     ...    37 

Alas !  my  son,  you  little  know 520 

A  lintwhite  sat  in  her  mossy  nest, 447 

All  beneath  an  Indian  sun 346 

All  lovely  and  Ijright,  'mid  the  desert,    .    .     .    .287 

Alma,  field  of  heroes,  hail ! 340 

Amang  the  breezy  heights  and  howes 250 

An  angel  came  down  in  the  still, 352 

A'  nature  lay  dead,  save  the  cauld, 300 

And  did  you  pity  me,  kind  sir? 342 

An  eiry  night,  a  cheerless  day 280 

A'  nicht  it  was  freezin' 353 

An  Indian  chief  went  forth  to  fight, 325 

Annie  she's  dowie,  and  Willie  he's  wae 455 

An'  O !  may  I  never  live  single  again 97 

Vol.  11,— Mm 


A  pretty  young  maiden  sat  on  the  grass,     .     .     .  1C9 

A  queer  kind  o'  lott'ry  is  marriage, 174 

As  I  was  Walkin'  on  the  strand 454 

A  song,  a  song,  brave  hearts,  a  song 359 

A  song  for  dun  October 461 

A  steed !  a  steed  of  matchlesse  speed,     ....  166 

At  e'ening,  whan  the  kye  war  in 270 

A  traveller,  through  a  dusty  road 386 

At  that  tide  when  the  voice  of  the  turtle,  ...  92 
At  the  silence  of  twilight's  contemplative  liour,  .    25 

At  the  stent  o'  my  string 128 

Auld  Eppie,  puir  bodie,  she  wins  on  the  brae,  ■  .  93 
Auld  Scotia's  saugs !  auld  Scotia's  sangs,  .  .  .211 
A  verse!— My  friend, 'tis  hard  to  rhyme,     .     .    .  301 

Awake,  awake  !  ye  voices  that  dwell 204 

Awake,  my  love  !  ere  morning's  ray 70 

Awake,  my  love :  the  shades  of  night 2.-.9 

Away  from  the  roar  and  the  rattle, 322 

A  wee  bird  cam'  to  our  ha'  door, 112 

A  wee  bird  sits  upon  a  spray, C14 


546 


INDEX. 


PAGE     I 

.     68 


A  wet  sheet  anil  a  flowing  sea, 

Behave  yersel'  before  folk, 59 

Beneath  a  hedge  of  thoni,  and  near, 487 

Be  still,  he  still,  thou  beating  heart, 375 

Birdie,  l)irdie,  weet  your  whistle, 337 

Blest  be  the  hour  of  night 249 

Bonnie  Jeanie  sleepit  in  a  lancsome, 448 

Bonnie  sing  the  birds  in  the  In-ight, 369 

Brightly,  Ijrightly,  tlie  moonbeam  shines,    .     .     .228 

Bright  maiden  of  Orl^ney 160 

Bright-rolled  pilgrim  from  the  North,      .     .     .     .307 
Burd  Allie  sat  doun  by  the  wimplin'  burn,  .     .     .447 

Calm  sleep  the  village  dead, 391 

Can  I  behave,  can  I  beliave, 60 

Clap,  clap  bandies  ! 448 

Come  awa',  come  awa' 103 

Come,  brawny  John  Barleycorn, 131 

Come— come— come! 3(i0 

Comin'  through  the  craigs  o'  Kyle, 518 

Confide  ye  aye  in  Providence, 303 

Courage,  brother !  do  not  stumble, 333 

Dance,  my  children,  lads  and  lasses, 333 

Dear  aunty,  what  think  ye, 227 

De  Bruce !  De  Bruce  !— with  that  proud  call,  .     .  68 

Did  ever  swain  a  nymph  adore, 512 

Doon  i"  the  glen  by  the  lown  o"  the  trees,    .    .    .530 

Doun  fair  Dalmeny's  rosy  dells, 447 

Do  ye  like,  my  dear  lassie, 127 

Each  whirl  o'  the  wheel 123 

Earth,  of  man  the  bounteous  mother 284 

Fair  Scotland,  dear  as  life  to  me, 258 

Far  along  the  empurpled  heights, 467 

Fare  thee  well,  for  I  must  leave  thee,      .    .  ' .     .180 
Flowers  of  summer,  sweetly  springing,    ....  291 

Forget  her?  mock  me  not;  behold, 368 

From  Ldchourn  to  Glenflnnan 423 

Full  white  the  Bourlwn  lily  blows, 71 

Gae,  bring  my  guid  auld  harp  ance  malr,    .     .     .194 

Gang,  Jenny,  bring  my  fishing-book, 402 

Gin  ye  wad  gang,  lassie,  to  Garryhom,    ....    SI 
Go  to  him,  then,  if  thou  canst  go, 40 

Hersell  pe  Highland  shcntleman 519 

Hoo'-s  dear  auld  IMither  Scotland,  lads,    ....  126 
How  brightly  beams  the  bonnie  moon,    ....    60 

How  eerily,  how  drearily 113 

How  sweet  the  dewy  bell  is  spread, 188 

How  sweet  tliis  lone  vale, 516 

How  sweet  to  me  the  memories, 489 

How  sweet  to  rove  at  summer's  eve, 291 

Hurra  for  the  HighlamLs! 291 

HuiTa!  for  the  land  o' the  broom-cover'd  brae,   .  397 
Huirah  for  Scotland's  worth  and  fame 344 

I  ance  knew  content 1.30 

I  cannot  give  thee  all  my  heart 335 

1  dreani'd  tliou  wort  a  fairy  harp, 386 

If  ilouglity  ileods  my  lady  please 520 

H  glorious  deeds  deserve  a  song, 359 

I  gaed  to  spend  a  week  in  Fife, 533 

1  ha'c  laid  a  herring  in  saut, 538 


FACE 

I  ha'e  seen  great  anes, 522 

I  have  come  from  the  south, 256 

I  heard  the  evening  linnet's  voice 48 

I  kenna  what's  come  ower  him, 288 

I  know  not  if  thy  spirit  weaveth  ever,  ....  354 
Ilk  ane  now-a-days  brags  awa'  'bout  his  dear, .  .  512 
I'll  think  on  thee,  love,  when  thy  bark,  ....  249 

I'll  twine  a  gowany  garland, 398 

I  lo'e  the  tones  in  mine  ear  that  rmig,    ....  254 

I  loved  thee  till  I  knew, 277 

I  love  the  land ! 216 

I  marked  the  murdering  rifle's  flash, 346 

I'm  fatherless  and  motherless, 375 

I'm  naebody  noo,  though  in  days, 271 

In  a  saft  simmer  gloamin', 164 

In  fairy  glen  of  Woodilee, 486 

Infant  winter,  young  November 338 

In  the  days  o'  langsyne,  when  we  carles,     .     .     .  181 

In  young  life's  sweet  spring-time, 367 

I  sat  in  the  vale,  'neath  the  hawthorns,  ....  195 

I  saw  a  little  lonely  cloud 490 

I  saw  my  true  love  first  on  the  banks,  ....  205 
Is  your  war-pipe  asleep,  and  for  ever,     ....  279 

It  is  a  lesson  sad  and  true, 276 

It's  hame,  and  it's  hame,  hanie  fain  wad  I  be,      .    69 

It's  monie  a  day  since  first  we  left, 539 

It's  rare  to  see  tlie  morning  bleeze, 128 

I've  been  upon  the  moonlit  deep 380 

I've  listened  to  the  midnight  w.nd, 156 

I've  loved  thee,  old  Scotia, 32 

I've  wandered  east,  I've  wandered  west,     .     .     .  162 

I've  wandered  on  the  sunny  hill, 315 

I  walk'd  liy  mysel'  owre  the  sweet  braes,     ...     81 

I  was  a  nursling  of  untrodden  soA, 540 

I  will  sing  a  song  of  summer, 4S0 

I  will  think  of  thee  yet, 280 

I  winna  gae  back  to  my  youthfu'  haunts,    .    .    .  403 

I  winna  love  the  laddie  that  ca's 192 

I  wish  we  were  hame  to  our  aiu  folk,      ....  195 

Keen  blaws  the  wind  o'er  Donocht-head,  ...  42 
Kiss  the  goblet,  and  live ! 541 

Let  Italy  boast  of  her  bloom-shaded  waters,    .     .  1S9 

Let  ither  anglers  choo;e  their  aln 328 

Let  time  and  chance  combine,  combine,      .     .     .  153 

Let  us  haste  to  Kelvin  Grove, 129 

Let  us  owre  to  Campsie  Glen,  bonnie  lassie,    .    .  210 

Let  us  rove,  Jessie,  rove, 123 

Let  wrapt  musicians  strike  the  lyre, 121 

Like  an  arrow  through  the  air 391 

Lilly  Lorn  gaed  doun  the  sliaw, 448 

Lived  a  knieht  in  tower, 521 

Loo'st  thou  the  thistle  that  blooms, 296 

Louisa's  but  a  lassie  yet, 42 

Low  spake  the  knight  to  the  peasant-girl,   .     .     .  282 

3Iaid  of  my  heart— a  long  farewell 103 

Mark  ye  how  the  Czar 304 

Maxwelton's  banks  are  Ixmnie, ul5 

Men  grew  sae  eauld,  maids  saa  unkind,  ....  204 

'Mid  the  thunder  of  l)attle, 345 

^Mournfully!  O,  mournfully! l'J5 

My  Bessie,  oh!  but  look 314 

My  boat's  by  the  tower, 216 


INDEX. 


547 


My  brothers  are  the  stately  trees, 100 

My  certy !  but  it  sets  him  weel 535 

My  coutliie  aukl  wifie 397 

My  heid  is  like  to  lend,  Willie 163 

My  love,  c<ime  let  us  wander, 157 

My  mither  meu't  my  auld  broeks, 01 

My  wife's  a  wiusome  wee  thing, 40 

Nae  sweetheart  hae  I, 373 

Kainsel  pe  Maister  Shon  M'Nab, 58 

'Neath  the  wave  thy  lover  sleeps, 157 

Ne'er  trow  the  day  will  lour  throughout,  .  .  .302 
Night's  finger  hath  prest  down  the  eyelids,      .     .  343 

No  mortal  hand,  save  mine  hath  yet, 28(i 

Now  hands  to  seedsheet,  Ijoys 153 

Now  simmer  decks  the  fields  wi'  flowers,  ...  35 
Now  there's  peace  on  tlie  shore, 144 

O  blessings  attend  my  sweet  wee  laddie,     ...    39 

O  bonnie  are  the  howes, 325 

O!  brave  Caledonians !  my  brotliers 109 

O  bright  the  beaming  queen  o'  night,  .  .  .  .514 
O  !  come  with  me,  for  the  queen  of  night,  ...  48 
O  England !  dear  liome  of  the  lovely  and  true,  .  92 
O'er  all  the  streams  that  Scotia  pours,    ....  401 

O'er  the  mist-shrouded  cliffs, 105 

Of  Nelson  and  the  North, 22 

O !  gin  I  were  where  Oadie  rins, 211 

O  hark  to  the  strain  that  sae  sweetly,      ....  416 

Oh,  bonnie's  the  lily  tliat  blooms, 297 

Oh!  dinna  ask  me  gin  I  lo'e  thee 516 

O  heard  ye  yon  pibroch  sound  sad, 23 

Oil,  haiid  na  yer  noddle  sae  hie, 228 

Oh,  leave  me  not !  the  evening  horn-, 173 

Oh !  mitlier.  John  Frost  cam'  yestreen,  .     .     .     .464 

Oh!  scenes  of  my  childhood, 26 

Oh  I  softly  sighs  tlie  westlin'  lireeze 252 

Oh !  stopna,  bonnie  bird,  that  strain,      ....  114 

Oh !  tempt  me  not, 205 

Oh,  the  queer  auld  man,  the  dear  auld  man,  .     .  227 

Oh,  waste  not  thy  woe  on  the  dead 410 

Oh,  wha's  at  the  window,  wha,  wha? 99 

Oh,  wliere  are  the  pretty  men  of  yore?   .     .     .     .243 

Oh!  why  left  I  my  hame? ISO 

Oh,  will  ye  walk  the  wood  wi' me? 222 

Oh  !  years  hae  come,  an'  years  hae  gane,     .     .     .  315 
Oh  yes,  there's  a  valley  as  calm  and  as  sweet,      .    99 

O  Islay !  sweet  Islay ! 535 

O  lassie  ayont  the  hill, 453 

O !  lassie  I  lo'e  dearest ! 103 

O  lassie,  wilt  thou  gang  wi'  me, 45 

Old  England,  warlike  England 223 

0  leeze  me  on  the  glen 297 

O,  Leezie  M'Cutcheon,  I  canna  but  say,       .     .     .  132 

O  let  me  sit  as  evening  falls,       404 

O  Logie  o'  Buchan,  O  Logie  the  laird 521 

O  love,  whose  patient  pilgrim  feet 487 

O,  my  love's  like  the  steadfast  sun, 66 

On  Annan's  banks,  in  life's  gay  morn,      .    .     .     .526 

Once  more,  Eliza,  let  me  look 132 

Once  more  on  the  broad-bo;om'd  ocean,      .     .     .  324 
Once  William  swore  the  sacred  oath,      ....  114 

On  Linden,  when  the  sun  was  low, 23 

On  tlie  banks  o'  the  burn 36 

On  this  unfrequented  plain, 31 


TACE 

O,  Po'k-head  wood  is  bonnie 2*7 

0  Saturday's  sun  sinks  down  witli  a  smile,  ...    70 

O  sing  and  rejoice 405 

O  sing  me  tlie  song, SW 

O  sweet  are  the  blossoms  o'  tl.e  hawthorn,      .     .  2U.J 

0  sweet  the  May  morn 124 

O  the  birds  of  bonnie  Scotland 400 

O!  the  bonnie  braes  o' Scotland, ISO 

O  the  days  when  1  strutted, 410 

0!  the  happy  days  o' youth  fu-e  fast  gac.ii  .  ■,      .  179 

Our  bugles  sang  truce 2(5 

Our  native  land    our  native  vale 103 

Our  sail  has  ta'en  the  blast, 127 

Our  wean's  the  most  wonderfu'  we.m 330 

Over  . Mulls  mountains  gray 304 

Over  the  liills  the  wintry  wind 360 

O  weel  may  the  boatie  row 516 

O  welcome  winter !  wi'  thy  storms 105 

0,  wha  are  sae  happy  as  me  and  my  Janat?     .    .  179 
0!  what  is  this  warld,  wi' its  wealtli,      .    .    .    .178 

0  wliere  is  tinye  Hewe  ? 219 

O  will  ye  go  to  yon  burn  side 45 

0  ye  tears !  0  ye  tears ! 3S4 

Past  sleeping  thorp  and  guarded  tower,      .    .    .430 

Pawkie  Adam  Glen, .97 

Pit  his  back  against  a  chair 50 1 

Place  we  a  stone  at  liis  head  and  his  feet,   .    .    .  217 
Preserve  us  a' !  what  shall  we  ilo, 53j 

Raise  high  the  battle-song Ill 

Red  rows  the  Nith  'tween  bank  and  brae,  ...  70 

Rise,  little  star 440 

Rise,  rise  !  Lowland  and  Highland  men,      .    .    .  ?M 

Rising  o'er  the  heaving  billow 51.'> 

Roll  away,  you  shining  rill, 514 

Roy's  wife  of  Aldivalloch, 5^0 

Scotland !  the  land  of  all  I  love 241 

See  tlie  glow-worm  lits  her  fairy  lamp 130 

She's  aff  and  awa',  like  the  lang  summer  day,      .  232 
She's  gane  to  dwall  in  heaven,  my  lassie,    ...    67 

She  was  Naebody's  Bairn 302 

She  whose  lang  loose  unbraided  hair 229 

Sing  a'  ye  Ijards,  wi'  loud  acclaim 113 

Sing,  sing  the  brae, — the  odorous  lime 358 

Sing,  sweet  thrushes,  forth  and  sing !      ....  327 

Sister  Jeanie,  haste,  we'll  go, -51 

Sit  ye  down  here,  my  cronies 31 

Some  grow  fu'  proud  o'er  bags  o"  gowJ 370 

Star  that  bringest  home  the  bee, 27 

Sweet  brooklet  ever  gliding 87 

Sweet  lady,  there  was  nought  in  me 232 

Sweet  Lammas  moon,  thy  silvery  beiun,      .     .     .227 

Sweet,  sweet  is  the  rose-bud, I"''* 

Sweet  the  bard,  and  sweet  his  strain 106 


Tell  me,  dear '  in  mercy  speak, 

The  auld  folks  sit  by  the  fti'e 

The  auld  meal  mill— oh,  the  auld  meal  mill.   . 

The  autumn  winds  are  Idawing, 

The  blue  l)ell,  the  blue  bell 

The  bonnie  wee  well  on  the  breist  o"  the  brae. 
The  breeze  blows  fresh,  my  gallant  mates,  .  . 
The  breezes  of  this  venial  day, 


416 
291 
343 
178 
339 
402 
280 
287 


543 


INDEX. 


PAGE 

The  cantie  spring  scarce  rear'd  her  head,  .  .  .  42 
The  cauld  north  wind  has  soughed  awa',     .     .     .  172 

The  corbie  wi'  his  roupy  tluoat, 69 

The  cranreuch's  on  my  heid, 398 

The  cronacli  stills  the  dowie  heart, 39 

The  daylight  was  dying 379 

The  evening  sun  has  closed  the  day 97 

The  fairies  are  dancing— how  nimbly 536 

The  feeding  shower  comes  brattlin'  doun,  .  .  .  301 
The  flag  of  battle  on  its  staff  liangs  drooping,      .  215 

The  glory  of  the  starry  night, 341 

The  gondola  glides 207 

The  hairst  now  is  owre, 531 

The  hour  is  come— too  soon  it  came, 233 

The  knell  of  night— the  chime, 530 

The  laddies  plague  me  for  a  sang, 414 

The  lark  had  left  the  evening  cloud, G9 

The  last  gleam  o'  sunset  in  ocean, 170 

The  little  comer's  coming, 246 

The  moon  has  rowed  her  in  a  cloud 337 

The  morning  breaks  bonnie  o'er  mountain,      .     .  204 

The  morning-star's  waning, 369 

The  neighbours  a'  they  wonder  how 32 

The  nicht  is  mirk,  and  the  wind  blaws  shlU,   .     .  164 

The  oak  is  Britain's  pride 328 

There  cam  a  man  to  our  toon-en", 453 

There  came  to  the  beach  a  poor  exils,     ....     24 

There  is  a  bonnie  blushing  flower, 292 

There  is  a  concert  in  the  trees 332 

There  is  a  country  gentleman 335 

There  is  a  wail  in  the  wind  to-night, 432 

There  lives  a  young  lassie, 213 

There's  a  good  time  coming,  boys, 383 

There's  cauld  kail  in  Aberdeen, 519 

There's  kames  o'  hinnie  'tween  my  luve's  lips,     .     71 

There's  meikle  bliss  in  ae  fond  kiss, 415 

There's  na  ane  cares  for  me  now, 231 

There's  nae  hame  like  the  hame  o'  youth,   .     .     .  374 

There's  the  spunkie  o'  the  town, 445 

The  Rover  of  Lochryan  he's  gane 126 

The  spice-tree  lives  in  tlie  garden  green,  .  .  .  233 
The  spring  comes  linking  and  jinking,    ....  337 

The  sun  had  slipped  ayont  the  hill, 121 

The  sun  looked  through  an  evening  cloud,      .    .    41 

The  sun  rises  liright  in  France 71 

The  sweets  o"  the  simmer  invite  us, 33 

The  time  I  saw  thee,  Cora,  last 24 

The  Torwood  Oak !  How  like  a  spell 263 

The  winds  were  wiiistling  loud  and  shrill,  .  .  .  368 
The  Woodland  Queen  in  her  bower  of  love,  .  .  188 
They  come !  the  merry  summer  months,  .  .  .161 
They  conic,  they  come,  in  a  glorious  march,  .  .  4S3 
They  lighted  a  taper  at  the  dead  of  night,  ...     27 

Think  on  tlie  time  when  thy  heart 340 

Tliou  dark  stream,  slow  wending 201 

Thougli  long  the  wanderer  may  depart,  ....  440 
Thou  nameless  loveliness,  whose  mind,  ....    29 

Thou'rt  sair  alter'd  now,  May 212 

Thou  walk'st  in  tender  liitht, 237 

Tlio'  wcel  I  lo'e  the  Imdding  spring 3:57 

Throu'.'h  tlic  wood,  through  the  wood,    .     .     .     .271 

Thy  memory,  as  a  spell 238 

lliy  (|Ueenly  hand,  Victoria 356 


PAOE 

Tic,  tic,  tic  ! 175 

'Tis  the  fa'  o'  the  leaf, 390 

'Tis  Sabbath  morn,  and  a  holy  balm, 404 

Toll  no  sullen  bell  for  me, 394 

To  otlier  climes  on  changing  wing 200 

To  the  West !  to  the  West ! 3S7 

Touch  once  more  a  sober  measure, 143 

'Twas  summer,  and  softly  the  breezes 537 

'Twas  summer-tide;  the  cushat  sang 521 

'Twas  when  the  wan  leaf,        36 

Two  seas,  amid  the  night, 281 

Wake,  soldier !  wake  ! 207 

Waning  life  and  weary, 230 

Wee  Joukydaidles, 446 

Wee  Willie  Winkle, 335 

We  love  but  once;  in  after  life, 368 

Were  I  a  doughty  cavalier, 243 

We  sate  in  a  green  verandah's  shade,      ....  256 

We  were  baith  neeljor  bairns, 481 

Wha  is  he  I  hear  sae  crouse, 315 

What  might  lie  done  if  men  were  wise,  ....  385 
What  soft  low  sounds  are  these  I  hear,  ....  396 

When  a'  ither  bairnies  are  hushed, 205 

When  autumn  comes  an'  heather  bells,  ....  523 
When  autumn  has  laid  her  sickle  l)y,      ....     41 

When  breastin'  up  against  life's  tide, 345 

When  day  declining  gilds  the  west 116 

When  evening's  lengthened  shadows  fall,    .     .    .  267 

When  I  think  on  the  sweet  smiles, 34 

Wlien  I  was  a  miller  in  iFife, 540 

When  Maggy  and  I  were  acquaint 542 

When  mony  a  year  had  come  and  gane 406 

When  my  flocks  upon  the  heathy  hill,  ....  194 
When  Phoebus  bright  the  azure  skies,  ....  513 
When  spring  arrayed  in  flowers,  Jlary,  ....  210 

When  springtime  gi'es  the  heart  a  lift 127 

When  the  beech-nuts  fast  are  drappin" 463 

When  the  frost  is  on  the  grun', 339 

When  the  lark  is  in  the  air, 116 

When  thou  art  near  me 537 

When  thy  smile  was  still  clouded  in  gloom,    .    ■.     28 

When  wearie  wi'  toil, 173 

Where  did  you  come  from,  baby  dear?  ....  452 
Where  Manor  stream  rins  blithe  and  clear,     .     .  178 

Where  the  purple  heather  blooms, 375 

Why  hies  yonder  wicht, 176 

Why  is  my  spirit  sad? 278 

Wi'  drums  and  pipes  the  clachan  rang 31 

Wifle,  come  hame, 302 

Will  ye  gang  wi'  me  and  fare, 428 

With  lofty  song  we  love  to  cheer 360 

With  the  sunshine,  and  the  swallows 429 

Would  that  I  were  where  wildwoods  wave,     .     .  194 

Ye  breezes,  blaw  saft  as  the  coo  o'  the  dove,   .    .  339 

Ye'll  a'  get  a  bidding  to  Sandyford  Ha' 290 

Ye  Mariners  of  England  ! 20 

Yes!  the  shades  we  must  leave 29 

Ye  who  have  scorned  cacli  other, 3S5 

Young  Randal  was  a  lionnie  lad 242 

You've  come  early  to  see  us  this  year,    ....  338 

You've  surely  heard  of  famous  iNeil 52b 


G  L  O  S  S  A  E  Y 


We  add  the  following  general  i-ules  regarding  the  distinctions  hetwecn  English  and  Scottish 
orthography  in  words  which  are  orig-inally  the  same,  having  only  a  letter  changcil  for  another,  or 
sometimes  one  taken  away  or  added: — 

1.  lu  many  words  ending  witli  I  after  a,  o,  or  u,  the  I  is  rarely  sounded  in  Scotland;  as,  All  (Englisli). 
4' (Scots): -Call,  Ca'— Small,  S);i«'— False,  Fawse— italt,  J/a»(--Full,  y-'K'— Pull,  I'u.  itc. 

2.  The  I  changes  in  Scotland  to  w  or  if  after  a  or  o,  and  is  fre(iuently  sunk  before  another  consonant;  as, 
Balm,  Brticm— Balk,  BaiiJc—BoU,  iJow^Poll,- Pou'— Fault,  Faut,  &c. 

3.  An  0  before  hi  changes  to  a  or  an;  as.  Old,  .t»W— Bold,  L'rti/id— Cold,  CawW— Told,  Tattld.  &c. 

4.  The  o,  oc,  oic,  is  changed  to  a,  ae,  or  ai;  as,  Oif,  J/— Toe,  Tat  -Own,  J/n— Cloth,  a«i7/i— Most,  MaUt 
— Song,  Sang,  &c. 

5.  The  0  or  u  is  fre(iuently  changed  into  i;  as.  Another,  J JiiJio— Brother,  £/ it/icr— Foot,  Fit— Honey, 
//ijiji?/— Nuts,  Nits—Kun,  lUn,  &c. 


A\  all. 

Ahack,  away,  aloof. 

Abeet,  albeit,  although. 

Aheigh.  at  a  shy  distance,  aside. 

Abuoji,  abune,  above,  up. 

Abread,  abroad,  in  sight. 

Abreed,  in  breadth. 

Acquaint,  acqtieiit,  acquainted. 

Adle,  putrid  water. 

Ae,  one,  only,  always. 

Aeteti,  oaten. 

Af,  off;  aff-loof,  off-han  I. 

Afore,  before. 

Aft,  oft;  often,  often. 

Aglee,  off  the  right  line. 

Aliint,  behind. 

Aiblins,  ablins,  perhaps,  possibly. 

Aih;  oak. 

Ailin.  sickness,  ailment. 

Ain,  own;  aim^ell,  ownself 

Air,  early,  before;  air  up,  soon  up 

in  the  morning. 
Airles,  earnest  or  hiring  money. 
Aim,  iron;  a  mason's  chisel. 
Airt,  to  direct,  to  urge. 
Airtg,  points  of  the  compass. 
Aith,  an  oath. 
Aits,  oats. 

Aiver,  a  work-horse,  a  he-gont. 
Aizle,  a  hot  cinder. 
Alake.  alas ! 
A-loice,  on  fire. 
Amaist,  almost. 
Ambrie,  aumrie,  a  cupboard. 
An,  and,  if. 

Anent,  over-against,  concerning. 
A7ies,  ains,  once;  anes-eirand,  on 

purpose. 
Aneueh,  aneiv,  enough. 
Anither,  anothei'. 
Ase,  ashes. 
Asklent.  aslant. 
Asteer,  stirring. 
Atams,  at  once,  at  the  same  time. 


Athort,  athwart,  across. 

Attour,  out-over. 

Auld,  old. 

Aiild-f arrant,  sagacious,  cunning. 

Auld  langsyne,  olden  time. 

Aidd  Nick,  the  devil. 

Aidd  Reekie,  Edinlnn-gh. 

Auld-warld,  old-fashioned. 

Aumous,  an  alms. 

Ava,  at  all. 

Awa',  away. 

A-icill,  voluntarily. 

Awnie,  bearded,  as  grain. 

Awsonie,  frightful. 

Aynd,  the  breath. 

Ayont,  beyond. 

B 

Ba\  ball. 

Bab,  a  nosegay;  a  tassel,  cockade. 

Backet,  baikie,  an  ash  or  coal  ves- 
sel, a  coal-scuttle. 

Backets,  ash-boards. 

Backlins,  l)ack,  backwards. 

Back-sey,  a  sirloin. 

Bad,  did  bid. 

Badrons,  or  bandions,  a  cat. 

Baggie,  the  belly. 

Baid,  stayed,  aliode. 

Baide,  endured. 

Baillie,  a  magistrate. 

Bainie,  having  large  bones. 

Bair,  a  bear,  a  boar. 

Ba  irn,  a  child. 

Baith,  both. 

Baleen,  whalebone. 

Baloo,  hush! 

Ban,  to  curse,  to  rcproas'.i. 

Bane,  bone. 

Banefire,  bonfire. 

Bang,  haste;  a  blow;  a  great  num- 
ber; to  strive,  to  beat. 


Bangster,  a  violent  person. 
Ba)tnock,  a  cake  of  bread. 
Bap,  a  roll  of  bread. 
Bardie,  dinnnutive  of  bard. 
Bardily,  boldly,  pertly. 
Barejit,  barefooted. 
Barley-bree,  malt  li<mor,  whisky. 
Barlichood,  a  fit  of  drunken,  angry 

passion. 
Batts.  colic,  botts. 
Tiauch.  indifferent,  son-y. 
Bauchle,  an  old  shoe. 
Batik,  to  frustrate;  a  rafter-joist; 

a  strip  of  land  left  unjiloughcd. 
Bauld,  bohl. 
Baion,  balm. 

Bau-bee,  a  halfpenny;  pi.  money. 
Bawsint.  hairsand.  having  a  white 

spot  on  the  face,  as  a  cow. 
Bau'fy,  name  for  a  dog. 
Baxter,  a  baker. 

Be  {to  let),  to  cease,  not  to  mention. 
Beadsman,  a  poor  pensioner. 
Bear,  barley. 

Beastie,  dinnnutive  of  beast. 
Beck,  to  cringe;  a  curtsy;  a  rivulet. 
Bedeen,  bedcne,  ([uickly. 
Beek,  to  bask  in  the  sun  or  at  the 

fire;  to  perspire. 
Beet,  to  add  fuel  to  fire,  to  help. 
Begoud.  began. 
Begrutten.  all  in  tears. 
Begunk,  a  trick. 
Beild,  or  bield.  shelter. 
Bein,  comfortable,  well-to-do. 
Beld,  balil. 

Beltane,  the  1st  of  May  (old  style). 
Belyve,  by-and-by. 
Ben,  ])aiIour;  to  or  towards  the 

inner  ai)artment  of  a  house. 
Bend,  a  iiull  of  liiiuor. 
Bcnd-the-bicker,  (juatf  out  the  cup. 
Benew.  below,  beneath. 
Beniaon,  blessing. 


550 


GLOSSAEY. 


Benmost,  inmost. 

Bent,  the  open  field;  to  talc  the  bent, 
to  run  away. 

Betoueh-ii-s-to,  Heaven  preserve  usl 

Benk,  bakeil;  also,  a  book. 

Bicker,  a  ilrinking-cup;  a  race. 

Bickerino,  fighting,  quarrelling. 

Bide,  stay,  reside,  endure. 

Big,  to  build;  biggit,  budt. 

Biggin,  a  house. 

Bigonet,  a  linen  cap  or  coif. 

BiUie,  a  brother,  a  companion. 

Bink,  a  bank  of  earth,  a  bencii. 

Binmost,  uppermost. 

Binna,  be  not. 

Birk,  the  l)irch-tree. 

Birkie,  a  forward,  lively  fellow. 

Bide,  to  carouse,  to  drink. 

Bini,  a  bunu  mark,  a  burden. 

Birges,  bristles. 

Birze,  to  bruise. 

Bite  and  gowp,  meat  and  drink. 

Bittock,  a  little  bit,  short  distance. 

Blab,  blub,  a  small  globe  or  bubble 
of  any  liquid. 

Blae,  black  and  blue,  the  colour  of 
the  skin  when  bruised. 

Blaeberry,  the  whortleberry. 

Blaflton,  to  beguile. 

Blan,  caused  to  cease. 

Blagliji,  deluging,  thin,  weak. 

Blastie,  a  slirivelled  dwarf. 

Blaxtit,  Idasted. 

Blate,  bashful,  sheepish. 

Blatter,  a  lattling  noise. 

Blau\  to  blow,  to  l)oast. 

Blawart,  a  l)lue  flower. 

Bleerit,  bleared. 

Bleezing,  bleixing,  l)lazing. 

Blelliun,  an    idle-talking   fellow; 
blelUnng,  idle  talk; 

Blether,  to  talk  nonsense. 

Blether-akate ,  an  indistinct  or  in- 
discreet talker. 

Blin,  cease:  also,  blind. 

Blink,  a  little  while;  to  shine  by 
fits. 

Blinker,  a  term  of  contempt. 

Blinket,  looked  kindly. 

Bluid,  blood. 

Bliintie,  snivelling. 

Bbjpe,  a  shred,  a  large  piece. 

Boat,  a  cupl)oar(l  in  the  wall. 

Bob,  nosegay;  also,  to  bow. 

Bobbin,  a  weaver's  (|nill. 

Bo>>bit  bnndg,  tasselle<l  bands. 

Bock,  or  boke,  to  retch. 

Bode,  a  juice  offered. 

Bodin,  or  bodden,  furnished. 

Bodle,  a  small  copper  coin  =  JiZ. 

Boggie,  a  marsh. 

Bugleho,  hobgiiblin. 

Bimnie,  hanilsmne,  beautiful. 

Bonntiirnljix,  tuys,  gewgaws. 

Bonspit'l,  a  curling  or  golf  match. 

Boo,  to  bow. 

Boots,  boys'  marbles. 

Booxt.  was  under  a  necessity  of. 

Bniik,  ))nlk.  a  whole  carcass. 

Bonrd,  jest  or  dally. 
Hour-tree,  the  elder-tree. 

Bougcr,  a  rafter. 


Bonze,  to  drink. 

Bow,  a  IjuU  (a  dry  measure). 

Bowie,  a  small  barrel  or  cask. 

Bowt,  a  bolt;  bent. 

Brae,  a  hillside. 

Brag,  vaunt. 

Braid,  Ijroad. 

Brainzel,  to  break  foi'th  violently. 

Braken,  or  brecken,  the  fern. 

Brander,  a  gridiron. 

Brands,  brawns,  calves  of  the  legs. 

Bra  ng,  brought. 

Brangle,  to  shake,  to  threaten. 

Bra  nkan,  prancing. 

Brankg,  wooden  curbs  for  horses. 

Brattle,  a  clattering  noise. 

Braw,  gaily  apparelled,  handsome; 

braws,  fine  clothes. 
Bra  wig,  very  well,  easily. 
Bree,  broo,  liquor;  the  eyebrow. 
Brent,  smooth,  clear. 
Brig,  a  bridge. 
Brigg,  to  press. 
Broad,  a  board. 
Brochin,  oatmeal  gruel. 
Brock,  a  Ijadger. 
Brogue.^,  sheepskin  shoes. 
Broicher,  to  perspire. 
Brose,  a  kind  of  pottage. 
Brou'den,  fond. 
Broicgt,  a  brewing. 
Brnik,  to  enjoy. 
Brnlzie,  a  brawl,  a  quarrel. 
Bruingtane,  brimstone. 
Brunt,  browned,  burned. 
Baekie,  a  shell-fish. 
Buckled,  married. 
Buff,  to  strike. 

Buglit,  a  pen  for  holding  sheep. 
Bughted,  winding,  knotted. 
Buirdbj,  stout-made. 
Buller,  to  bubble. 
Buuibazed,  confused. 
Duinude,  to  lilunder  or  bungle. 
Bunker,  chest  used  for  a  seat. 
Burn,  hurnie,  a  stream. 
Bugk,  to  dress. 
Bugs,  a  shelter,  a  bush. 
Bugtine,  fustian,  cloth. 
But  an'  ben,  the  country  kitchen 

and  parlour. 
But.  without. 
Bg-li itugel',  distracted. 
Hgke,  a  hive  of  bets  or  wasps. 
Bgnge,  to  cringe. 
Byre,  a  co.v-house. 

c 

Ca',  to  call,  to  name;  to  drive. 
Cadge,  to  carry. 
Cadgle,  jovial,  happy. 
Cadgibi,  jauntily,  ducrfully. 
Cadie,  a  porter,  erraml-gocr. 
Caff,  cauf,  chatt";  a  calve. 
Callan.  a  boy. 
Caller,  cool,  fresh,  soimd. 
Caingtrarie.  uninanageable,  cross. 
Cangle.  to  wrangle. 
Canker'd,  angry,  snarling. 
CawM',  cannot. 


Cannie,  gentla,  cautious. 

Cantie,  cheerful,  disposed  to  s'ng. 

Cantrij)g,  charms,  incantations. 

Ca2),  a  wooden  bowl. 

Cupernoited,  whimsical. 

Carena,  care  not. 

Carle,  an  old  man. 

Carline,  an  old  woman. 

Carlingg,  pease  boiled. 

Carritcli,  a  catechism. 

Carteg,  playing-cards. 

Ca.itockg,  cugtocks,  cabbage-sta'ks. 

Cauk,  chalk. 

Cauldrife,  chilling,  wanting  cheer- 
fulness. 

Caugeg,  causeway,  the  street. 

Chafts,  chops,  the  jaws. 

Chancy,  lucky,  happy. 

Chanter,  the  drone  of  a  bagpipe. 

Chap,  a  knock,  a  blow;  a  young 
fellow. 

Cheep,  to  chirp. 

Chiel,  or  chield,  a  fellow  (in  a  good 
or  bad  sense). 

Chimlie,  fireplace,  chimney. 

Chirm,  to  chirp  like  a  bird. 

Chitter,  to  chatter,  to  shiver. 

Chuck,  a  chicken. 

Chxickieg,  hens  or  chickens. 

Chvffic,  fat-faced. 

Claigc,  clacs,  clothes. 

Clartti,  clatty.  dirty,  nasty. 

Clagh,  to  tell  tales. 

Clatter,  to  tell  idle  stories. 

Clavght,  laid  hold  of. 

Clavcr,  to  talk  idly. 

Clait',  to  scratch. 

deck,  to  hatch  or  breed. 

Cled,  or  eleed,  clad,  clothed. 

Cleelc,  to  catch  as  with  a  hook,  to 
go  arm  in  arm. 

Cleg,  the  gad-fly. 

Cleugh,  a  clifi"  or  cave. 

Clink,  money. 

Clighmaclavers,  idle  chatter. 

Clock,  to  hatch;  a  beetle. 

Clockgie,  vivacious. 

Cloit,  a  stupid  fellow;  a  fall. 

Cloot,  a  cloven  lioof. 

Clootie,  tlie  devil. 

Clovr,  lump  caused  by  a  blow. 

Clout,  to  strike;  to  mend. 

Clud,  a  cloud. 

Clvikit,  fastened. 

Coble,  a  fisliing-l)oat. 

Cockeinong,  a  woman's  hair  tied 
ui>  witl)  a  snood  or  band. 

Cockie-leekie,  sou])  made  of  a  cock 
boiled  with  leeks. 

Cockstool,  a  pillory. 

Cock-up,  a  cap  turned  up  in  front. 

Cod,  a  pillow. 

Coff,  to  buy,  to  purchase. 

Cog,  or  coggie.  a  wooden  dish. 

Collie,  a  sheplierd's  dog. 

Collieghangie.  an  uproar,  squabble. 

Coof,  cui/,  a  fool,  a  blockluad. 

Cooger,  a  stoneil  horse. 

Coost,  cuigt.  did  cast. 

Corbie,  a  raven. 

Corrie,  a  hollow  in  a  hill. 

Cosh,  neat,  snug. 


GLOSSARY, 


551 


Cosy,  snus. 

CoKt,  a  colt,  a  young  horse. 

Couthie,  kiiul,  loving. 

Cowed,  cliiipecl  short;  subdued. 

Cower,  com;  to  stoop,  to  croucli. 

Coiop,  to  tumble;  to  barter. 

Cowt,  a  strong  stick. 

Crack,  to  converse  kindly. 

Craii),  a  rock;  the  neck,  throat. 

Cratnasie,  crimson. 

Cranrciich,  hoar-frost. 

Cranshncli,  a  distorted  person. 

Crap,  creeped;  a  crop. 

Craw,  crow. 

Creel,  basket. 

Creepii,  a  low  stool. 

Creeshie,  greasy. 

Crine,  cry}).,  to  shrivel. 

Croft,  a  tenement  of  land. 

Croil,  a  crooked  dwarf. 

Croodle,  to  sing  with  a  low  voice. 

Croon,  to  lium  a  tune. 

Crouchie,  hunclibacked. 

Croud,  to  coo  as  a  dove. 

Crouse,  brisk,  bold. 

Crove,  a  cottage. 

Crowdij,  mixture  of  meal  and  water. 

Crowdij-mowdy,    milk    and    meal 
boiled  together. 

Cruminij,  term  for  a  cow. 

Crunt,  a  blow  on  the  head. 

Crusie,  a  small  iron  lamp. 

Caddie,  an  ass. 

Cuddle,  to  embrace. 

Cudeigh,  a  bribe,  present. 

Culzie,  to  flatter. 

Cummer,  a  female  gossip. 

Cuminock,  a  short  staff. 

Can,  to  taste,  to  leani. 

Cuni/ie,  coin. 

CurUng,  a  game  on  the  ice. 

Curmudgeon,  a  mean  fellow. 

Curn^  a  grain,  a  particle,  a  hand- 
mill. 

Cursche,  a  kerchief,  a  linen  dress. 

Cuttie,  or  cuftn,  a  short  pipe;  a 
light  or  worthless  woman. 


D 

Dab,  to  peck;  a  proficient. 

Dad,   daud,   to   beat    one  object 

against  another. 
Daddie,  father. 
Daff,  to  make  fun,  to  l)e  gay. 
Daft,  foolish,  giddy,  insane. 
Daidlin,  loitering,  trifling. 
Daimen,  rare,  now  and  tlien. 
Daiiitiths,  delicacies. 
Dainty,  pleasant,  good-humoured. 
Daiz'd,  stupified;  rotten. 
Dander,  daunder,  to  saunter,  to  go 

about  idly. 
Dang,  to  beat,  to  push. 
Dantlt,  subdued,  tamed  down. 
Darklim,  darkling. 
Darn,  to  secrete,  hide. 
Dash,  to  put  out  of  countenance. 
Daud,  a  blow;  a  large  piece. 
Dawt,  to  caress  with  tenderness. 
Dawtie,  a  pet,  a  darling. 


Dens,  a  tui-f  seat  on  the  outside  of 

a  cottage. 
Deave,  to  stun  the  ears  with  noise. 
Dees,  dairymaids. 
Deid,  death,  dead,  the  dead. 
Dcil.  the  devil. 
Deilbe-liket,  the  devil  a  bit! 
Deil-ma-care,  no  matter! 
Deray.  jollity,  disorder. 
Dern,  hidden,  secret. 
Diddle,  to  sliake. 
Dight.  decked;  also,  to  clean. 
Digit  ted,  wiped,  cleaned. 
Din,  dun,  sallow. 
Ding,  to  push,  to  drive  down. 
Dink,  prim,  precise;  to  dress  neatly. 
Dinle,  to  tremble,  to  vibrate. 
Dinna,  do  not. 
Dinsomf,  noisy. 
Dint,  affection,  regard. 
Dirdum,  a  tumult;  a  blow. 
Dirle,  a  pain  ([uickly  over. 
Disjaskit,   appearing  aged  or  de- 
cayed. 
Dit,  to  stop  a  hole;  to  caress. 
Diver,  a  boy's  kite. 
Dicot,  a  thin  Hat  turf. 
Dochter,  a  daughter. 
Doddy,  a  cow  without  liorns. 
Doilt,  silly,  stupid. 
Doit,  a  small  coin  =  -iKd. 
Doited,  dazed,  crazy. 
Doll,  a  share  or  piece. 
Donnart,  stupified. 
Donsie,  neat  and  clean;  dull  and 

dreary;  unlucky. 
Doo,  dow,  dove. 
Doof,  a  stuiiid  fellow. 
Doofart,  a  dull  man. 
Dook,  donk,  to  liatlie,  to  douse. 
Dool,  dule,  pain,  sorrow 
Doops,  dives  down. 
Darts,  a  vain  girl. 
Dorty,  pettish,  saucy. 
Dosend,  cold. 
Dottar,  to  become  stupid. 
Douf,  dull,  sad. 
Dought,  could,  availed. 
Doun,  down. 

Dour,  hard,  severe,  sullen. 
Donse,  grave,  prudent. 
Dvw,  to  wither;  to  incline,  to  be 

able. 
Dow'd,  dead,  witliered. 
Dowjf,  mournful,  flaccid. 
Dowie,  sickly,  melanclioly. 
Downa,  unable;  lacking  lieart  to  do 

a  thing. 
Doiep,  end  of  an  egg-shell  or  candle. 
Dozen,  to  become  torpid. 
Draigle,  to  draggle. 
Drammoek.  meal  and  watermixed. 
Drant,  to  si)eak  deliberately. 
Drappie,  a  little  drop. 
Dree,  to  suffer,  to  endure. 
Dreep,  to  drip. 
Dreery,  wearisome,  frightful. 
Drcich,  dreigh,  tedious,  tiresome. 
Dribs,  drops. 

Dring.  the  noise  of  a  boiling  kettle. 
Dringing,  dclajin'j:. 
Droddum,  the  Ijrcech. 


Droning,  moving  lazily. 

Dronked,  drurket.  drenched. 

Drouth,  drought,  tlihst. 

Dnile,  or  ttool,  the  goal  in  games. 

I)runi!y,  nniddy,  confused. 

Dryster,  a  lileachtleld-worker. 

Dub,  mile,  small  pool  of  water. 

Duddy.  ragged. 

Duds,  duddies.  rags. 

Duhipish.  short  and  thick. 

Dung,  overcome,  driven  down. 

Dunk,  damp. 

Dunkled.  dimpled. 

Dunt,  to  strike,  to  palpitate. 

Dark,  a  (hrk  or  d.-igger. 

Dusht,  driven  down. 

Du'cni,  a  swoon. 

Du'ine,  to  i)ine. 

Dyke,  a  wall,  hedge,  ditch. 

Dynles,  trembles,  .sliakes. 

Dycour,  a  bankrupt,  au  idle  fellow. 

E 

F.nrd,  the  earth. 

Karn,  to  curdle,  coagulate. 

Eastlin,  eastward,  easterly. 

E'e,  the  eye;  pi.  ecn. 

Eerie,  timorous. 

Eident,  diligent,  wary,  cautious. 

Eild,  age,  old  age. 

Ei'deens,  of  the  same  age. 

Elthly,  easily. 

Elbuek,  the  elbow. 

Elf,  a  small  creature  or  fairy. 

Elf -shot,  bew  itched. 

Etriteh.  awful,  hideous:  uninha- 
bited except  l)y  imaginary  ghosts. 

Elson,  a  shoemaker's  awl. 

Emmoek,  an  ant. 

Enbrugh,  Edinlnirgh. 

Endlang.  along. 

Ergh,  scrupulous,  fearful. 

Erls.  earnest  or  hiring  money. 

Esthler,  he\Mi  or  cut  stone. 

Ether,  an  adder. 

Ethcrcap,  ettercap,  a  venomous 
spiteful  creature. 

Ettle,  to  aim,  to  intend. 

Eren'd,  spoken  of,  matched. 

Ercndoun,  honest,  downright. 

Ercns,  eijuals,  allies. 

Erite,  to  avoid. 

Eydent,  industrious,  dlligQi't- 


Fa',  fall;  autumn;  a  watei--fall. 
Fa'ard,  favoured;  featured. 
Facing-tools,  drinking-cups. 
Faddom't,  fatliomed. 
Fudge,  a  spongy  roll  of  luead. 
Fae,  foe. 
Faem,  foam. 

Faiket,  unknown;  abated. 
Fail,  thick  tuif. 
Fair  fa',  well  betide! 
Fairin,  a  present  at  a  fair. 
Fait,  feat,  orderly,  neat. 
Fan,  when. 


552 


GLOSSARY. 


Fand,  found. 

Fang,  talons  of  a  fowl;  to  grip. 

Farder,  farther. 

FardUi,  farthing. 

Farer-tieen,  more  knowing. 

Fad,  an  oat-cake. 

Faiih,   to  vex  or  trouble.     Never 

fanh  your  thiiinh,  be  not  the  least 

vexed,  be  easy. 
Fash  Willi,  troiil)lesome. 
Faahf,  troubled,  vexed. 
Favgh,  a  colour  nearly  red. 
Fautjii-riggs,  fallow  ground. 
J  a  ugh  t,  a  squabble  or  broil. 
Faiild,  a  fold;  to  fold. 
Fause.  false. 
Faut,  fault. 
Fawn,  fallen. 

Fawnome  or  fawsont,  decent. 
Fecht,  to  fight;  life's  battle. 
Feck,  the  greatest  part. 
Fecket,  a  flannel  under-shirt. 
Feckfow,  able,  active. 
Feckless,  feeble,  weak. 
Fecklij,  mostly. 

Feed,fead,feide,  feud,  q'larrel. 
Feg,  a  fig. 
Feidom,  enmity. 
Fell,  several,  numerous. 
Fell,  hot,  biting,  clever. 
Fells,  a  chain  of  hills. 
Fend,  to  defend,  to  provide  for. 
Fending,  living  by  one's  industry. 
Fere,  entire;  a  dwarf. 
Ferlies,  wonderful  things. 
Fidgin',  restless. 
Fient  a  haet,  deuce  a  bit ! 
Fike,f!)ke,  to  l)e  restless;  bustle 

about  what  is  trifling. 
File,  fgle,  to  defile;  to  accuse,  to 

pronounce  guilty. 
Firefiaught,  a  flash  of  lightning. 
Firlock  or  firlot,  four  pecks — the 

fourth  part  of  a  boll. 
Fistle.to  move  or  stir. 
Fit,  the  foot. 
Fitted,  marked  by  a  foot. 
Flae,  a  flea. 
Flaf,  to  flap,  to  flutter. 
Flags,  flashes  of  fire. 
Plane,  an  arrow. 
Flate,  scolded. 
Flauchter,  to  cut  turf. 
Flaught,  a  flash  of  lightning. 
Flanghter,  to  shine  fitfully. 
Flaw,  a  blast,  a  lie. 
Flcech,  to  supplicate,  to  coax. 
Fleg,  a  fright;  a  stroke,  a  kick. 
Flegerics,  gew-gaws. 
Flewet,  a  cutf  or  lilow. 
Fleg,  to  scare,  to  frighten. 
Flichter,  to  flutter. 
Fling  {to  tak  the),  to  become  un- 
manageable. 
Flit,  to  remove. 

Flite,  oYjlytc,  to  scold  or  chide. 
Flow,  a  fragment. 
Fhif,  to  putf,  to  explode. 
Flii/ie,  to  ruftle  tlie  skin;  to  pull 

olf  anything  by  turning  it  inside 

nut. 
Fiigie,  a  stupid  old  person. 


Forhij,  besides. 
Fore  (to  the),  still  remaining. 
Forebears,  ancestors. 
Fore/aim,  distressed,  jaded. 
Forestam,  the  forehead. 
Forfoughten,  fatigued. 
Forgainst,  opposite  to. 
Forgather,  to  meet. 
Forhow,  to  forsake. 
Forleet,  to  forsake  or  forget. 
Forra-c.cw,  one  that  is  not  with 

calf  and  gives  milk  throughout 

the  winter. 
Father,  fodder. 
Fou,  full,  drunk. 
Fo\(k,  folk. 
Foumart,  a  pole-cat. 
Fouter,  to  bungle. 
Fouth,  plenty,  almndance. 
Fou'somc,  loathsome,  fulsome. 
Fow-iccel,  full  well. 
Fozy,  soft,  spongy. 
Frae,  from. 

Fraise,  to  make  a  noise. 
Frcath,  froth,  a  slight  washing  of 

clotlies. 
Fveenge,  fringe. 
Freik,  a  coxcomb  or  fool. 
Fremmit,  strange,  foreign. 
Fristed,  trusted. 
Friim2nsh,  crushed,  crumpled. 
Frush,  brittle. 
Fud.  a  rabbit  or  hare's  tail. 
Fuffin',  blowing. 
Fuish,  brought,  fetched. 
Fiihjic,  to  defile;  dung. 
Fundling,  foundling. 
Fiirder,  to  prosper. 
Furth,  forth. 
Furthy,  forward,  frank. 

G 

Gah,  the  mouth;  to  prate. 
Gabbin,  jeering,  talking. 
Gabbit,  a  person  given  to  idle  talk. 
Gabby,  having  fluency  of  speech. 
Gaberiunzie,  a  beggar's  wallet,  a 

beggar-man. 
Gadgc,  to  talk  impertinently. 
Gadrnan,  a  ploughboy. 
Gae,  to  go;  gaed,  went;  gaen  or 

gane,  gone;  gaun,  going. 
Gafaiv,  loud  coarse  laughing. 
Gait,  a  goat. 

Gamtrees,  a  stand  for  barrels. 
Gang,  to  go. 
Ganger,  a  pedestrian. 
Gangrel,  a  vagrant. 
Gar,  to  compel,  to  force  to. 
Gardy,  the  arm. 
Gure,  greedy,  rapac'ious. 
Gash,  sagacious;  to  talk  much. 
Gashin,  conversing. 
Gate,  gael,  way,  manner. 
Gaucie,  orgawsy.  jolly,  plump. 
Gaudamous,  a  feast. 
Gauds,  trinkets. 
Gaunt,  to  yaw7i. 
Gavel,  a  gable. 
Gaw,  a  gall;  a  mark  on  the  tkln ; 

to  take  the  pet. 


Gawd,  a  goad. 

Gawkie,  an  idle  foolish  person. 

Gear,  riches,  good,  of  any  kind. 

Geek,  to  mock,  to  toss  the  head 
with  disdain. 

Ged,  a  pike. 

Gentles,  the  gentiy. 

Genty,  genteel,  handsome. 

Gett,  a  brat,  a  child  (in  contempt) 

Geyan,  pretty,  nearly. 

Ghaist,  a  ghost. 

Gibe,  or  jybe,  to  taunt,  to  mock. 

Gielainger,  a  delinquent  debtor. 

Gif,  if. 

Gijt,  a  tenn  of  reproach. 

Giggle,  silly  laughter. 

Gillygapus,  a  staring  gaping  fellow. 

Gilpie,  a  frolicsome  boy  or  girl. 

Gimnier,  a  young  ewe. 

Gimply,  scarcely. 

Gin,  if,  against. 

Gipsy,  a  young  girl. 

Gird,  to  strike;  a  moment. 

Girn,  to  grin,  to  snarl;  a  trap. 

Girnel,  a  chest  for  holding  meal. 

Girr,  a  hoop. 

Girse,  grass. 

Glaikit,  foolish,  giddy,  light. 

Glaiks,  a  good-for-nothing  fellow. 

Glaister,  to  liark  or  bawl. 

Glanierie,  tlie  jjower  of  charming. 

Glamour,  influence  of  a  charm. 

Glaur,  mire,  oozy  mud. 

Glee,  to  squint. 

Gleg,  quick,  active. 

Gleid,  a  fire,  a  light. 

Glen,  a  valley  between  mountains. 

Glenlieat,  whisky. 

Glib,  smooth,  slippery. 

Glint,  a  glance;  to  peep. 

Glisk,  a  glance,  a  transient  view. 

Gloaming,  the  evening  twilight. 

Gloom,  to  frown  or  scowl. 

Glowr,  to  itare;  a  look. 

Glum,  gloomy. 

Glunch,  a  sour  look. 

Goan,  a  wooden  dish  for  meat. 

Gorlias,  young  birds. 

Gousty,  ghastly,  desolate. 

Gove,  to  look  with  a  roving  eye. 

Gowan,  tlie  daisy. 

Gowd,  gold,  money. 

Gowff,  golf;  a  blow. 

Gowk,  the  cuckoo;  a  foolish  fellow. 

Gowl,  a  howl;  to  threaten. 

Grace-drink,  drink  taken  by  a  com- 
pany <iftcr  the  giving  of  thanks 
at  the  end  of  a  meal. 

Graff,  a  grave;  coarse,  vulgar. 

Graip,  to  groi)e;  a  dung-fork. 

Graith,  hou-ehold  and  other  gear; 
armour. 

Grane,  to  groan. 

Grannie,  a  grandmother,  an  old 
woman. 

Grat,  wept. 

Great,  intimate,  familiar. 

Grecie,  a  small  pig. 

Gree,  to  agree;  sui)eriority. 

Green,  to  long  for. 

Greet,  to  weep. 

Grieve,  overseer  or  factor. 


GLOSSARY. 


553 


Grut,  fee  paid  for  grinding  corn. 

Grit,  great. 

Groo,  to  shiulder. 

Grafts,  milled  oats. 

Grounche,  to  grudge,  t )  murmur. 

Grozct,  a  gooseberry. 

Gnimjjh,  a  grunt. 

Grun,  ground,  bottom. 

Gruntle,  to  grunt,  to  coo. 

Grunzie,  nose,  snout. 

Grup,  graxp. 

Grumtne,  frightful. 

Gnttten,  wept. 

Gude,  guid,  good. 

Gully,  a  lari;e  knife. 

Gumption,  common-sense. 

Gurly,  rough,  bitter,  surly. 

Gusty,  savoury. 

Gutclwr.  grandfather. 

Gutter,  mud,  wet  dust. 

Gyscncd,  shrunk  with  drjTiess,  as  a 

tub. 
Gyte,  extravagant,  mad. 
GytUngs,  young  children. 

H 

na\  hall. 

Had,  hald,  to  hold. 

Haddin,  a  farmer's  stoc".'. 

Hue,  to  have. 

Haet,  a  whit,  a  thing. 

Uaff,  half. 

Haffit,  the  cheek,  side  of  the  liead. 

Httffit-Unks,  a  necklace. 

Haflins,  partly,  half-grown 

Hag,  a  track,  a  peat-pit. 

Hagabag,  ct)arse  table-linen. 

Haggis,  a  kind  of  pudding  made 

of  pluck,  suet,  onions,  &c.,  and 

boiled  in  the  stomach  of  a  sheep 

or  cow. 
Hag -raid,    tormented    by   hags, 

witchridden. 
Hain,  to  save,  to  preserve. 
Hairst,  harvest. 
Hait,  or  hct,  hot. 
Haith  !  a  petty  oath. 
Hald,  a  possession. 
Hale,  whole,  sound,  healthy. 
Halesome,  wholesome. 
Hallan,  hallen,  a  screening  wall  in 

a  cottage,  the  cottage  itself ;  a 

seat  of  turf  at  the  outside  of  a 

cottage. 
Hallan-shaJcer,  a  sturdy  beggar. 
Hallion.  an  idle  fellow. 
Haluckit,  giddy,  hair-brained. 
Hahj,  holy. 
Hameld,  domestic. 
Hamely,  frank,  open,  kind. 
Uantle,  a  good  many. 
Hanty,  convenient,  handsome. 
Hap,  to  cover  from  the  cold. 
Haps,  outer  gamients,  as  shawls. 
Harigalds,  the  pluck  of  an  animal. 
Harle,  to  drag. 
Ham,  coarse  linen. 
Hams,  brains. 
Harship,  ruin,  mischance. 
Hash,  a  sloven;   low  raillery,  to 

abuse. 


Hashy,  slovenlj'. 

Haud,  to  hold. 

Haiidiii,  a  holding,dwelling-housc. 

Haughs,  valleys  or  low  grounds  on 
river-sides. 

Ha  usloch;  wool  on  a  sheep's  neck. 

Haver,  to  talk  foolishly. 

Haveril,  a  fciolish  talker. 

Uavitis,  good  breeding  or  beha- 
viour. 

Haw,  the  hawthorn-berry. 

Hatrick  gill,  double  the  ordinary 

gill. 
Hawkie,  a  cow,  a  white-faced  cow. 
Haws,  the  throat  or  gullet. 
Heal,  health. 
Heartsijiiii'.  blithe,  happy. 
Heather-belt,  heath-blossom. 
Hecli,  ohi  stranj;e! 
Hecht,  called,  named,  promised. 
Heeze,  to  lift,  to  elevate. 
Heezy,  a  strong  lift. 
He/tit,  familiarized  to  a  place. 
Heigh,  lajrh,  tall. 
Herd,  to  tend  cattle. 
Herried,    ruined   in    prcperty   or 

estate. 
Herry,  to  rob,  to  pillage. 
Hesp,  a  hasp  or  bolt. 
Het,  hot. 

Ueugh,  a  crag,  ravine;  a  coal-pit. 
Heuk,  a  reaping-hook. 
Hidlings,  hiding-places;  privately. 
Hie,  high. 
Hielan',  Highland. 
Hilch,  to  hublde,  to  halt. 
Hinder,  last. 

Hinkum,  put  up  in  hanks  or  balls. 
Hinnicd,  honied. 

Hinny,  a  term  of  affection;  honey. 
Hip,  fruit  of  the  dog-rose. 
Hips,  the  buttocks. 
Hirple,  to  walk  haltingly. 
Hirsel,  a  flock  of  sheep. 
Hirsle,  a  rustling  noise. 
Histie,  dry. 

Hizzie,  a  hussy,  a  careless  gill. 
Hoast,  a  cough;  to  cough. 
ifoft^es/iCH', confused  racket, uproar. 
Hodden,  a  coarse  cloth. 
Hodden-gray,  coarse  gray  cloth. 
Hog,  a  two-year-old  sheep. 
Hoggers,  coarse  stockings  without 

the  feet. 
Hool,  husk,  shell. 
Hooly,  or  hoolie,  slowly,  leisurely. 
Hoot!  fy! 

Horn,  a  spoon  made  of  horn. 
Hornie,  the  devil. 
Hotch,  to  move  by  sudden  jerks. 
Hoitp,  hope. 

Housie,  diminutive  of  house. 
Howdert,  hidden. 
Hoxady,  a  midwife. 
Hoice,  a  hollow,  low  ground. 
Hou'jf,  a  rendezvous,  ale-house. 
Howk,  to  dig. 
Howlet,  an  owl. 
Howms,  plains  on  river-sides. 
Howp,  a  mouthful  of  any  di-ink. 
Hoietoicdy,  a  young  hen. 
Hoy,  to  incite,  to  urge. 


Hummel,  hundde. 

Humple.  t(j  walk  lame. 

Uuinplock,  a  small  heap. 

Htiiid,  to  incite. 

Jliinder,  liunilred. 

Hurrhion.  a  hedjieliog. 

llurdies,  the  buttocks. 

Hiirkle.  to  stoop  or  bow  down  to. 

lIuKsyfskap,  housewifeship. 

Hyne,  hence. 

Uyt,  insane,  mad. 


/■,  in. 

Iceshogles,  icicles. 

leker,  an  ear  of  corn. 

ler-oe,  a  great-grandchild. 

Hk,  ilka,  each,  every. 

Ilk,  estate  or  place. 

/  7/,  for  /  will. 

Ul-faurdly.  un'jracefully,  clumsily. 

lll-willie,  ill-natured,  niggardly. 

Ingan,  onion. 

Ingine,  genius,  ingenuity. 

Jngle-side,  fire-side. 

Irie,  fearful,  melancholy. 

I'se,  I  shall. 

Isles,  embers,  ashef. 

Ithei,  o.her. 


Jack,  a  jacket. 

Jad,  or  jaud,  jade;  also,  a  giddy 
young  girl. 

Jag,  to  prick. 

Jaiik,  to  trifle,  to  dally. 

Jaw,  or  jawp,  a  'psush  of  water. 

Jaw-hole,  a  water-sink. 

Jawpit,  bespattered. 

Jee,  to  incline  on  one  side. 

Jeel,  jelly. 

Jelly,  pretty,  worthy. 

Jig,  to  crack,  to  make  a  noise. 

Jillet,  a  giddy  girl. 

Jimp,  neat,  slender. 

Jink,  to  escape,  to  avoid. 

Jo,  or  joe,  sweetheart,  darling. 

Jocteleg.  a  folding  knife. 

Jouk.  to  duck,  to  bow;  to  act  de- 
ceitfully. 

Joukery-pairkery,  juggling. 

Jow,  to  swing  a  bell  or  a  door. 

Jnndie,  to  justle. 

Junt,  a  large  piece. 

Jute,  sour  malt  liqucr. 


Kae,  a  jackdaw. 

Kail,  soup,  broth;  cabbage. 

Kaim,  or  kanw,  comb. 

Kain,  farm-rent  paid  in  fowls. 

Kebbuck,  a  cheese. 

Keckle,  to  cackle,  to  laugh. 

Keek,  to  i)eep. 

Keek,  dress  for  the  head  and  neck. 

Keeking-glass,  looking-glass. 


554 


GLOSSAEY, 


Keil,  red  clay  used  for  marking. 

Kelt,  cloth  with  a  frieze. 

Ken,  to  know. 

Kenxpeckle,  having  a  singular  ap- 
pearance, well-known. 

Kent,  a  long  staff  used  by  shep- 
herds. 

Kep,  to  intercept,  to  catch. 

Keuxt,  to  cast,  throw  off. 

Kilt,  or  kilted,  tucked  up. 

Kimmer,  a  female  gossip. 

Kintra,  country. 

Kip,  to  play  truant. 

Kipper,  dried  and  salted  fish. 

Kirk,  church. 

Kirn,  a  churn;  to  churn. 

Ki.st,  a  chest,  a  coffin. 

Kitchen,  anything  eaten  with  bread, 
as  l)utter,  cheese,  &c. 

Kith,  acquaintances,  relatives. 

Kitlin,  a  young  cat. 

Kittid,  daubed  with  a  viscous  sub- 
stance. 

Kittle,  a  frolicsome  girl. 

K!tfle,to  tickle ;  difficult,  uncertain. 

Kiuttle,  to  cuddle. 

Knacky,  facetious. 

Knoit,  to  strike  or  beat. 

Knoosed,  Imiised,  buffeted. 

Knowe,  a  hillock,  a  knoll. 

Knimt,  a  large  lump. 

Kow,  a  goblin. 

Kurchie,  a  kerchief  used  as  a  cap. 

Kye,  cows  or  kine. 

Kyle,  a  district  in  Ayrshire. 

Kytc,  tlie  belly. 

Kyth,  to  appear,  to  discover. 


Lad,  a  young  man,  a  sweetheart. 

Laddie,  diminutive  of  lad. 

Ladrcn,  a  thief,  rascal. 

Lagijert,  besmeared. 

Lai/jh,  low,  obscure. 

Lair,  or  lear,  learning. 

Laird,  a  landlord. 

Laifh,  loath,  iinwilling. 

Laith/u',  bashful,  sheepish. 

Lake,  lack. 

Lallan,  Lowland. 

Lamiter,  lame. 

Lamuier,  aml)er. 

Lamp,  to  take  long  steps. 

Lan',  land,  estate. 

Landart,  belonging  to  the  country, 

rustic. 
Lane,  singly,  alone. 
Lang-kail,  cole  worts  uncut. 
Lanij-nehbit,  long-nosed,  learned. 
LanijKonie,  tedious. 
Lanynyne,  long  ago,  long  since. 
Lanlowper    one    who   often    f.its 

from  place  to  place. 
Lap,  leaped. 
Lapjiered,  clotted. 
La  re,  a  place  for  laying. 
LanK,  a  young  woman,  sweetheart. 
Lasiiie,  diminutive  of  lass. 
Lare,  the  remainder. 
Laverock,  the  lark. 


Lawin,  a  tavern-bill. 

Lawty,  lautith,  fidelity,  justice. 

Le,  a  lie;  to  tell  a  lie. 

Leal,  faithful,  loyal. 

Leasome,  pleasant. 

Lee,  lonely,  slielteied. 

Lee,  or  lea,  open  grassy  ground. 

Lecar,  a  liar. 

Leen,  cease! 

Leet,  to  ooze  very  slowly;  a  list  of 
candidates. 

Leeve,  to  live. 

Leeze-me!  a  term  of  endeannent. 

Leglen,  a  milking-pail  with  one  lug. 

Leifu',  discreet,  moderate. 

Len,  to  lend;  a  loan. 

Lendis,  loins,  buttocks. 

Lerroch,  the  site  of  a  building. 

Let  be,  stop!  cease! 

Let  na  on,  do  not  divulge. 

Letten,  pennitted. 

Leiigh,  laughed. 

Lever,  rather. 

Lew-warm,  lukewarm. 

Libbet,  gelded. 

Lichtlie,  sneering;  to  sliglit. 

LiA,  to  whip,  to  beat;  a  wag. 

Lift,  the  sky  or  firmament. 

LUt,  a  ballad;  to  sing. 

Lilts,  the  holes  of  a  wind  instru- 
ment; hence,  lilt  up  a  sfiring. 

Limmer,  a  strumpet. 

Limp,  to  halt,  to  holible. 

Linder,  a  short  gown,  shaped  like 
a  man's  vest,  close  to  the  body, 
with  sleeves,  worn  by  old  women 
and  children. 

Link,  to  trip  along. 

Linn,  lin,  a  cataract,  watsr-fall. 

Lint,  flax;  lint  i  the  bell,  fla.x  in 
flower. 

Lintie,  linfu'hite.  the  linnet. 

Lippen,  to  trust  to,  to  expect. 

Lirk,  a  fold  or  wrinkle. 

Lithclcss,  listless. 

Loan,  loanin,  the  place  of  milking. 

Loch,  a  lake. 

Loe,  or  loo,  to  love. 

Loof,  Ivif,  tlie  palm  of  the  hand; 
pi.  looves. 

Looms,  tools,  vessels. 

Loojjy,  crafty. 

Loot,  did  let. 

/yOo*-.s/;o((i/ir';'V?,round-sliouldered. 

Losh!  exclamation  of  surprise. 

Loun,l<ion,  a  ragamuffin, courtesan. 

Lounder,  to  lieat  severely. 

Lovp,  to  jump,  to  leap. 

Lout,  to  1k)w,  stoop;  a  lazy  fellow. 

Loive,  a  flame. 

Lawn,  calm,  serene. 

Loirrie,  laicrie,  cunning  (a:  pKed 
to  a  fox). 

Loii'se,  to  loose. 

Luck,  to  fasten,  to  shut  up. 

Lucken,  a  bog. 

Litckcn-gowan,  the  globe-flower. 

Lucky,  grandmother  or  goody. 

Luesomely,  lovely. 

Liig,  the  ear;  a  handle. 

Lvggie,  a  wooden  disli  witll  a 
handle. 


Lum,  the  chimney. 

Ltnit,  a  column  of  smoke;  to  smoke. 

Lurdane,  a  blockhead. 

Lyart,  gray,  hoary-headed. 

]\I 

Mabbie,  a  woman's  cap. 

Mae,  more. 

Magil,  to  mangle. 

Mahoun,  Satan. 

Maik,  to  match,  to  equal;  a  half- 
penny. 

Maikless,  matchless. 

Mailin,  a  rent,  a  rented  fanu. 

Mailpayer,  a  farmer. 

Mair,  more. 

MaiM,  most,  almost. 

Mak,  to  make;  makin,  making. 

Makar,  a  poet. 

Makly,  well-proportioned. 

Maksna,  'tis  no  matter. 

Malison,  curse,  malediction. 

Mane,  moan,  complaint. 

Many,  among;  to  become  frantic. 

Mangit,  galled  or  bruised. 

Mank,  a  want. 

Manse,  the  minister's  house. 

Mansworn,  perjured. 

Mant,  to  stannner. 

Mappie,  name  for  a  raljbit. 

Marb,  tlie  marrow. 

March,  landmark  or  boundary. 

Mark,  rnerk,  a  coin  =  13Jrf. 

Marrow,  mate,  one  of  a  pair. 

Mar's  year,  year  of  the  rebellion  of 
1715,  headed  by  the  Earl  of  Mar. 

Mart,  a  cow  or  ox  killed  at  Mar- 
tinmas for  winter  piovisions. 

Mask,  to  mash,  to  infuse. 

Mat,  may. 

Mauchtless,  powerless. 

Mauk,  a  maggot. 

Maukin,  a  hare. 

Maun,  must. 

Maut,  or  inawt,  malt. 

Ma  vis,  a  thrush. 

Maw,  to  mow. 

May,  maiden. 

Mcere,  or  mear,  mare. 

Meikle,vmckle,vi  icicle,  much,  great, 
big. 

Meith,  limit,  mark;  hot. 

Melder,  corn,  or  grain  of  any  kind, 
sent  to  the  mill  to  be  ground. 

Mell.  to  be  intimate,  to  meddle; 
also  a  mallet  for  pounding  liarley 
in  a  stone  trough,  <Vc. 

Meltith,  a  meal;  a  cow's  milking. 

Melvie,  to  soil  with  meal. 

Men',  to  mend. 

Mends,  atonement,  satisfaction, 
retaliation. 

Mennin,  minnow. 

Men.se,  good  manners,  decorum. 

Men.scfov,  mannerly. 

Mensele-fs,  ill-lu-cd,  rude,  impudent. 

Merle,  the  blackliird. 

Mcs-John,  tlie  i>arisli  mil  istsr. 

Messin,  a  small  dog. 

Midden,  a  dunghill. 


GLOSSARY. 


ooo 


Midden-hols,  a  gutter  at  the  bottom 
of  a  dunghill. 

Midr/es,  gnats,  Kttle  flies. 

Milk-boivie,  milk-pail. 

3liiii,  ijrim,  affectedly  meek. 

Mill',  mind,  resemblance. 

Mind't,  mLud  it,  resolved,  intend- 
ing. 

Minnie,  mother,  dam. 

Mint,  aim,  endeavour;  to  hint. 

Mild,  to  make  amorous  advances. 

Mirk,  mirkest,  dark,  darkest. 

Jl/iViCrt",  to  abuse,  to  call  names. 

Mij<lia liter,  misfortune. 

Misken,  to  neglect,  to  let  alone. 

Siiilear'd,  mischievous,  unman- 
nerly. 

Midippen,to  neglect, to  disappoint. 

Misteuk,  mistook. 

Mistnjut,  to  disappoint  by  lireaking 
an  engagement,  to  deceive. 

Mither,  mother. 

Mittens,  gloves  without  fingers. 

Mixtie-inaxtie,  confusedly  mixed. 

Moistify,  to  moisten. 

Many,  or  monie,  many. 

MooU,  eartli  of  the  grave. 

Moop,  to  niblde  as  a  sheep. 

Moorlan',  of  or  belonging  to  moors. 

Morn,  the  next  day,  to-morrow. 

Moss-hays,  pits  and  sloughs  in  a 
mire  or  bog. 

Moil,  the  nioutli. 

Moudiwurt,  a  m<ile. 

Mousie,  diminutive  of  mouse. 

Mow,  a  jest;  to  mock. 

Muck,  dung. 

Mi'ckiny,  carrying  out  dung. 

Mullin,  a  crumb. 

Musie,  diminutive  of  muse. 

Muslin-kail,  broth  composed  sim- 
ply of  water,  shelled  barley,  and 
greens. 

Mutch,  a  woman's  cap. 

Mutchkin,  an  Englisli  pint. 

Mutter,  the  fee  for  grinding  grain. 

Mysel,  myself. 


N 

Na,  no,  not,  nor. 

Nacky,  clever,  active. 

Nae,  no,  not  any. 

Naethiny,  or  naithing,  nothing. 

Naig,  or  naigie,  a  horse. 

Nunc,  none. 

Nappy,  ale;  to  be  tipsy. 

Near-hand,  almost,  nigh. 

Neh,  the  beak,  the  nose. 

Neebor,  a  neighbour. 

Neese,  nose;  to  sneeze* 

Negleckit,  neglected. 

Neigher,  nicher,  to  neigh. 

Neip,  a  turnip. 

Neuk,  a  nook,  a  comer. 

Newcal,  a  cow  newly  calved. 

New-fa  ngled,  new-fashioned. 

Nick,  to  bite  or  cheat. 

Nickie-ben,  the  devil. 

Niddered,  depressed;  half-starved. 

Niest,  next. 


Nicve,  the  fist. 

Xievefa',  handful. 

Nifer,  an  exchange;  to  exchange, 

to  l)arter. 
A  ijf'naffs,  trifles. 
Niger,  a  negro. 

Nine-tailed  cat, a  hangman's  whip. 
Xip.  a  bite,  a  taste. 
Nippen,  carried  off  sun'eptltiously. 
Nit.  a  nut. 
Nocht,  nought;  not. 
Non,  now. 

Norland,  belonging  to  the  north. 
Notour,  notorious. 
Nou'te,  Mack  cattle;  stupid  fellow. 
Nowther,  neither. 

0 

0',  of. 

Ocht,  aught,  anything. 

Oe,  or  oye,  grandchild. 

O'ercome,  surplus. 

0  haith,  O  faith!  an  oath. 

Uny,  or  oiiie,  any 

Oons,  wounds. 

Oot,  out. 

Ojjf,  opened. 

Or  is  often  used  for  ere,  before. 

Orp,  to  weep  with  a  convulsive 

pant. 
Orra,  odd,  not  matched;  w;hat  may 

be  spared. 
O't,  of  it. 

Ourie,  shivering,  drooping. 
Oursel,  or  our.sels,  ourselves. 
Outlers,  cattle  not  housed. 
Out-owre,  mi)ret>ver,  out  of. 
Outthrow,  through. 
Ower,  over,  to. 
Owerword,  burden  of  a  song. 
0-will,  spontaneously. 
Oick,  or  ouk,  week. 
Owre-hip,  a  way  of  fetching  a  blow 

with  the  hanuner  over  the  arn). 
Otcrelay,  a  cravat. 
Owscn,  oxen. 
Oxter,  the  armpit. 


Pack,  intimate,  familiar;  12  stones 

of  wool. 
Paddock,  puddock,  a  frog. 
Paidle,  to  plash  among  water;  also, 

short  and  irregular  steps,  such 

as  of  children. 
Paiks,  blows,  chastisement. 
Painch,  paunch. 
Paip,  a  child's  game. 
Pairtrick,  a  partridge. 
Pang,  to  cram,  to  squeeze. 
Paple,    or   pople,    the    Ijubbling, 

purling,  or  Ijoiling  of  water. 
Prt rai'fc/i,  oatmeal  pudding,  a  w 

known  Scotch  dish. 
Parle,  speech. 
Parochin',  parish. 
Partan,  a  crab. 
Pat,  did  put;  a  pot. 
Pattle,  orpettle,  a  plough-staff. 


Paughty,  proud,  haughty. 
Pauky,  or  yawkie,   cuuulii;?,   sly. 

witty. 
Pay't,  paid;  beat. 
/'(-(•/(,  or  pi-gh,  to  fetch  the  lircith 

sliort,  as  HI  asthma. 
Pcchan,  the  crop,  the  stomach. 
Peer,  pier,  wharf. 
Pcerie,  a  spinning-top. 
I'eeswi'vp,  the  lapwing. 
Peet,  peat. 

Perk,  a  pole,  a  perch. 
Perlins.  women's  tirnamcnts. 
Pet,  offence,  hutf. 
Pcttle,  to  cherish;  a  idough-stafT. 
Philabeg,  the  Highland  kilt. 
Ph raise,  fair  speeclies,  flatttrj';  to 

flatter. 
Phraisin,  flattery. 
Pibroch,  a  Highland  wr.r-time. 
Pickle,  a  small  iiuantity. 
Pick-inaw,  a  bird  of  the  gull  kind. 
Pick-inirk,  dark  as  pitch. 
Pig.  an  earthen  pot  or  i)itcher. 
Piiiipin,  mean,  scurvy. 
Pine,  pain,  uneasiness. 
Piiigle,  a  difliculty;  to  strive. 
Pint-stoup,  a  two-quart  measure. 
Pirn,  a  bobbin. 
Pit,  to  put. 

Plack.  an  old  Scotch  coin=Jd. 
Plackless.  without  money. 
Platie,  diminutive  oi  plate. 
Plen ish iiig,  furniture. 
Plct,  plaited. 
Plew,  in-plcugh,  a  plough. 

Plinkie,  a  trick. 

Plooky,  covered  with  pimples. 

Plooiii,  a  plum. 

Plotcock,  the  devil. 

Poind,  to  distrain. 

I'oins  your  gear,  distrains  for  rent. 

Poke,  powk,  a  bag. 

Poortith,  poverty. 

Porridge,  oatmeal  pottage. 

Posie,  a  nosegay. 

Pou,  or  2)u'.  to  pull. 

Pouk,  to  pluck. 

Puussie,  a  hare  or  cat. 

Pout,  a  poult,  a  chick. 

Pou't,  did  pull. 

Poiitch,  a  iiocket. 

Pouthcry,  like  i)owder. 

Pou;  the  head,  the  skull. 

Pownie,  a  little  horse. 

Powsowdy,  slieep's-head  broth. 

Poirther,  or  puuther,  powder. 

Preen,  a  pin. 

Prent,  to  print;  print. 

Prie,  to  taste,  to  kiss. 

Prief,  proof. 

Prig,  to  cheapen,  to  dispute. 

Primsie,  demure,  precise. 

Prin.  a  pin. 

Prinkle,  to  thrill,  to  tingle. 

Prise,  to  force  open. 

Price,  to  prove,  to  taste. 

Prnpine,  a  present,  gift. 

Propone,  to  lay  down,  to  propose. 

Procost,    chief    magistrate    of    a 
burgh. 

Pry  in,  to  fill  or  stuff. 


556 


GLOSSAEY. 


Piiggie,  a  monkey. 

Pidr,  poor. 

Pund,  pound,  pounds. 

Putt,  to  throw,  to  cast. 

Pyat,  the  magpie. 

Pyke,  to  pick,  to  make  bare. 

Pyle,  a  single  grain,  a  little. 

Q 

Qiiaich,  or  quegh,  a  small  driuking- 

cup. 
Quair,  a  liook. 
Quale,  to  (juake. 
Quarters,  lodgings. 
Quat,  to  quit. 
Quean,  a  young  woman,  similar  to 

the  English  term  iceuch. 
Quey,  a  cow  one  to  two  years  old. 
Quo,  quoth. 

R 

Racket,  stretched. 

Racket-rent,  rack-rent. 

Packless,  careless. 

Rade,  rode. 

Rac,  a  roe. 

Raffan,  merry,  hearty. 

Ragweed,  herb  ragwort. 

Raible,  to  rattle  nonsense. 

Jiair,  to  roar. 

Raize,  to  madden,  to  inflame. 

Ram-feezl'd,  fatigued,  overspread. 

Rani-xtam.  thoughtless,  forward. 

Randy,  a  scold,  a  shrew. 

Rant,  to  be  noisily  jovial. 

Ranty-tanty,  liroad-leaved  sorrel. 

Rapluch,  i)roperly  a  coarse  cloth; 

coarse. 
Rarely,  excellently,  very  well. 
Rash,  a  rush;  rash-buss,  a  bush  of 

rushes. 
Rate,  to  beat. 
Rattlflskull,  one  who  talks  much 

without  tliinking. 
Ration,  a  rat. 

Raucle,  lash,  stout,  fearless. 
Ravghf,  readied. 
Rare,  tore. 

Ravelled,  entangled,  confused. 
Rail',  a  row. 

Rax,  to  stretch,  to  reach. 
Ream,  cream;  to  creatn. 
Reamin,  brimful,  frothing. 
Reaving,  open  violent  thieving. 
Reck,  to  heed. 
Red,  to  unravel,  to  separate,  to  put 

in  order. 
Red,  rad,  afraid,  apprehensive. 
Rede,  counsel,  to  counsel;  to  guess. 
Red-up,  to  put  in  order. 
Red-wat-shiid ,    walking   in   blood 

over  the  shoe-tops. 
Red-wild,  stark -mad. 
Jtee.  half-drunk;  an  inclosure. 
Reek,  smoke. 
Reekin,  smoking. 
Reekit.  smoked,  smoky. 
Reel,  a  rapid  dance. 
Reel-rail,  topsy-turvy. 


Reenge,  a  loud  clattering  noise. 

Reese,  to  praise,  to  e.xtol. 

Reesing,  rousing. 

Reest,  to  rust,  to  dry  in  the  smoke; 
to  rest. 

Reil,  a  turmoil. 

Reiat  {to  tak  the),  to  become  restive. 

Reist,  to  arrest  (in  law). 

Related,  stopped,  stuck  fast;  also, 
smoke-dried. 

Remead,  remedy. 

Requite,  requited. 

Restricked,  restricted. 

Rever,  a  rob))er  or  pirate. 

Rickles,  shooks  of  corn,  stocks. 

Rief,  reef,  plenty. 

Rief-randies,  sturdy  beggars. 

Rifart,  a  radish. 

Rig,  a  ridge. 

Riggin,  the  ridge  of  a  house. 

Rigicoodie,  deserving  the  gallows. 

Rin,  to  run;  to  melt. 

Ringe,  a  rumbling  noise. 

Rink,  tlie  course  of  the  stones  (a 
tenn  in  curling  on  ice). 

Rip,  a  handful  of  unthreshed  corn. 

Ripling-kamc, instxMxweni  for  dress- 
ing fla.v. 

Riskit,  made  a  noise  like  the  tear- 
ing of  roots. 

Rockin,  spinning  on  the  rock  or 
distaff;  a  friendly  meeting. 

Rocklay,  a  short  cloak. 

Rood  stands  likewise  for  the  plural 
roods. 

Roon,  a  shred. 

Roose,  to  praise,  to  commend. 

Roove,  to  rivet. 

Roset,  or  rozet,  rosin. 

Roudes,  an  old,  wrinkled,  ill-na- 
tured woman. 

Roun',  round ;  in  the  circle  of 
neiglibourhood. 

Roupet,  hoarse,  as  with  a  cold. 

Rousted,  rusted. 

Rout,  to  liellow. 

Routh,  plenty. 

Routhie,  plentiful. 

Row,  to  roll,  to  wrap. 

Rowan-tree ,  the  mountain-ash. 

Row,  to  roll,  to  wraj). 

Rowte,  to  low,  to  bellow. 

Ruck,  a  rick  or  stack  of  hay  or  corn. 

Rue,  or  rew,  to  repent. 

Rug,  pull;  a  dog-cheap  bargain. 

RuinniulguinjHion,  common-sense. 

Rumple,  the  rump. 

Rundge,  to  gnaw. 

Rung,  a  cudgel. 

Runkled,  wrinkled. 

Runt,  the  stems  of  colewort  or 
cabbage. 

Ruth,  kind;  sorrow. 

Ryke,  reacli. 

Rype,  to  search. 

s 

Sab,  to  sob. 

Sackless,  or  sakeless,  innocent. 

,Sae,  so. 

Saebictui,  since,  if  so  be. 


Saft,  soft. 

Sain,  to  bless  against  evil  influence. 

Sair,  to  serve;  a  sore;  sore. 

Sairly,  or  sairlie,  sorely. 

Sair't,  served. 

Sake,  blame,  guilt. 

Said,  sold. 

Sail,  shall. 

Samin,  the  same. 

Sanct,  ov  saunt,  a  saint. 

Sang,  a  song. 

Sapie,  saip,  soap. 

Supples,  soap-suds. 

Sark,  a  shirt,  a  chemise. 

Sarkil,  provided  in  shirts. 

Sayf,  to  save. 

Saugh.  the  willow. 

Saul,  the  soul. 

Saumont,  salmon. 

Saur,  to  taste,  to  savour. 

Saut,  salt. 

Saw,  to  sow;  any  proverbial  expres- 
sion. 

Sax,  six. 

Scad,  or  scaud,  to  scald. 

Scadlips,  thin  broth. 

Scaith,  to  damage, to  injure;  injury. 

Scant,  scarcity. 

Scar,  bare  place  on  a  hillside;  a 
fright. 

Scart,  to  scratch. 

Scartle,  a  graip  or  dung-fork. 

Scaud,  to  scald, 

Scauld,  to  scold. 

Scaup,  the  scalp,  the  skull. 

Scaw,  scab,  scall. 

Scatol,  a  scold. 

Schule,  the  school. 

Scone,  a  cake  of  bread. 

Scour,  to  burnish;  to  run. 

Scoivder,  to  scorch. 

Scmrry,  showery;  shal>by. 

Scraich,  to  scream  as  a  hen,  &c. 

Screed,  to  tear;  a  rent;  a  long  ser- 
mon or  story. 

Scrieve,  to  glide  swiftly  along. 

Scrievin,  gleesomely,  swiftly. 

Scrimp,  scanty,  narrow. 

Scrinipit,  did  scant,  scanty. 

Scroggie,  covered  witli  underwood. 

Scuff,  to  graze;  to  tarni&h  by  fre- 
quent wearing. 

Scug,  scotig,  to  shade,  to  shelter. 

Scunner,  to  loathe-  (usgust. 

See'd,  did  see. 

Seely,  happy. 

Secly  Court,  court  cf  the  fairies. 

Seer,  sure. 

Seiboic,  a  young  onicn. 

Seizin,  seizing. 

Sel,  self;  a  body's  sel,  one's  £;elf 
alone.       • 

Selcovth,  wondrous. 

Sell't,  did  sell. 

Sen',  to  send. 

Sen't,  I,  he,  or  she  sent,  cr  did 
send;  send  it. 

Sets  aff,  goes  away. 

Settlin,  settling;  to  get  a  settlin,  to 
be  frightened  into  (|uietness. 

Sey,  to  try. 

Shachle,  to  shuffle  in  walking. 


GLOSSAEY. 


UOI 


Shaird.  a  shred,  a  shard. 
SIicDir/ait,  a  stick  cleft  at  one  end 
for  putting;  the  tail  of  ado;;,  itc, 
mto,  by  way  of  mischief,  or  to 
frigliten  him  away. 
Shaiigling,  shambling. 
Shankn,  legs. 

Shaiiks-nairjie,  to  travel  on  foot. 
Shani,  cow  dun;,'. 
Shatlimont,  a  measure  of  about  six 

inches. 
Shave,  gheeve,  a  slice. 
Shaver,  a  lad. 
Shavie,  a  trick  or  prank. 
Shall',  to  show;  a  small  wood  in  a 

liollow  place. 
Shear,  to  reap  with  the  hook. 
Sheen,  bright,  shining. 
Shc.ep-shank{to  think  one' sselfnae), 

to  be  conceited. 
SheUticoat.  a  goblin,  a  water-sprite. 
Sheltie,  a  horse  of  the  smallest  size. 
Sherra  -moor.    Sheriff -moor,    tlie 

battle  fought  there  in  1715. 
Shell gh,  a  ditch,  a  trench,  a  sluice. 
Shevel,  to  distort. 
Shiel,  nhieling,  a  shed,  a  temporary 

cottage  or  hut. 
Shill,  shrill. 

Shilpit,  weak,  washy,  and  insipid.    | 
Shinty,  a  game  like  golf.  ] 

Shog.  a  shock:  a  push  off  at  one  side. 
Shogle,  to  jog. 
Shooken,  sliaken. 
Shool,  a  shovel. 
Shoon,  shoes. 

Shore,  to  offer,  to  threatni. 
Shoiither,  the  shoulder. 
Shuttle,  a  drawer. 
Sibb,  related  to  by  blood. 
Sic,  such. 

Siccan,  such  kind  of. 
Sicker,  sure,  steady. 
Sideliiis,  sidelong,  slanting. 
Silken-snood,  a  fillet  of  silk,  worn 

as  a  token  of  virginity. 
Siller,  silver,  money. 
Simmer,  summer. 
Sin,  the  sun. 
Sin',  since. 

Sindle,  or  sinel,  seldom,  rare. 
Singand,  singing. 
Sinsyne,  since  that  time. 
Skail,  to  disperse,  to  dismiss. 
Skair,  share. 
Skelf,  a  shelf. 
Skellie,  squint. 
Skelliim,  a  worthless  fellow. 
Skelp,  to  strike,  to  slap;  to  walk 
with  a  smart  tripping  step;  a 
smart  stroke. 
Skelpy  -  limmer,     an     opprolirious 

term  applied  to  a  female. 
Sleeps,  bee-hives. 

Skiegh,  skeigh, i)rom\,high-mett\ed. 
Skiff,  to  move  along  smoothly. 
Sk'ink,  stiong  soup  made  of  cows' 

hams. 
Skinklin,  a  small  portion. 
Skirl,  to  shriek,  to  cry  shrilly. 
Sklent,  slant,  to  run  aslant;  to  devi- 
ate from  truth. 


Sklented,  ran,  or  liit,  in  an  obliciue 

direction. 
Skoiith,  vent,  free  action. 
Skreigh,  a  scream;  to  scream. 
Skritnt,  to  make  a  harsh  noise. 
Skyte,  to  slide  rapidly  off;  a  worth- 
less fellow. 
Sladc,  did  slide. 
Slae,  sloe. 

Slap,  a  gate,  a  breach  in  a  fence. 
Slaw,  slow. 

Sled,  a  sledge  or  sleigli. 
Slee,  sly;  sleest,  slyest. 
Sleekit,  sly,  cunnuig. 
Slid,  slippery. 
Sliddery,  slippery. 
Sloken,  to  (luench,  to  slake. 
Slotch,  an  idle  lazy  fellow. 
Slyi)e,  to  fall  over,  as  wet  soil  from 
the  plough;  to  strip  olf;  aslant. 
Sma',  small. 
Smeddiim,  dust,  powder;  mett'.e; 

sense. 
Smeek,  smoke. 
S middy,  a  smithy. 
Smittle,  infectious. 
Smoor,  to  smother. 
Smoiit,  any  small  creature. 
Smoiitie,  smutty,  obscene,  ugly. 
Smytrii',  a  numerous  collection  of 

small  individuals. 
Snapi'cr,  to  stumble;  to  get  into  a 

scrape. 
Snash,  abuse.  Billingsgate. 
Snaw,  snow;  to  snow. 
Sneck,  latch  of  a  door. 
Sneck-drawin,  crafty. 
Siuid,  to  lop,  to  cut  off. 
Sneeshin,  snuff. 
Sneeshin-mill,  a  snuff-box. 
Snell,  bitter,  sharp,  piercing. 
Snib,  bolt  of  a  door. 
Snicher,  to  titter. 
Snod,  neat;  to  make  neat. 
Snood,  a  young  woman's  fillet  for 
tying  round  her  hair,  only  worn 
by  maidens. 
Snool,  to  subjugate  by  tyranny,  to 

submit  tamely. 
Snoove,  to  go  smoothly  and  con- 
stantly; to  sneak. 
Snowk,  to  scent  or  snuff,  as  a  dog, 

horse,  &c. 
Socht,  sought. 
Sonsie,    having     sweet    engaging 

looks;  lucky;  jolly;  fat. 
Soom,  to  swim. 
Sooth,  truth!  a  petty  oath. 
Sorn,  to  sponge  or  hang  on  others 

for  maintenance. 
Sorners,  sturdy  beggars,  obtrusive 

guests. 
Sou/,  to  sing,  whistle,  or  play  on 

an  instiument. 
Sough,  the  noise  of  wind,  a  sigh,  a 
sound  dying  on  the  ear ;  also,  a 
rumour. 
Soup,  to  sweep. 
Soiiple,  flexible,  swift. 
Souse,  a  French  sou;  to  beat,  to 

punish. 
Souter,  a  shoemaker. 


Southron,  soiithem.  an  old  name 

for  the  English  nation. 
Soirens,  I1\nnmery,  a  ilisli  mide  of 

the  seeds  of  oatme;il  soureil  and 

boiled    uj)    till    tliey    make    an 

agreeable  pudding. 
Suu'p,  a  spoimful,  a  small  (piantity 

of  anytliing  liiiuid. 
Sowth,  to  try  over  a  tune  with  a 

low  whistle. 
Soirther.  to  S(dder,  to  cement. 
Spae,  to  prophesy,  to  divine. 
Si)acn,  to  wean. 
Spairye,  to  dash,  to  soil,  as  with 

.  mire. 
Spang,  to  spring,  to  leap. 
Spate,  a  swell  iu  a  river,  an  inun- 
dation. 
Spa  III.  a  limb,  the  shoulder. 
Spa  Viet,  having  the  spavin. 
Sped,  to  climb. 
Spence.  the  country  i)arlour. 
Spier,  to  ask,  to  in(iuire. 
Spicr't,  imiuired. 
Spill,  to  spoil;  abuse. 
Splatter,  to  splutter. 
Spleughan,  a  tobacco-pouch. 
Splore,  a  frolic,  noise,  riot. 
Si>orran,  purse. 
Sprachle,  to  scramble. 
Spraing-s,  stripes  of  different  col- 
ours. 
Sprattle,  to  scramble. 
Spreckled,  spotted,  speckled. 
Spree,  convivial  indulgence,  frolic. 
Spring,   a  (piick  air  in  music,  a 

Scottish  reel. 
Sprit,  a  tough-rooted  plant,  some- 
thing like  the  ru.^h. 
Sprittie,  full  of  spirits. 
Spriish,  spruce. 

Spuli/ie,  spoil. 

Sjntnk.  fire,  mettle,  wit;  a  spark,  a 
small  portion. 

Spunkie,  mettlesome,  fiery;  will-o- 
wisp  or  ignis/atuus. 

Spurtle,  a  stick  used  in  stirring 
porridge. 

Squad,  a  crew,  a  jiarty. 

Sijiiotter.  to  flutter  in  water,  as  a 
wild  duck,  itc. 

Sijuattle,  to  sprawl. 

Sqiieeb,  a  sciuib. 

Squeel,  a  scream,   a   screech;    t.i 
scream. 

Sta'.  stole. 

Stacher.  to  stagger. 

.Stack,  a  rick  of  corn,  hay,  itc. 

Staggic.  the  diminutive  of  stag. 

Staig,  an  unbroke-in  young  horse. 

Stance,  a  stamling-i>lace.  a  site. 

Stane,  a  stone;  a  weight  of  14  lbs. 

Stang,  a  pole  or  branch  of  a  tree; 
to  sting. 

Stank,  did  stink;  a  pool  of  standing 
water. 

Stant.  to  stand;  stan't,  did  stand. 

Stap.  stop. 

Stark,  stout,  potent. 

Starn.  a  star. 

Startle,  to  run,  as  cattle  stung  by 
the  gad-tly. 


558 


GLOSSAEV. 


Staucher,  stacker,  to  stagger. 

Staunirel,a  blockhead:  Iialf-witted. 

Staw,  did  steal,  to  surfeit. 

Stech,  to  cram  tlie  belly. 

Steek,  to  shut;  a  stitch. 

Steer,  to  molest,  to  stir. 

Steeve,  finu,  compact. 

Stell,  a  still. 

Sten,  to  rear  as  a  horse. 

Stend,  to  spriug. 

Stent,  to  restrain,  to  confine. 

Stents,  tril)ute,  dues  of  any  kind. 

Stern,  a  star. 

Steji,  steep. 

Stihhle.  stul)ble. 

Stibble-rij,  a  reaper  who  takes  the 
lead. 

Stick-an-stmr,  to;:ally,  altogether. 

Stiekit,  stuck,  spoiled. 

Stile,  a  crutch;  to  halt,  to  limp. 

Stimpart,  the  eighth  part  of  a 
Winchester  bushel. 

Stirk,  a  young  cow  or  bullock;  a 
stupid  fellow. 

Stirrah,  a  young  fellow;  a  boy. 

Stock,  a  plant  or  root  of  cole  wort, 
cabbage,  &c. 

Stock-(tnd-horn,  a  shepherd's  pipe, 
made  by  inserting  a  reed  pierced 
like  a  flute  into  a  cow's  horn. 

Stuckin',  stocking;  throwing  the 
stockin',  when  the  bride  and 
bridegroom  are  put  into  ))ed,  and 
the  candle  out,  the  former  throws 
a  stocking  at  random  among  the 
company,  and  the  person  whom 
it  strikes  is  the  next  that  will  be 
married. 

Stoit,  stoicher,  to  stagger,  to  tottsr, 
to  tumble. 

Stiiok,  to  make  up  in  shocks,as  corn. 

Stoor,  sounding  hollow,  strong,  and 
hoarse. 

Stot,  an  ox;  to  rebound. 

Stonp,  or  utoirp,  a  kind  of  jug  or 
dish  with  a  handle. 

Stour,  stern,  gruff;  to movequickly. 

Stoiire,  dust,  dust  in  motion. 

Stow,  to  cut  off,  to  lop,  to  crop. 

Stoivlinfi,  by  stealth. 

Stown,  stolen. 

Strack,  did  strike. 

Stnte,  straw;  to  die  a  fair  »trae 
death,  to  die  in  bed,  a  natural 
death. 

Straik,  a  blow;  to  stroke;  struck. 

Straikit,  stroked. 

Strappan,  tall  and  handsome. 

Struthnpoj,  a  dance  so  called  from 
tlie  district  in  which  it  origi- 
nated. 

Strav^hf,  straight. 

Stravagin',  wandering  without  an 
aim. 

Strawii,  the  gutter. 

St  reek,  stretched;  to  stretch. 

Stress,  hard  pressure,  straining. 

Striddte,  to  straddle. 

Stronn,  to  spout,  to  piss. 

Stnint,  spirituous  liquor  of  any 
kind;  to  walk  sturdily;  to  talc^ 
the  utriint,  to  take  the  pet. 


Studdie,  an  anvil. 

St.nff,  corn  or  pulse  of  any  kind. 

Stuinpie,  diminutive  of  stump. 

Stutnple,  to  walk  with  a  stiff  and 
holibling  motion. 

Sturt,  trouble;  to  molest. 

Sturtin,  frighted. 

Sucker,  sugar. 

Sud,  should. 

Suniph,  a  soft  stupid  fellow. 

Suae,  soon. 

Sung,  singed. 

Sunkets,  provisions,  delicacies. 

Sunkie,  a  low  stool. 

Swack,  active,  nimble;  a  gust. 

Swaird,  sward. 

Swall'd,  swelled. 

Swa)ik,  stately,  jolly. 

Swankie,  or  i-wcinkor,  a  tight  strap- 
ping young  fellow  or  girl. 

Swaj),  an  exchange;  to  barter. 

Sivnrf,  swoon. 

Swat,  did  sweat. 

Swatch,  a  sample. 

Swats,  drink,  treacle-ale,  wort. 

Sweatcn,  sweating. 

Sweel,  to  bandage. 

Sweer,  lazy,  slow,  loath. 

Swiggit,  swallowed. 

Swinge,  to  beat,  to  whip. 

Swink,  to  labour. 

Swirl,  a  curve,  an  eddying  blast  or 
pool,  a  knot  in  wood,  a  whirl, 
circular  motion. 

Swirlic,  knaggy,  full  of  knots. 

Swith,  get  away,  quickly. 

Swithcr,  to  hesitate  in  choice,  an 
irresolute  wavering  in  choice. 

Swoor,  swore,  did  swear. 

Syboiv,  a  young  onion. 

Syke,  a  rill,  usually  dry  in  summer. 

Sgnd,  to  rinse. 

Syne,  since,  ago,  then,  after  that, 
in  that  case. 

Syver,  gutter. 


Tack,  a  lease 

Tackets,  a  kind  of  nails  for  driving 
into  the  heels  and  soles  of  shoes. 

Tae,  to;  a  toe. 

Taen,  taken. 

Taid,  a  toad. 

Taigle,  to  detain,  to  tany. 

Tail,  a  chief's  retinue. 

Tairge,  a  target;  to  rate  severely. 

Tak,  to  take. 

Tald,  told. 

Tane,  the  one. 

Tangle,  sea-veed. 

Tap,  the  top. 

Tapetless,  heedless,  foolish. 

Tappit-hen,  a  drinking-vessel  Avith 
a  no))  at  the  top,  containing  a 
quart. 

Tapsle-teerie,  topsy-turvy. 

Tarrow,  to  murmur  at  one's  allow- 
ance. 

Tarry-breeks,  a  sailor. 

Tasse,  or  tansic,  a  cup. 


Tate,  tait,  a  small  quantity,  a  rmr.ll 
lock  of  hair,  wool,  or  cotton. 

Tauld,  or  tald,  told. 

Taupie,  afoolish  thoughtless  young 
woman. 

Touted,  or  tautic,  matted  toge- 
ther: spoken  of  hair  or  wool. 

Tawic,  that  allows  itself  peaceably 
to  be  handled:  spoken  of  a  horse, 
cow,  &c. 

Taws,  a  whip  or  scourge. 

Tawtie,  the  potato. 

Ted,  to  spread,  to  scatter. 

Teem,  to  pour  out. 

Ten-hours-bite,  a  slight  feed  to  the 
horses  while  in  the  yoke  in  the 
forenoon. 

Tent,  a  field,  pulpit;  heed,  cautlcu: 
take  hee<l. 

Tentie,  heedful,  cautious. 

Tentloss,  heedless. 

Tether,  halter. 

Tcugh,  tough. 

Thack,  thatch. 

Thae,  these. 

Thairnis,  small  guts,  fiddle-strings. 

Thankit,  thanked. 

Thare,  there. 

Theek,  to  thatch. 

Thegithcr,  together. 

Themsel,  themselves. 

Thick,  intimate,  familiar. 

Thie,  the  thigh. 

Th  ie.  velem,  cold,  dry,  spited :  spckcn 
of  a  peison's  demeanour. 

Thig,  to  beg  or  request. 

Thir,  these. 

Thirl,  to  thrill. 

Thirlin  mill,  the  mill  to  which  a 
tenant  was  liound  to  take  his 
grain. 

Thof,  although. 

Thole,  to  suffer,  to  endure. 

Thowe,  a  thaw;  to  thaw. 

Thowless,  slack,  lazy,  inactive. 

Til  rang,  throng;  a  crowd. 

Thrapple,  the  throat,  the  windpipe. 

Thraw,  to  sjirain,  to  twist,  to  con- 
tradict, to  oippose;  an  anger. 

Thrawart,  forward,  perverse. 

Thrawn,  sprained,  twisted,  con- 
tradicted. 

Thrawn-gabbit,  wry-mouthed. 

Tlireu}},  to  maintain  by  dint  cf 
assertion. 

Threfeen,  thirteen. 

Thristle,  thistle. 

Through,  to  go  on  with,  to  make 
out. 

Throutlier,  pell-mell,  confusedly. 

Thud,  to  make  a  loud  intermittent 
noise;  a  stroke. 

Thumpit,  thumped. 

Tid,  proper  timef-lnmiour. 

Tift,  good  order. 

Tig,  to  touch  lightly. 

Till't,  to  it. 

Timmer,  timber. 

Tine,  to  lose;  lint,  Icst. 

Tinkler,  a  tinker. 

Tip,  a  ram. 

Tippence,  twopence. 


GLOSSARY. 


553 


Tirl,  to  make  a  slight  noise,  to 

uncover. 
Tither,  the  other. 
Tittle,  to  -whisper. 
Titty,  sister. 

Tocher,  marriage  portion. 
Tod.  a  fox. 
Toddle,  to  totter,  like  the  walk  of 

a  child. 
Tooly,  to  fight;  a  flj-'ht. 

Toom,  empty;  to  empty. 

Toop,  a  ram. 

Togh,  tight,  neat. 

Togs,  a  toast. 

Tot,  a  fondling  name  for  a  child. 

Toun,  a  hamlet,  a  farm-house;  also 
a  town. 

Tottt,  the  blast  of  a  horn  or  trum- 
pet ;  to  blow  a  horn.  Arc. 

Totize,  tousle,  or  toicde,  to  handle 
roughly,  to  rumple. 

Touzie,  rough,  shaggy. 

Tore,  to  talk  familiarly. 

Totie,  tipsy. 

Tow,  a  rope. 

Toicin'd,  tamed. 

Totcmond,  a  twelvemonth. 

Toy,  a  verj-  old  fashion  of  female 
head-dress. 

Toyte,  to  totter  like  old  age. 

Transmugrify'd,  transmigrated, 
metamoiphosed. 

Trantloom-s,  odds  and  ends. 

Trashtrie,  trash. 

Treics,  trowsers. 

Trig,  spruce,  neat. 

Trimly,  excellently. 

Troke,  to  barter. 

Tron,  an  instrument  erected  in 
every  burgh  of  Scotlanl  for  the 
weighing  of  wool  and  otier  heavy 
wares. 

Troir,  to  believe. 

Troirth.  truth!  a  petty  oath. 

Truf,  turf;  to  steal. 

Tryite,  appointment;  market. 

Try't,  tried. 

Tug,  raw  hide,  of  which  in  old 
times   plough -traces  were  fre- 

'   quently  made. 

Tulzie.aquanel;  to {iuarrel,to fight 

Tica,  two. 

'Turad,  it  would. 

Twal,  twelve;  twal-pennie  \rorth, 
a  small  quantity,  a  penny-worttL 
Irf.  sterling  =  12ti.  Scots. 

Ttca-three,  a  few. 

Twin,  to  part. 

Ticitch,  to  touch. 

Tyke,  a  dog,  a  common  cur;  a  sel- 
fish snarling  fellow. 

Tyne,  to  lose. 

Tyst,  to  entice,  to  allure. 

u 

Ugg,  to  detest,  hate. 
Uggome,  disgusting. 
Unchancy,  unluckj-. 
UncJ),  strange,uncouth,  uncommon, 
very  great,  prodigious. 


Uncof,  news. 
Undocht,  a  silly  person. 
Uneith,  not  easy. 
Cnkenn'd,  unkno^vn. 
Cnsicker,  unsure,  unsteady. 
Un-ikaitfi'd.  undamaged,  unhurt 
Cnsonxy.  unlucky,  ugly. 
Unweeting,    unwotting,    unknow- 
ingly. 
Up-bye,  up  the  way. 
Upcast.  reproaclL 
Uphaiiden,  supported. 
Upsetting,  assuming,  conceited. 
Upsides  witli.  even  with. 
Urchin,  a  hedgehog. 


Vaj^'rin,  vapouring. 

Vaunty,  vain,  boastfuL 

Vera,  very. 

T'lW,   a   ferule,    a   ring  round   a 

colunuL 
Visxy,  to  view  with  care. 
Vougy,  elevated,  proud. 


Wa'.  a  wall. 

Wabster,  a  weaver. 

Wad,  would;  to  bet;  al>et,  a  pledge. 

Waddet,  wedded. 

Wadna,  would  not 

Wae,  woe;  sorrowful 

Waefii',  woefuL 

Waesucks.  alas! 

Wan,  waif,  shabby,  worthless. 

TToVf,  the  woof  in  a  web. 

Wag,  to  shake. 

Waif  It',  wailing. 

Waladay'.  weU-a-day!  alas! 

Ward,  chose,  chosen. 

Wale,  choice;  to  choose;  the  best. 

Walie,  ample,  large,  jolly;  also  an 

interjection  of  distress. 
Walh-ch.  a  Highbmd  dance. 
Wallow,  to  wither. 
Wame,  the  bellv. 
Wamefu',  a  beilyfuL 
Wanchansie,  unlucky. 
Wandocht.A  weak  or  puny  creature. 
Wanrest/u',  restless. 
Wan  wordy,  im  worthy. 
Ware,  to  lay  out  to  expend. 
Wark,  work. 

Warkloom,  a  tool  to  work  ^rith. 
WarV,  or  tea  rid,  world. 
Warlock,  a  wizaia. 
Warly.   worldly,   eager  to  amass 

wealth. 
Warran,  a  warrant;  to  warrant. 
Warse,  worse;  warst,  worst. 
Warsell.  uarstle,   to   wrestle,    to 

struggle. 
Was.  used  for  away 
Wastrie,  waste,  prodigality. 
Wat,  wet;  /  wat,  I  wot.  1  know. 
Water-brose,  brose  made  of  meal 

and  water  simply,  without  the 

addition  of  milk  and  butler,  &c. 


Wattle,  a  twig,  a  wand. 

WaubU,  to  swing,  to  reeL 

Wa  light,  a  hearty  <lran'.;ht  of  liquor. 

Irani-,  to  shrink  cloth;  to  watth. 

Wauken,  to  awaken. 

Waukit,  thickened,  as  fullers  do 

cloth. 
Tl'a  ukri/i'.  not  apt  to  sleep. 
Watt  lie  r,  to  wander. 
Waiir,  worse;  to  worst,  to  get  the 

better  of. 
Waur't,  worsted. 
Wayne,  to  remove. 
Wean,  or  weanie,  a  child. 
Wear,  to  drive,  gather  together. 
Weasaiid.  the  wmdpipe. 
Wearing  the  stockin'.   See  Stoekin. 
Wecht.  weight;  to  weigh. 
Wee.  little;  wee  thingti.  little  ones; 

wee  bit,  a  small  matter. 
Weel.  well;  weel/are.  welfare. 
Weel-/aur'd,  well-favoured,  good- 
looking. 
Ween,    thought,    imagined,    sui>- 

pose<l. 
WeeocJt.  a  little  while. 
Weet,  rain,  wetness;  to  wet 
Weir,  a  pledge;  war. 
Weird,  fate. 

Wersh,  tasteless,  Cavourless. 
We'se,  we  shall. 
Westlin.  westward,  westerly. 
Wha.  who. 
i^liaizle,  to  wheeze. 
Whalpit,  whelped. 
Whang,  a  leathern  string;  a  piece 
of  cheese,  bread.  iVrc. ;  to  cut  do  *ti 
in  large  slices;  to  fiog. 
Whare,  where. 
Whase,  whose. 
Whatreck,  nevertheless. 
Wheep,    to    fly    nimbly,    to    jerk; 

j>enny-irheep,  small  l)eer. 
Wliid,  the  motion  of  a  hare  run- 
ning Ijut  not  fr;ghtene<.l;  a  lie. 
Whidden,  running  as  a  hare  or 

coney. 
Whigineleeries,     whims,     fancies, 

crotchets. 
Whigmiginonun,  iKtlitical  ranting. 
ir/(i7i-.  which. 
Whin,  furze. 

Whingin,  crjing,  complaining,  fret- 
ting. 
Whippy,  active,  agile. 
Wliirligigtims.  useless  ornaments. 

trifling  ap]>endiiges. 
Wh  ish  t.  silence!  to  hold  one's  wh  uht. 

to  l>e  silent 
Wliisk.  to  sweep;  to  lash. 
Tr7iiVi-i7,  lashe«L 
Whissle,  a  whistle:  to  whistle. 
Wliite.  to  cut  with  a  knife. 
W  /.  itter.  a  hearty  draught  of  liquor. 
Whoinilt.  turned  upside  down. 
Whop.  whip. 

Wliiin-stane,  a  whin-stone. 
Whyles.  whiles,  sometimes. 
Wr.  with. 
Wick,  to  strike  a  stone  in  an  oblique 

direction  (a  term  in  curling). 
Widdie,  a  rope,  more  properly  one 


560 


GLOSSAEY. 


made  of  withs  or  willows;  the 
term  used  for  the  gallows. 

Wiel,  a  small  whirlpool. 

Wifie,  an  endearing  term  for  jvl/e. 

wifukie,  diminutive  of  wife. 

Wile,  choice. 

Will  {to  gang),  to  go  astray. 

Will-fire,  wild-fire. 

Willyart,  wild,  strange,  shy. 

Wilj/e-coat,  wylie-coat,  an  under 
petticoat;  a  flannel  vest. 

Wimple,  to  meander. 

Win,  to  v^innow;  to  get;  to  dwell. 

Win',  wind. 

Winna,  will  not. 

Winnuck,  a  window. 

Winsome,  hearty,  vaunted,  gay, 
engaging  in  manners  or  appear- 
ance. 

Win't,  winded,  as  a  bottom  of  yam. 

Wintle,  a  staggering  motion;  to 
stagger,  to  reel. 

M'inze,  an  oath. 

Wirricow,  the  devil. 

WUiS,  to  wish. 

Withershins,  motion  against  the 
sun. 

Withoutten,  without. 

Wizen,  the  throat. 

Wizen'd,  hide-bound,dried,  shrunk. 

Woniwr.  a  wonder,  a  contemptuous 
appellation. 

Won,  to  be  able:  to  dwell. 

Woiul,  wind;  to  depart. 

Woo',  wool. 

Woo,  to  court,  to  make  love  to. 


Woodhj,  with  vehemence. 

Woocr-bah,  the  garter  knotted 
below  the  knee  with  a  couple  of 
loops. 

Wooster-trystes,  wool-markets. 

Wordy,  worthy. 

Worset,  worsted. 

Woiv!  an  exclamation  of  pleasure 
or  wonder. 

Wmrf,  deranged. 

Wrack,  to  tease,  to  ve,\;  confusion. 

Wraith,  a  spirit,  a  ghost;  an  api)ar- 
ition  exactly  like  a  living  person, 
whose  appearance  is  said  to  fore- 
bode the  person's  approaching 
death. 

Wrang,  wrong;  to  wrong. 

Wratack,  a  dwarf. 

Wreeth,  a  drifted  heap  of  snow. 

Wud,  icuod,  mad,  enraged ;  like 
wild,  like  mad,  eagerly. 

Wiillcat,  a  wild  cat. 

Wiinible,  a  wimble. 

Wiizzeiit,  withered,  dried. 

Wyle,  to  beguile,  to  entice. 

Wyse,  to  guide,  to  tend. 

Wytt%  blame;  to  blame. 


Vade,  a  worn-out  horse. 
Yaird,  yardie,  a  garden. 
Yald,  supple,  active. 
Yammer,  to  complain  peevishly. 
Yamph,  to  bark. 


Yaj),  hungi-y;  to  long  for. 
Yate,  gate. 

Ye.    Frequently  used  for  thou. 
Yeir  is  used  both  for  singular  and 

plural  years. 
Yearlings,  bom  in  the  same  year; 

coevals. 
Yed,  to  contend,  to  wrangle. 
Ye'd,  ye  would. 

Yell,  bairen,  that  gives  no  milk. 
Yellow-yeldring,   the   yellow-han:- 

mer. 
Yerk,  to  lash;  to  jerk. 
Ye'.se,  you  shall. 
Yestreen,  yesternight. 
Yett,  a  gate,  such  as  is  usually  at 

the  entrance  into  a  farmyard  or 

field. 
Yill,  ale. 

Yird,  earth,  soil;  to  plant. 
Yirren,  errand. 
Yirthen,  earthen. 
Yokin,  yoking;  a  bout. 
Ymit,  beyond. 

Yorlin,  the  yellow-hammer. 
Yondith,  youthfulness. 
Yoiiff,  a  severe  blow. 
Youl,  to  yell. 
Yoursel,  yourself. 
Yowe,  an  ewe. 
Yowff,  to  bark. 
Yoxvie,  diminutive  of  yoive. 
Ynke,  the  itch. 
Yule,  Christmas. 
Yiimphing,  noise  made  by  dogs  in 

hunting. 


THE  END. 


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